The director smiles and brings the torch up a little. In the flickering illumination, Caleb sees why his face looked so strange before.

He's wearing clown makeup. His skin is smooth and white, with black stars around his eyes and livid red paint emblazoned on his lips.

"h.e.l.lo," says the director, "h.e.l.lo, h.e.l.lo. This is a festive day. Do you know why?"

Ron and Caleb shake their heads.

"Today," says the director, "the world ends. Or begins to end, anyway. And both of you have a wonderful part to play. That's exciting, isn't it?"

"We aren't helping you," says Caleb. He tries to sound defiant, but his voice wavers.

The director leans forward and whispers in a mock-confiding tone, "You're helping me right now."

Caleb can't tell whether he's really laughing, or whether the makeup just makes him look that way.

"Would you like me to explain, or should it be a surprise?"

"Explain," says Ron.

"Well," the director says, "I only need a few more souls in my little soul soup, and then my work here is done. So, I'm taking two of you. But not this one."

He points to Caleb.

"Why not me?" says Caleb.

"Because," says the director, "you have to be the hero. That's how you will help me. He," he points to Ron, "will help me by dying."

"What if I don't cooperate?" says Ron.

"Ron, have you ever watched a bullfight? The funny thing about a bullfight is the bull only thinks it's fighting. Really, it's just taking part in an elaborate, entertaining ritual culminating in its death. This is kind of like a bullfight."

Ron remains still, silent.

"Now, Ron. Thinking of going for your knife?" the director gestures to the gowned figures on either side of him. "Just because their eyes aren't open, do you think they can't see?"

The sleepwalkers jerk their arms toward the dark sky and twin shots crack. An instant later, two bats fall at the foot of the stoop, shot out of the sky.

The director smiles. "That was well done. Even I'm impressed. But precious time is ticking past us. I'll need the others to come out now."

"What if they don't?" says Caleb.

The director sighs. "Please, little Billy. You already know the answer. They will shoot each of you, then I will light the trailer on fire. Your friends will either run out and be caught, or they will sizzle inside. Now quit stalling. COME OUT!" he roars.

Caleb and Ron exchange helpless looks.

"Don't come out!" Caleb yells over his shoulder.

"Oh, Billy," sighs the director, "always the fighter. Tell me, have you read the paper these last few days? Do you know about the big earthquake in China? The tsunami in Indonesia? That probably breaks your big ol' heart, doesn't it? Over five hundred thousand people are already corpses. And the dead are still was.h.i.+ng up on the beaches.

I bet you wish you could go help those people, don't you? Just like you wanted to help those millions of poor colored folks dying by the truckload in Africa?"

"How did you know I was going to do that?"

"I know everything," says the director. "From beginning to end, I know it all. Here's a lesson: when you die, things are revealed. The dead tell me many things because I help them. And in turn, they help me. As you can see." He gestures to the sleepwalkers.

"But my initial question regarding the ma.s.s carnage in South Asia is this: if you believe there is a heaven, then aren't these people actually better off? Their suffering is relieved, their poverty and disease have been cleansed from them. It's hypocritical to believe that good people who die go to heaven and yet still mourn death. Death is divine release. In the words of Shakespeare, 'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.'"

"Every human life is precious," says Ron. "We can rejoice when a spirit rejoins G.o.d, but when people are taken before their time, it is a tragedy."

"Ah, words from the preacher who lost his faith. Bravo. But you have it wrong. It is life which is the tragedy. And it is the transcendence of life which should be celebrated. Therefore, you should rejoice in the opportunity to help two of your friends reunite with G.o.d in heaven. Now, SEND THEM OUT so the celebration can begin!"

The director is fidgeting with the loop of rope in his hand. His eyes, behind all that black makeup, appear dazzling, almost hypnotic, almost familiar.

"Your words wear a mask that looks like the truth. As the devil's words often do," says Ron. "And I didn't lost my faith. I just misplaced it."

The director smiles.

"My dear Mr. Bent, I am not the devil. The devil is sleeping now. But he's rolling over in his sleep. He's . . . stirring. You'll hear his words for yourself soon enough, I a.s.sure you. When the sixty-six are sleeping in the cold with him, then you'll hear his words like a trumpet. But for now, I ask once more that you BRING OUT YOUR FRIENDS."

Ron shakes his head.

The clown face smiles.

All Caleb sees is a flick of the director's wrist and a streak of brown, and the la.s.so is around Ron's neck. The director snaps his end of the rope back as fast as a cobra striking, and Ron is yanked forward. His knees. .h.i.t the steps hard and he slides down and lands face-first in the gra.s.s with a "thud" that shakes Caleb where he stands. The director keeps the rope taut and pulls Ron across the gra.s.s toward him. Ron arches his back and raises his head. His face is already a deep red and strings of spit hang from his mouth as he grabs at the rope, trying to relieve the pressure on his throat, trying to catch a breath. The director just jerks again, dragging him ahead faster now, dragging him across the gra.s.s on his belly, and Ron's fingers slip off the la.s.so uselessly.

Caleb is leaping off the step, knife in hand, ready to cut Ron free, but before his feet even hit the ground, one of the sleepers strikes him in midair, slamming him in the head with the b.u.t.t of its pistol. Caleb falls back on the steps. Before he can rise, the other sleepwalker is on him too. They each grab one of his arms. He tries to break free, but no matter how much he struggles, he can't move even an inch. They pull his arms behind his back and pain shoots through his shoulders and his injured wrist. He winces, dizzy and out of breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the director working fast. In the next instant, he's bound Ron's hands with the same rope that's looped around his neck, so that if Ron struggles with his arms, it automatically applies choking pressure on his throat.

From the edge of the woods comes the sound of applause, many hands clapping. The megaphone says: "THAT WAS FAN-TASTIC ROPIN', COWPOKE. I'D LIKE TO SEE THAT ONE AGAIN IN SLO-MO."

The director gives a gracious wave.

"That," he says, "was the fun way. Now . . . " He looks at the trailer's darkened window.

"I know my beautiful little friend Christine is in there. Come out and bring your friends with you or-"

And the sleepers put their pistols to both Caleb's temples. The director pulls on the length of rope running between Ron's wrists and his throat, pulling it so tight he can't even make a gurgling sound. His eyes are red with burst blood vessels.

"The easy way or the fun way, Christine. Everybody has to go sometime; all you can do is choose how. I want all three of you out here-now."

And the door opens. Christine steps out, followed by the witch, followed by a reluctant Margie, who hangs back in the doorway.

"My sweet Christine," says the director. "I've missed you ever so much."

Over the director's shoulder, Christine watches in horror as the sleepwalkers emerge from the line of trees. When she was in the hospital, it was impossible to gauge how many patients were there. They were all kept apart, fed in their rooms and let out only for therapy. Now she sees there are hundreds of them, filling the woods on all sides of the trailer. And they're coming.

"I have one sacrifice here, this miserable wretch of a man, Mr. Ron Bent, so the good news is I only need one more," says the director, smiling. Ron expels a spray of spit and gasps a rasping breath before the director jerks the rope taut again.

"So now it's up to you, sweet Christine. Who do we take? Mommy? The old bag of a waitress? Or sweet little you?"

"I ain't going nowhere," murmurs Margie.

"Sweet little me," says Christine. "You already took Anna, didn't you? Why not take both sisters and have a matching set?"

"Yes, I did take Anna. She was the first. She was . . . a necessary ingredient in our little soul pie. And it's very n.o.ble to offer yourself as the last. I'm proud of you." He turns to the sleepers with their guns on Caleb's head. "Shall we?"

The guns snap toward the steps in perfect unison.

"CHRISTINE," yells Caleb, but his arms are still held in the sleepers' iron grips.

Both guns bark together.

Christine closes her eyes. She hears the gunshots as they come, hears the giddy murmur of the dead all around her. But no pain comes. When her eyes open, she already knows what's happened but still turns her head to see for herself: On the steps behind her, Margie's kneecaps have exploded. The waitress pitches sideways off the steps, hitting the ground headfirst.

She doesn't scream; the only sound she utters is a breathy groan.

Sleepwalkers surround her in an instant, like a pack of dogs. Christine looks on in horror, expecting them to tear Margie apart, but instead they pick her up gently and bear her up over their heads.

More come and pick up Ron the same way. One holds the rope, always keeping the pressure on Ron's throat.

The director just looks at Christine and smiles.

"It's not your time to choke yet," he says. "But it's coming."

One by one, each of the army of pale, sleeping teenagers and children falls in step and disappears into the woods.

The witch stands looking on, utterly expressionless. Christine wrenches the knife from her mother's grip but remains there, standing on steps, her chest heaving big, furious breaths, with no idea in the world what to do.

"No! Take me!" she shouts.

The director c.o.c.ks his head.

"Patience," he says.

At the foot of the steps, the sleepers release Caleb and simply walk away. Caleb rises and goes for his knife.

The director gives him a bemused look.

"Stabbing me now? Et tu, Billy? If only it were that easy." He turns away. "I'll see you both soon," he calls over his shoulder.

"You're not getting away with this!" Christine screams, and she charges the director with her knife.

The director wheels, another la.s.so already swinging in his grip.

He flicks his wrist and the rope almost seems to have a mind of its own as it flits through the air and jerks the knife out of Christine's hand. He whips the rope around over his head, then swings it back at Christine. The knife, caught in the loop of the la.s.so, whips toward her with incredible speed. It makes a tiny "tick" sound as it pa.s.ses her face, and that's all. She falls to her knees.

Caleb takes a step forward to go to her but is cut off by three lingering sleepers, who hiss at him fearsomely.

When the director flicks his wrist again, the knife jerks into his left hand and the la.s.so winds itself into a neat loop in his right.

"Not now, my sweet Christine. Soon. We'll all be together again soon-you, me, and Billy. I promise." He blows her a kiss, and flanked by sleepwalkers, turns and disappears into the woods.

In an instant, Caleb is kneeling in front of Christine.

His heart is throbbing. He doesn't know what he's going to see when he looks at her face, what hideous disfigurement or fatal wound he will find there, but he's trembling just thinking of the possibilities.

"Are you okay?" he asks as he arrives at her side, breathless.

"No," she says, through tears.

And he looks at her frantically. First at her eyes-both there, both dark and beautiful and intact-then her throat; it's unblemished by blood.

He squints in the dark. "What's wrong?"

"Can't you see?" she says. "It's horrible."

He keeps looking, seeing nothing.

"What?" he asks desperately. "What?"

"He cut off a bunch of my hair," she says, clearly in shock from the sight she just witnessed.

Caleb looks closer. A chunk of her long, dark hair has indeed been chopped off-and her only other injury is a tiny scratch just in front of her ear, which oozes one huge tear of blood.

Caleb laughs and pulls her to him and hugs her tight.

"Do I look horrible?" she asks, sounding numb.

Laughing with relief, he says, "You look gorgeous."

She pulls away from him.

"We have to get Margie and Ron back," she says.

He takes her hands in his and squeezes them. "We will. I swear."

On the porch, the witch is on her hands and knees, scrubbing Margie's blood and tiny, shattered bits of kneecap off the steps, and humming.

Chapter Eighteen.

KNEELING IN A FIELD OF STARS, this might be the night the world was made. Crickets chirp, the night breeze rustles leaves overhead, and all else holds its breath. In the dark, two childhood friends embrace. This might be Adam and Eve in the Garden. This might be the beginning of the world instead of the end of it.