Tyson turned and fired, blowing the thing’s head off at the shoulders. Miles had pulled the stock-shattered rifle from the Howler’s still standing body. Tyson screamed at him to run; they’d both run toward the Pooles’ house.
Marvin stepped back. He watched the Howlers, five of them, drop over the green chain-link fence and into his yard.
“You’ll have to kill me!” he yelled at them. It was senseless, but he was tired of being afraid. He’d been terrified since he’d driven home from his office. It had been the kind of fear he’d never felt before, all-encompassing. And now he felt liberated from it. If he was going to die, he was going to die fighting.
He drew back the shovel and swung it like a bat. Two of the Howlers crouched on their haunches as soon as they landed in the yard and began to howl. Marvin turned and looked at the blanket with his daughter wrapped in it. Another of the Howlers dropped into the yard. He recognized a very fat woman who owned the 7-11 on Highway 50. Another Howler jumped off the fence and immediately came toward him at a lope using his knuckles to run along the frozen ground. Marvin raised his shovel and waited for the thing to get close enough to hit.
“Marvin.” Marvin turned and saw his wife. “Get back.” She spoke in a strange tone of voice. “Get back.” He saw that his wife’s face was bloody and full of buck shot, her nose smashed from hitting the French door, her left arm gone. He could see the raw white shoulder-bone socket exposed. Grace was holding a kitchen knife in her right hand.
“Grace! Jesus! God!” Marvin turned and saw Patty Tyson pulling shotgun shells out of her jacket pocket standing in the open door to the kitchen, Miles behind her.
“Get back away from her, doctor,” Patty yelled. “Get back!”
“No,” Miles said, the horror of it all hitting him. “No, don’t shoot!” He turned and faced Patty.
Miles Hunt raised the broken rifle. He had counted the shots out on the road. The rifle’s stock was shattered so that only bits of the wooden stock where clinging to its steel frame. He threw the lever and lifted the rifle and lined up the ramp sight on the loping Howler. He fired and heard the shot go off and felt the barrel kick up. He hit the fat Howler in the face and she fell at Grace Poole’s feet.
“Don’t. Dear God. Don’t shoot her!” Marvin yelled. Poole was running toward them; he’d dropped the shovel and was waving his arms in an attempt to stop them from shooting his wife. Miles ran toward the doctor and grabbed him; they both fell together in the snow.
Patty Tyson walked past them. Miles saw her boots pass his face. He was holding the doctor with all his might, keeping him from standing up. He could hear Poole yelling, pleading with the girl not to shoot Grace.
Patty Tyson raised the shotgun and walked toward Grace Poole. Grace turned and looked at her, the knife in her hand, her missing arm’s mangled red stump leaking blood.
“Mrs. Poole,” Patty said. “I’m sorry.” A long wad of white thick-looking spit formed on Grace Poole’s lips. The spit welled out of her mouth in a long ugly ribbon.
“Goofloke ... Nostitch ... Shoo ... Shoot me. ... Plekase,” Grace said.
Their eyes locked. Patty could see the woman—what was left of Grace Poole—was crying. Tears formed in her blood-shot eyes. “Pl-k-ease. I eg you!”
Patty raised the shotgun and fired. Grace Poole’s head disappeared in a red halo. Patty pushed Grace’s teetering, headless body over and walked on, deeper into the yard, blasting at the Howlers who were approaching her, almost completely surrounding her. She didn’t realize, as she fired at the Howlers—picking them off one by one, turning her body in a clockwise killing motion, the twelve gauge’s muzzle flashing—that she, too, was crying.
* * *
“How many miles is it to your ranch?” Bell asked. They’d noted the mileage when they got in the truck and left Wood’s house, armed only with the golf club. They’d driven the first few miles in complete silence. At times an abandoned car would appear in the road; sometimes bodies could be seen inside the car, or lying in the road.
“Are you scared?” Lacy asked.
“Yes,” Bell said. “About running out of gas.”
“So am I,” Lacy said. The truck’s interior was warm. She’d been freezing in the house, and it felt wonderful to be warm again. “What do you think happened?”
“I don’t know,” Bell said.
“I think it’s that power plant in Japan,” Lacy said.
“Fukushima?” Bell said. “I read about it.”
“Yes,” Lacy said.
“Why’s that?” Bell said.
“I read that it was leaking radioactivity into the Pacific. A professor at school went on about it one day. What it would mean if only half of the reports were true: mutations, premature infant deaths? The man was frightened. He said the media wasn’t reporting the truth about what was going on there.”
“You’re in school?” Bell said, wanting to change the subject. He glanced at the gas gauge. The yellow warning light was on and the gauge was sitting on the E. Lacy saw him glance down at the gauge.
“Yes. Cal. It’s where my mother went,” she said.
“I went to Ole Miss.” Lacy gave him a look. “University of Mississippi.”
“Oh.”
“I played basketball. It was fun. I don’t think there’s anything better than when you’re in college,” Bell said.
“Yes,” she said.
“It was just beautiful,” Bell said. “Going to school. I had a scholarship. No worries. Just played ball and chased girls. I’d never had so much fun in my whole life. It was more fun than anyone deserves.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know,” Bell said. “My brother was killed in Iraq while I was in school, my sophomore year. I always felt it wasn’t right, my having all that fun and my brother being dead.” He hadn’t spoken to anyone about how he’d felt about his brother’s death, not even with his mother and father. He’d always felt that it was his fault. It was irrational, he knew that, but he’d felt it was some kind of divine punishment nonetheless. His parents were fundamentalist Christians and he’d grown up with a real fear of God, and a fear of doing wrong. Somehow he’d felt he’d sin by enjoying his life after his brother was killed.
“I’m sorry about your brother,” Lacy said. She looked out the window. The forest was dark; it was after six now and pitch black out on the road.
“Thank you.” Bell said. “Your dad is the sheriff, right?”
“Yes. Talk about fearing doing wrong,” Lacy said.
“It doesn’t really matter what caused this,” Bell said. “I mean, what difference does it make?” It was the first time she’d heard Bell sound angry, or even upset. Even when she’d told him Robin had deserted them, Bell had seemed to take it all in stride.
“No, it doesn’t, I guess,” she said.
Bell sped up. He’d been driving slowly, in an attempt to conserve fuel, keeping the truck to 30 miles an hour. But he’d seen headlights coming toward them in the distance and he decided to speed up.
“Maybe they can help us?” Lacy said, seeing the headlights too.
“Maybe,” Bell said. Almost immediately the truck’s engine started to sputter. He tromped the gas pedal, as if to force the truck to keep going, but the engine died, and he allowed the truck to coast to a stop. He kept his hands on the wheel as it came to a halt, afraid to look at Lacy. He saw a huge plane pass directly above them, flying over the road, very low. He could just make it out, the plane’s distinctive upturned wing-tip lights; it looked to him like an Army C17 transporter.