A car horn blared outside. She hurried to the bedroom window.

When she pulled open the white slats of the blinds, the gray day revealed a new tableau of horror in their suburban neighborhood. One car was stalled just down the road. Other vehicles were parked parallel. Across the street at the Revis's house, what looked like an adult lay motionless on the front lawn. The person was face-up, short hair, gray sweatshirt, in blue jeans and black slippers. Most disturbing of all, four-year-old Carrie Revis rode her tricycle in a circle around the body.

Is that Brian Revis? She watched little Carrie closely through the opening she'd made in the blinds. The girl went round and round, head down, intent on her circular path. Surely that's a prop. They're putting out Halloween decorations early. Right?

Yeah, chick. This is all one big trick for Halloween. Ready for the treat, yet?

Dejah adjusted her angle to look up the street and see who was laying on the horn. She couldn't see far enough. Taking a final glance at the news, she left the bedroom and went to the front door. She paused, hand on the doork.n.o.b, the newsman's warning to stay indoors echoing in her mind.

Dejah looked out the peephole. All she could see was a funhouse mirror version of what she'd seen from the bedroom window. Carrie Revis on her tricycle, circling a body face-up on the gra.s.s in her front yard.

And still, the horn droned on.

She turned the k.n.o.b gently and opened the door to peer outside. Cool air rushed over her cheeks. Across her front lawn were scattered black rocks ... no, birds. Dead birds. And parked at the curb in front of her neighbor's house was a mail truck. Its horn droned. The driver was hunched over the steering wheel, convulsing. No, wait- "Hey," she yelled out of compulsion. "Hey, shoo!" Dejah opened her door and stepped out, but not quite far enough away that she couldn't leap back inside if necessary.

A mongrel dog was propped up on its forelegs, leaning into the mailman's open window. It growled and snarled. It bared its teeth and munched on the limp man's arm, yanking him violently, trying to pull him out. It took a deeper bite, propped both front paws on the door, and made a show of trying to yank its wounded prey through the window.

Revulsion heaved in Dejah. The mailman delivered packages and did mail pickups for her at least once a week. His name was Ray and he had two children at home, a wife who loved chocolate, and he was having a hard time quitting smoking.

Maybe that's a moot point now.

"Hey!" She took a fierce tone with the dog and stomped her foot, going a few steps closer, adrenalin fueling her anger and fear for the man's life. Looks too late. "Shoo, shoo, you d.a.m.n mutt!" She picked a rock from the garden bed and tossed it hard. Missed with the first shot.

She nailed the truck door with the second throw.

The loud bang startled the canine. It hopped down and looked at her, growling. With an unhappy snap and snarl, it turned and ran away. She watched it disappear down the street. It loped through a hedge and was gone.

Ray, the mailman, fell forward, shifted by the dog's last effort to remove him from the truck's cab. His head lolled to the side. The last note of the horn echoed across the deathly quiet neighborhood. His form was dark and shadowy, barely discernable from where she stood.

"Ray?" she yelled. "Are you okay?" Of course he's not friggin' okay, he just got his arm mauled. He was unconscious. She wouldn't go to him. "Ray?"

The squeaking sound of Carrie Revis's tricycle stopped.

Dejah looked across the street.

The small girl was still. She had stopped riding. She stared across the street at Dejah. Something seemed wrong with her. Her eyes, deep and too dark, shadowed...she was silent. In shock?

Dejah backed toward the open front door. She scanned the street, looking up and down the block before going inside. After she closed the door and fixed the deadbolt, her heart pounded. She tried to swallow; her throat was dry. Looking through the peephole, she saw little Carrie remained still, staring at Dejah's front door.

She hurried back into the bedroom. The news continued. An aerial shot over Rockwall County just this side of Greenville showed what looked like a war zone over the Lake Ray Hubbard bridge: cars, emergency vehicles, people wandering, some running, some lying motionless on the street, and ... my G.o.d, she thought, are they attacking each other?

The panicked voice of another reporter came on, the low sound of the helicopter engine loud in the background as he spoke. "It seems people have begun displaying some very strange behavior. The epidemic is in full swing, and people are attacking other people. Mary and Tim, I hope you all are safe in the studio because, dear Lord, I can hardly believe it myself, I have to get some confirmation from the authorities before I relay what I've seen, but out here on the streets, in the cities ... it's astonishing what people are doing to one another."

Dejah went straight for her phone. She had to talk with Thomas again. She had waited by the d.a.m.n phone since Monday and she couldn't wait anymore. Rockwall was d.a.m.ned close to Greenville, and whatever the h.e.l.l was happening in Rockwall might be happening in Greenville too. She dialed Thomas's phone receiving the same message as before. She called the Greenville Police Department and got a recording saying all circuits were busy. Finally, she called 911, feeling the bottom drop out of her stomach with hopelessness as she got a fast busy signal.

She ended the last call and stared at the fading face of her phone's display. It went dark like the hope inside of her. Every cell in her body yearned to hear Selah's voice, to know she was okay.

"Surely they went back to his parents' house like he said he was going to do," she muttered in the bedroom. It was the best course of action, the only course of action. They didn't have anywhere else to go. Maybe a hotel, if the way back to the ranch was blocked too. She dialed Thomas's parents' house. Another "all circuits busy" message drew a pained groan from deep inside her.

Dejah stood in the middle of the room, the news droning on in a panicked white noise. She set her jaw, narrowed her eyes at the window, thinking of the dog, and Carrie Revis, and the unknown body face-up in the yard across the street.

The dead birds. The blood on the cameraman's lens.

What the f.u.c.k is happening?

Whatever it was, her daughter was seemingly on the other side of the world, across the metroplex, beyond the Lake Cities. And that wasn't acceptable. It was downright unacceptable.

She was going to Selah. Because if the world was over, then she was going to be there with her daughter come h.e.l.l or high water.

Or worse.

She rushed into the closet and packed a duffel bag of essential items. She dug in the closet for flashlights, batteries, an emergency crank radio. She grabbed granola bars, ramen, and water from the kitchen cupboard, grabbed a hammer from the tool bin and lamented Thomas's fear of guns in the house. She grabbed her keys and phone and hurried out the back door into the driveway.

The cool air washed over her again. The air smelled crisp. Her Pathfinder was parked beneath a ma.s.sive pecan tree in the rear driveway. More dead birds were littered over its hood, and a cat disturbed from its lunch mewled at her with a flash of angry eyes. Dejah skirted the feral animal and hopped in the SUV, starting it right away.

She pulled out of the driveway and onto the main road of the neighborhood, pa.s.sing Ray's inert form in the blood-smeared mail truck. As she drove by Carrie Revis, she noticed the girl was kneeling next to the body on the gra.s.s. When Dejah realized it was the body of the girl's father, Brian Revis, tears misted her eyes, and she felt a pang of guilt.

Dejah pulled slowly up to the front of the Revis house. Her throat ached at the girl's loss. Her behavior seemed absolutely despondent. Carrie had her face buried in his stomach, arms wrapped around him, convulsing with sobs. She heard the sounds of the girl sniffling.

"Carrie," she said. She left the Pathfinder running but opened the door. Dejah stepped onto the sidewalk and half-crouched, reaching her arms out to Carrie.

The girl still had her face buried in Brian Revis's abdomen. A dark stain spread out beneath him. Dejah hadn't noticed it before now.

Oh my G.o.d, he's dead. Killed?

She'd suspected it when she'd seen him from across the street, but now she could see the blood that saturated his mid-section, soaking into the gray sweatshirt in deep shades of purple.

That wasn't there before.

"Carrie," Dejah said again, catching her breath and freezing with her arms out to the girl.

Carrie Revis raised her head. Her small pale face was smeared with fresh blood. Dark eyes shone black like marbles. Her teeth were crimson, thick with shreds of tissue. A strand of vein stuck to her chin, a flap of skin hung from one side of her mouth. She had torn open her father's sweatshirt and eaten a hole in his abdomen. As Dejah watched, the girl reached absently into the cavity and pulled out a wet cord of intestine, a gelatinous membrane which might have been part of the man's stomach peeking through.

Dejah tried to scream, but the breath only heaved in her lungs.

The little girl watched her vacantly as she scrambled back into the car.

Dejah slammed the door. Her pulse surged. Her hands shook so much she could barely put the Pathfinder in drive.

Carrie was just beginning to walk toward Dejah's car as she pulled quickly from the curb. Carrie's blood-smeared face, receding in the rearview, watched her drive away.

My G.o.d, she thought. She was eating her father. Eating him Brian Revis!

Dejah caught her breath, eyes glued to the terrible scene in the mirror. Her eyes went back to the road in front of her in time to spot a stalled car diagonal across the street. She yanked the steering wheel and barely averted a collision. The front left wheel of the Pathfinder bounced onto the curb, smashing against a mailbox. Dejah wrestled with the wheel to get the vehicle back onto the street.

As she reached the intersection of Copperfield and Sublett, she took a deep breath and thought she'd never felt the terrible thrill of so much adrenalin-fueled fear in her veins. She realized she'd begin crying but she choked it off, resolving herself to the task at hand. Her mission. There isn't time for this, she told herself. Selah needs me.

It had been too long. She should've left earlier. She should've ignored Thomas's bulls.h.i.t and got in her car right then and there and drove to G.o.dd.a.m.n Greenville. d.a.m.n it!

She turned out of the neighborhood, down the tree-lined street which snaked over a hill and around a corner to the intersection of Cooper Road. She dodged several abandoned cars on the way, paid little attention to the people she saw, wandering, vacant.

Just make it to the interstate, and then figure out what happens from there. Greenville is the goal. I've got to get there before- Her breathing shallow, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. She looked hollow already. A twinge of fear struck her - she realized she could have the sickness, too. The epidemic had obviously reached their neighborhood. But what kind of epidemic makes little girls eat their fathers?

Whatever kind of curse this was had worked its evil on lots of people everywhere. She pressed onward toward her destination, a sick feeling in her stomach.

Cooper Street was a traffic nightmare. As she drove north, she wove around stalled cars, wrecks, groups of people trying to push vehicles out of the way, teaming up to make a path to their destinations. As she made it past the Walmart Supercenter parking lot there was a vehicle overflow blocking the on-ramp to Interstate 20. She heard gunshots and screaming from the Wal-Mart parking lot. People looted the store. She ducked and had to drive up onto the sidewalk and gra.s.sy mounds to make it the final distance to the on-ramp leading to the interstate.

As Dejah drove down the hill to I-20 she found herself in a snare of more vehicles, people, and emergency vehicles. Stretching as far as she could see in both directions, the intestate was a ma.s.s of cars, roaming people, and sirens.

Her heart sank. She wasn't going anywhere fast.

CHAPTER 8.

The phone rang. Robbins. .h.i.t the snooze on the alarm out of habit. The phone rang again. The webs of sleep slowly parted to allow Robbins's brain to realize it was the phone and not the alarm clock ringing near his head. Groggily, he felt around on the bedside table for his cell phone.

Jabbing at the keypad he managed to hit the correct b.u.t.ton. "Robbins," he muttered. It seemed like he just lay on the bed only minutes ago.

"Matty?" A man's voice, vaguely familiar.

"Yeah, yeah, this is Matt. Who's this?"

"Grant."

Robbins sat up in bed. "No s.h.i.t. Where the h.e.l.l are you?" He and Colonel Grant Weir went back nearly thirty years. Grant wasn't a Colonel back then, however. Often involved in covert operations, Robbins never knew when to expect contact from his old Air Force buddy.

"I'm in Greenville. Over at H-Systems."

"What? How long have you been here?" Robbins propped his pillow behind his back and leaned against the headboard.

"Unfortunately, since before the quarantine."

"What the h.e.l.l are you doing here?" Robbins asked.

There was a pause on Grant's end.

"I don't suppose," Robbins said, rubbing his eyes, "that it has anything to do with the General Langford plane bombing. Or, since you've been here since last week, that the government knew that Langford's plane might be a target."

"Bit more complicated than that, I'm afraid."

Robbins scowled. "I've been at the ER non-stop for days, Grant. People are pouring in with symptoms of some form of virus I've never seen before. Not in any textbooks, not in any case studies. This is some spooky s.h.i.t. Saying it's virulent' doesn't begin to cover it. I think those terrorist b.a.s.t.a.r.ds released some sort of biological agent into the air when they downed that plane." More silence on Grant's end of the phone. "Would I be even remotely in the right neighborhood on that?"

"That's cla.s.sified, Matty."

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it, Grant. Cut the bulls.h.i.t. I've got people dying here. Children. Elderly. I need to know what the h.e.l.l's going on. I need to know what I'm up against. I've got people with gray f.u.c.king skin practically withering before my eyes, falling into comas, and then, yesterday - get this - I had three of the f.u.c.kers wake up rabid like wild animals. They bit a couple of my nurses and one of their roommates. In the case of the roommate attack, we didn't get there in time, and that one - she didn't just bite her roommate, Grant, she ate her flesh. Ate her flesh off the bone."

Robbins felt heat rise in his cheeks. He ground his teeth. He wanted a cigarette. He had to remind himself this was his friend he was talking to. But d.a.m.n it, he knew something. He could help. If only....

"You still at the same address?" Grant asked.

Robbins ran a hand through his tussled hair. "Yeah."

"Can I come over?"

Robbins got out of bed. "I'll put on some coffee."

"Be there in a few." The phone went quiet.

Robbins threw on a t-shirt and slipped his cell phone into the front pocket. Sliding his feet into his slippers, glanced sideways at his deplorable image in the mirror, and then padded into the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee.

By the time the coffee pot was full, Robbins was seated at the table eating a warmed up sweet roll. The doorbell rang. It was Grant.

He opened the door and bear-hugged his old friend.

Grant held him at arm's length to get a look at him. "You look like s.h.i.t."

"Yeah, well I feel even worse."

"You aren't sick, are you?" Grant's voice edged up a notch.

"No, not yet anyway. We've been sucking down blasts of Relenza at the end of every day, hoping that's enough to keep the staff on its feet. But at the rate we've been going, it may not be the virus that gets us." Robbins walked into the kitchen with Grant close behind. "Coffee?"

"Please."

Taking two mugs from the cupboard, Robbins watched Grant's movements for any signs that he knew something. He poured coffee into the mugs. "Still take it black?"

"Of course."

"Okay, sit down. I need to tell this to someone who won't think I've gone nuts, and since you obviously know more than you're saying, at this point you're that lucky someone."

"Because I already know you're nuts?"

Robbins laughed and took a drink of coffee. "Well, if I wasn't before, after this fiasco is all said and done, I sure the h.e.l.l will be."

Grant frowned. "That bad?"

"This isn't bad, it's downright evil, Grant." Robbins took a sip of the piping hot coffee then looked soberly across the table at his old friend. "One of our blood techs got sick. We had to strap him to the bed after he woke up from a six-hour coma-state. One of the nurses was bending over to adjust his pillow and he lunged forward and bit a chunk out of her f.u.c.king neck the size of an apple. Didn't think she'd make it, but we managed to save her."

"So what do you know about the illness so far?" Grant said.

"Friday night Greenville Christian Academy played a football game against Millward Christian High School. Now ordinarily, the private and church schools around these parts don't get much publicity. What makes this team special?"