The weapon saved the day, turning the wall of pounding Howlers, a hundred of them, into a blue-yellow ball of fire. The burning gel struck the creatures, igniting their clothes and skin. Their whole bodies on fire, the things ran out in different directions, blind.
It had been Dillon who opened the cabin door and rushed out to kill them as they ran. At the same time, he doused the flaming porch with buckets of water that Marvin and Lacy passed out to him.
It was then, while they were all fighting the fire on the porch, that Summers had crawled to the trap door and had locked himself down in the bunker, without anyone noticing.
“What do we do now?” Lacy said. She was looking at her father.
Quentin got up from the table. “We have to eat something. Can you fix us something?” He walked to the trap door that led to the bunker. He opened the cover and saw that the inside was locked with a steel plate that slid over the hatch and could only be locked from the bunker side.
“Yes,” Lacy said.
“Hey, kid. Can you hear me?” Quentin said.
No one answered.
Quentin opened the cabin door and looked at the dead Howler, his hands still around the sledgehammer. He slid the hammer out of the Howler’s hand and closed the cabin door, re-locking it. He walked over to the hatch and with all his might, swung the hammer down on the steel plate.
The hammer’s head snapped off and flew off, nearly hitting Miles. Quentin looked at the hammer’s broken handle.
“Now what?” Miles said. His face was white with exhaustion, his hands blistered from his weapon.
“We eat breakfast,” Quentin said. He took the broken handle, walked toward the cabin’s door and leaned it carefully against the door. Lacy got up and turned to the refrigerator.
“I must face the man that hates me or lie a coward—or lie a coward in my grave—.” Dillon sang the words to High Noon quietly.
“Shut up!” Quentin said.
“What’s wrong, Sheriff? We got a couple boxes of ammo and these things are starting to use tools. What do you think is going to happen to us? We’re heading to the green room.” Dillon walked over to the hatch separating them from safety and looked down again at the steel plate. “I should have listened to Rebecca and shot that fucking kid when I had the chance.”
“Please shut up!” Lacy said. She started to cry. She was holding a box of eggs she’d found in the cold room. “Please.” It was so pitiful, her exhausted tone of voice, that Dillon shut up. He looked at her, then went down to the gun locker and threw it open.
Three boxes of long rifle shells were left. A whole stack of shotgun shells remained, but their range made them almost useless. They had only survived because they’d killed so many of the things further out from the cabin. He closed the locker door and for the first time in a long, long, time felt real fear. He felt a kind of panic.
He turned and looked at the cabin door. He had the sudden irrational urge to run out the door and onto the field. He could see himself running through the snow to the road, to some kind of vehicle that would take him far away from this nightmare.
He heard the sound of bacon frying, then smelled it. That familiar sound, and the smell of the cooking food, helped him get hold of himself. He turned around in time to see Quentin collapse onto the floor. He watched Quentin’s body twist and shake in the grips of some horrible seizure.
Lacy had laid a wooden spoon on the counter. Marvin, realizing Quentin was having a seizure, forced the spoon into Quentin’s open mouth as he shook and jerked on the floor.
Dillon looked out the scratched and bloody window. A new wave of Howlers was gathering at the bottom of the field. He could see them shaping up for a new attack, most of them sitting on their haunches and howling. He expected to die.
* * *
Howard Price passed Timberline’s shot-up population sign and drove on around the bend and over a short concrete bridge into town. He drove slowly down Main Street, sometimes having to drive directly over dead bodies and around abandoned cars. The town seemed completely deserted. He’d seen no one on the road after turning off at Emigrant Gap. He’d seen a few creatures on the side of the road, some standing passively by deserted cars, others in groups of thirty, or so, had been running along the road in a surreal fashion, heading east. Some of them stopped to howl, or to stare at him as he drove past. A few had run after the car, but he’d sped up and left them behind. The next ten miles had been Howler free, the road empty. He passed a smoldering hulk of a motel to his right and sped on.
He looked at his gas gauge. He had only a quarter tank or less, but more than enough to get him to the bed and breakfast Miles had described. He decided to try and fill up his Prius in Timberline if possible. It would be dangerous, but it was important to do while it was still possible. He noticed lights on in the storefronts he passed—even the Christmas lights, strung down the town’s main street, were still on. If he could find a gas station, the pumps, and the computers attached to them, might still be functioning.
He stopped his car in the middle of Main Street and looked out at the unreal scene of snow-covered wrecks and dead bodies. He consulted the Google map Miles had emailed him. The cabin, according to the instructions, was only about five miles to the east of Timberline. He looked at the electronic pin he’d stuck in the map. It was four in the afternoon and he’d eaten nothing since the night before.
He heard the slap of his windshield wiper. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw nothing moving on the street behind him. He tried to squint and see through the falling snow in case he was missing something.
“I’ve got to eat something!” he said aloud. It was the first time he’d spoken since he’d gotten back in the car at the rest stop. He looked at his phone; it had a signal. He put the car in park and thumbed through his contacts until he saw Miles’ cell number and decided to try it.
“Hello,” Miles answered.
“Miles?”
“Yes. Where are you?”
“In Timberline,” Howard said.
“Fuck!” Miles said.
“I’m almost there,” Howard said. “I’m going to try and get gas in case we need the car.”
“You can’t come now,” Miles said.
“What?”
“It isn’t safe. We’re surrounded by them and—it’s useless here. There’s no point. We’re locked out of the bunker. I’m sorry, Howard.”
“I can try,” Howard said.
“It’s suicide,” Miles said.
“I don’t know what else to do, Miles.” Price could hear someone take the phone.
“Hello, this is Dr. Marvin Poole. You say you’re in Timberline?”
“Yes,” Howard said. “I’m on the main street right now, by the public library.”
“I need some medicine, for seizures. They’re in my office. It’s very close to where you are. Can you get it and bring it here?”
“But I thought—”
“Can you do it? It’s called Felbatol. I’ll text you the instructions, where to find it in my office.”
“All right, I’ll do it,” Howard said.
“Thank you. Turn to your right. What do you see?” Marvin asked.
“It’s a restaurant called The Copper Penny,” Howard said.
“Okay, three doors down, to the south, you’ll see my office door. It is unlocked, I’m sure. I’ll text you now which other medicines I need you to bring. What’s your name?”