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Cooper saw Feely mouthing the words, over and over.

The diesel’s roar kicked up in volume, bounced off building walls — the thing had just turned a corner. Cooper saw it, saw the sun glinting off moving chrome, off red and white paint.

Roth nodded. “Here we go.”

Cooper felt his heart hammering not just in his chest but in his head, his eyes, his entire body.

The diesel’s roar grew louder.

Just seconds now…

WELCOMING COMMITTEE

Through the store’s windows, Tim Feely watched the fire engine bear down on a charred, green Prius. A Converted stood behind the car, shooting a shotgun as fast as he could pump and pull the trigger. Tim didn’t know dick about guns, but that wasn’t going to do a damn thing. The man seemed to figure that out at the last second. He turned to run, but he’d waited too long — the truck smashed into the Prius, launching it three feet off the ground and spinning it like a cardboard coaster. The rear end hit the man and sent him flying, a rag doll that sailed through the air and hit the sidewalk in front of Barneys New York, splashing a spray of blood against the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The truck was so close that Tim could see Bosh’s smiling face inside the cracked, blood-flecked, bullet-ridden windshield. The truck’s grille had once been polished chrome: now it was twisted and bent, with a severed right arm dangling from the left side. The obnoxiously huge front bumper was scratched and dented, wet with blood, streaked with a dozen colors from its vehicular victims.

Bosh locked up the brakes. The wheels skidded through snow, kicking up sprays of dirty white. He swerved left as he entered the intersection, then curved sharply right. The truck slid to a stop, its left side just ten feet from store’s revolving front door.

Roth handed his rifle to Ramierez, who held it along with his shotgun. Roth scooped Ramierez up.

“Feely, Cooper, let’s move!”

Roth pushed through the rotating door. Cooper hobbled forward so fast he was in the next divider behind Roth.

Tim heard gunfire. His legs wouldn’t move. He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t —

I am a warrior, I am a warrior.

The thought seemed to lift him and throw him at the still-spinning door. He hit it on the run, shoulder smacking against the glass. He stumbled out into the windblown chaos.

He faced the engine’s left side. So many bullet holes; how was the thing still running? Klimas stood in the truck’s bed, aiming his pistol and firing, making each shot count. Beyond the fire engine, maybe a block down Oak, Tim saw a wave of people and monsters closing in.

Cooper turned right, started firing.

Roth opened the rear passenger door and set Ramierez inside. He grabbed his big SCAR-FN rifle, leaving the wounded SEAL with the black shotgun.

Tim stumbled forward, looked left, right, looked across the street — they were coming from everywhere. Hatchlings, people with blades and guns and clubs.

He was going to die.

A woman sprinted toward him, the butcher knife in her hand raised high. Tim pulled the M4’s stock tight to his shoulder, just as Ramierez had told him to do.

He squeezed the trigger.

The recoil turned him a little: he hadn’t expected that much.

The woman fell to the ground, her hands clutching at her stomach.

A screaming teenage boy with a shotgun. The shotgun roared. Nothing hit Tim. The boy pumped in another round, but before he could shoot again Tim aimed and fired. The bullet slammed into the boy’s chest — he staggered back, dropped.

Klimas, screaming: “Get in! Get in!

Cooper, running for the truck.

Roth, climbing into the back even as he fired short bursts down Oak at the onrushing horde.

A roar from Tim’s right: he turned to see a nightmare — a huge thing that had once been a woman. She wore the tattered remains of a blue-sequined evening dress. Yellow skin pockmarked with sores, too-wide neck, long, pointed shards of bone sticking out the back of her wrists like a pair of chipped white swords.

He couldn’t move. His body wouldn’t react.

The monster roared again… her bone-blades reached out for him.

Clarence Otto walked out of the store’s rotating door, his right arm level and steady, his pistol firing so fast, pop-pop-pop-pop. The woman-monster flinched, turned away. He fired three more times into her back. She dropped face-first onto the snow-covered street.

Clarence grabbed Tim’s shoulder.

“Move, dummy,” he said, and pushed him toward the truck.

Tim’s paralysis broke. He ran for the rear driver’s-side door.

A hatchling, crawling out from underneath the truck. Tim launched himself, raised both feet in the air and landed as hard as he could, smashing the pyramid body. Globs of purple guts splashed out against the trampled white snow.

Tim reached for the door.

“Feely, up here!” Klimas, yelling down at him. The SEAL pointed to the water cannon mounted behind the cab. “You’re on that! Move!

Hands grabbed Tim from behind and threw him over the bullet-ridden equipment boxes. He landed hard on top of canvas hoses. Tim scrambled to his hands and knees in time to see Clarence Otto hop onto the truck’s rear bumper.

Klimas pounded on the cab’s hood three times. The big diesel gurgled, and they started to roll.

TIME TO FLY

The SH-60 Seahawk pilot eased his helicopter off the Coronado’s deck. He was a good mile away from the shoreline, probably safe from any Stinger the Converted might launch, if the Converted could spot the Seahawk at all from that distance.

The ’Hawk headed north, over open water, following the Apache attack helicopter that had lifted off a few moments before. The two aircraft would fly well past the LZ, cut west over the shore, then fly south so they could approach the LZ from the north.

IFF picked up another friendly aircraft in the area: an AC-130 gunship.

That baby brought serious firepower. The SH-60 pilot hoped the survivors could make it to the extraction point — if any bad guys followed, the AC-130 would make a wonderful mess of them.

HELL’S ANGELS

Steve Stanton rode on the back of a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. He wore an American flag helmet, which he thought was pretty damn awesome.

In front of him, driving the bike, was the wide bulk of Jeff Brockman. Steve had duct-taped a map of Chicago to his back. Jeff didn’t wear a helmet, because there probably wasn’t a helmet in the world that would fit him. His bone-knives pointed straight ahead, parallel to the snow-covered road.

Two more motorcycles — another Harley and a crotch rocket — were driving on their right, and a BMW was on their left. A bull drove each of those bikes. Behind each bull, a man with a machine gun.

The biker gang (Steve couldn’t help but think of it as a biker gang) rolled south on Lakeview Avenue. They drove fast where they could but had to slow frequently in order to maneuver around the cars that choked the road.

This time, Steve would take care of things personally. He’d find Cooper and shoot him dead. If Steve could get Cooper alone — and unarmed — he would have Jeff kill him slowly. Maybe use those bone-blades to skin Cooper alive.

Spotters reported that the fire engine — a frickin’ fire engine, of all things — was heading north on State Parkway. The humans were smart. They wanted to get away from downtown. They must have guessed correctly that Steve had concentrated his remaining Stingers there. The humans wanted to get somewhere a helicopter could safely pick them up. Steve had sent more motorcycles to gather up the remaining Stingers and bring them north, but he didn’t know where those helicopters would land.