"Are you cold?" Donny asked.

"No," she whispered. "I'm scared."

"Me, too."

"Even after...what you saw over there?"

"Sure. Iraq was Iraq. This is different. I lived here."

Despite their situation, Marsha noticed that he referred to Brinkley Springs in the past tense rather than the present. She decided not to mention it. Now wasn't the time.

Donny reached out and took her hand again. "What are you thinking about?"

"I don't know. Everything. Brandon...He was just a kid. We shouldn't have just left him like that."

"No," Donny agreed. "We shouldn't have. It wasn't right. But if we hadn't, then we'd both be dead right now. I don't give a shit about me, but I couldn't let anything happen to you."

Marsha stared at him, unable to speak. She squeezed his hand and he squeezed back. Then Donny cleared his throat and peered through the branches, watching the street.

"I hope my parents and my brother are okay," Marsha said. "They have to be, right?"

"Where were they tonight?"

"At home. Mom and Dad were watching TV and Randy had friends over-Sam and Stephanie."

"You mean little Stephanie Hall?"

"I sure do. Except she's not that little anymore."

Donny grinned. "No kidding? Is he going out with her?"

"Who knows? I think she likes playing him and Sam against each other."

"Well, that's not right. I always liked your little brother. He's a good kid. Little weird, what with all the hip-hop stuff, but still a good kid."

"You don't have to live with him. He's a pain in the ass." Her voice softened. "But he likes you, too. He was excited when he heard you were back. I think he hoped you'd stick around. He missed you, Donny. We all did."

Donny didn't reply. Instead he focused on the street again. Marsha sensed that she'd struck a nerve and decided it might be best to change the subject.

"Where are we going, anyway?"

"I don't know," he said. "We should hide somewhere. I don't reckon it makes sense to go back to my mom's place. No way of knowing if those fuckers are still around there or not. If they are, they've got us outnumbered."

"Who were they?"

"Something...not normal. Did you see how fast they moved? Nothing normal moves like that."

"What are you saying, Donny? That they were demons or something?"

"Hell, I don't know what I'm saying. I mean, I didn't used to believe in that stuff. But I heard things. Over in Iraq. Guys talked, you know? I reckon you see enough of the worst shit imaginable, then you start to believe in evil. Real evil, like what they taught us in Sunday school when we were little. There's so much more to our planet, Marsha. It's a big world out there beyond these mountains, and we don't know as much about it as we think we do."

Marsha opened her mouth to respond, but he cut her off.

"Look, forget it. All I'm saying is that we need to be careful. We got lucky back there, and if we come across those fuckers again, I don't think we'd get that lucky a second time. I need to make sure you're safe. I don't know what I'd do if one of them got you."

"Donny..."

He turned toward her, and Marsha saw the tears in his eyes. She reached for him, cradled his face in her hands and then pulled him toward her. He didn't resist. Their lips met, and when Marsha closed her eyes, the darkness seemed to fade a bit.

Somewhere overhead, a bird cried out.

Levi stopped chanting and frowned in concern. There had been no reaction to his summons. By this point in the ritual, the departed soul should have returned to the body, regardless of which plane of existence it now inhabited. He checked the symbols and incantations and reconfirmed that all were in place and correct. Then he addressed the corpse.

"Can you hear me? If so, then I command you to tell me who did this to you."

The dead man didn't answer. Levi watched the corpse's face, looking for some sign of movement or awareness, no matter how slight, but nothing changed. The body was as soulless and empty as when he'd first found it. But why? What had gone wrong? This was simple necromancy, after all. Not a discipline to be trifled with or taken lightly, of course, but not nearly as hard as many other occult tasks. Even if the man had been dead for hours, Levi should still have been able to pull the soul back. It wasn't until decay set in that such a summoning became useless. After all, how could a dead man be expected to answer questions with a decomposing tongue?

"Are you there? Please, I only want to help. Perhaps you are confused by your situation? Can you tell me your name? Can you tell me who did this to you?"

Silence. Levi's frown deepened. There should have been some spark, some indication that the soul had temporarily returned to its former home. For whatever reason, he had failed. He was no closer to knowing what he was dealing with, and while his questions remained unanswered, the situation in Brinkley Springs grew more desperate by the minute. Even now, the screams drew closer. He needed to face this-whatever it was. He had to save these people. Had to defeat it. But to do that, he needed the name of the entities. He needed to know whom or what he was fighting. All power stemmed from naming. Without a name, the situation was hopeless.

Desperate, Levi racked his brain for an alternative. His hands curled into fists and his fingernails dug into the skin of his palms. He didn't notice the pain. For a brief moment, he found himself wishing that the Siqqusim-a race of incorporeal beings used as soothsayers by the ancient Sumerians-weren't sealed away in the void. He could have done as the Sumerian priests used to do and cast one of the entities into the body of this dead man, thus giving it a voice. But to do so-to breach the veil-was beyond his abilities. Indeed, he didn't know anyone on Earth who could achieve that.

So what's the point of standing around here and mulling it over? What's wrong with me? I'm better than this. I bested Nodens two years ago. I should be able to do this. Think, man. Think!

"Crows," he whispered, staring up into the sky. "Dark men dressed in black. The systematic slaughter of innocents. But why? For what purpose? Simple cruelty? What am I dealing with here, Lord? Any help you can give me would be greatly appreciated."

The heavens were as silent as the corpse. Levi had expected as much.

"God helps those who help themselves," he muttered. "But He sure doesn't make it easy for them."

Hurrying footsteps caught his attention. Levi glanced up in time to see two young people-a man and a woman-step out of the shadows. The man appeared to be in his midtwenties. He wore blue jeans and a flannel shirt, both of which hugged the contours of his body. He was in good physical shape. His brown hair was cropped close to his head and shaved down to stubble on the sides. Levi recognized the haircut. It was what members of the military called a "high and tight." He assumed that this young man was either a soldier or a marine-or had been until recently. The woman he was with appeared to be about the same age. She was slim and pretty, with mournful brown eyes that matched her long hair, and a fair complexion.

Spotting him, they halted. The girl gasped. Both of them were obviously terrified. They glanced down at the body and then up at Levi. He held up his hands and smiled to show that he meant them no harm.

"Hmmm," Levi murmured. "Maybe the Lord is answering prayers tonight after all."

As Randy roared along behind Sam and Stephanie, he felt a sick mixture of fear, revulsion and shock. He'd turned the CD player off because it was too much of a distraction. His eyes were wide as he gaped at the destruction. He didn't see the man who had killed his parents, nor the man's compatriots, but the signs of their passage were visible on every street corner. Racing through downtown and struggling to keep up with Sam's faster car, it was impossible for Randy to avoid the killers' handiwork. Brinkley Springs was no longer recognizable as the place he'd grown up in. Fires burned unchecked in a dozen homes and businesses. Cars and trucks sat vacant along the streets and in driveways, some with their doors hanging open or hoods up, as if their owners had experienced car trouble. He thought again of when they'd first fled. Sam's Nissan hadn't started at first-not until Randy had leaned against it.

Corpses, both human and animal, lay sprawled in the streets, yards and sidewalks. Randy knew most of them-if not their names, then at least their faces-but he forced himself not to think about it. If he pretended that he didn't know them, that their deaths had no more meaning than some random NPC in a video game, then maybe it wouldn't hurt as bad. Some of the corpses showed no obvious signs of trauma. Others had been mauled and mangled-eviscerated, torn apart, heads and limbs tossed aside with careless abandon. And a few had suffered even worse fates. A man jutted halfway through the pawn shop's plate-glass window. Shards of glass had severed his head from the nose up. A small child lay sprawled in a plastic wading pool. The pool was filled with blood. A man had been impaled with his own arms and legs. The grisly appendages stuck out the front of his torso as if they'd grown from it. Several people had been burned alive. Their charred remains still smoked on their lawns. A red and brown and pink pile of slop next to a woodpile and a chopping block with a bloodied ax embedded in it defied description, but Randy was pretty sure he knew what it was. Bile rose in his throat as he looked away. Across the street, a woman hung from a tree limb, dangling at the end of an extension-cord noose. Her breasts had been torn off and her stomach ripped open. Her innards lay on the ground at her feet. Carved into the bark of the tree was a single word in big block letters.

CROATOAN.

As he sped by, Randy wondered what it meant. It was a strange word. Certainly not one he'd ever heard before. He wasn't even sure it was English. And who had carved it? The men in black, maybe, but how? Randy had some experience carving his initials into trees. When he was fourteen, Randy and Cathy Wilson had gone together for a whole summer. They'd had a favorite spot down along the Greenbrier River-a secluded section along the riverbank, hidden by a stand of tall birch trees. They'd gone there nearly every day and spent the afternoons swimming and talking and making out. Randy had convinced her to go skinny-dipping, but despite his best efforts, he'd never made it past third base. Near the end of the summer, he'd used the lock-blade hunting knife his grandfather had given him for his birthday to carve his and Cathy's initials-along with a big, if somewhat lopsided, heart-into the trunk of one of the old birch trees. Despite the soft bark, it had taken him all afternoon, and that was just four small letters and a crude heart. The strange word on the hanging tree was eight letters long, and each of the letters was a good ten inches high.

He promptly forgot about it as they hit a straightaway near the outskirts of town. Sam accelerated and Randy had no choice but to do the same. He glanced down at the speedometer. The needle was edging toward seventy-five miles per hour.

"Slow the hell down, Sam. It ain't gonna do us any good if you and Stephanie end up wrapped around a motherfucking telephone pole."

He knew, of course, that his friend couldn't hear him, but Randy didn't care. Hollering at Sam made him feel better. It took his mind off the horrors around them. It helped him forget about what had happened to his parents. Randy bit his lip and gripped the steering wheel hard. He moaned, long and low, and then the tears started again. He blinked his eyes, trying to clear his blurry vision, but every time he did, he saw the grotesque images. His father, bleeding from dozens of lacerations, shaking and jittering as the glass shard speared his eye. His mother, bravely holding the steak knife and trying to defend him. The way the killer's voice had sounded when he promised to turn Randy's mother inside out. How his ears rang and his hands grew numb when he pulled the trigger. Worst of all, Randy remembered the look on his mother's face when the bullet passed through the intruder and slammed into her instead.

"I'm sorry, Mommy." He wiped his eyes and nose with the back of his hand. "I didn't mean to leave you there. I just didn't know what else to do. And there was Steph..."

What would Marsha say when she found out? What would she think of him? She'd probably hate him, and she had every right to. He'd abandoned their mother. He'd shot her. It was bad enough that he couldn't save his father, but he should at least have been able to defend his mother. Instead, he'd killed her.

Randy hoped that his sister was okay, hoped that she was with Donny. If anybody could kick these weird fuckers' asses, it was Donny Osborne. If Marsha was with him, she'd be in good hands. She had to be. Marsha was all that Randy had left. Marsha and Stephanie...

They blew past Pheasant's Garage. It was dark, just like the rest of the town. As Randy caught up to Sam, something occurred to him. They hadn't encountered any other cars or trucks since escaping his house. Oh, they'd seen plenty parked along the street or in driveways, and they'd seen some wrecked. But nobody had driven past them. Not even a motorcycle. He wondered why? What did it mean? Surely, they couldn't be the only ones trying to get out of town.

His thoughts returned to Stephanie. He studied her silhouette through Sam's rear window. When this was over, he was going to tell her how he felt. Enough was enough. Life was too short. He'd never really thought about that before. Sure, he'd known people who died-his grandparents, and a friend of his had died of leukemia in the fourth grade. But those deaths were different than tonight. He needed Steph to know how he felt about her, no matter what the consequences. Hopefully, Sam would understand and be okay with it.

Just beyond the garage, they passed a Mazda pickup truck with out-of-state tags parked along the side of the road. In front of the truck was a small pile of ashes that stirred as they sped by. Randy glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the ashes swirling in his wake. He glanced forward again, practicing what he'd say to Steph- -and then Sam's car imploded.

It happened so fast that Randy couldn't be sure of what he saw. One second, they were zooming toward the sign that told folks they were leaving Brinkley Springs. The next, it was as if Sam's Nissan had slammed into an invisible brick wall. There was a shockingly loud sound of a collision, and then the car crumpled, accompanied by the tortured shrieks of metal and fiberglass-and of Sam and Stephanie. The sounds lasted only a second. By then, the engine block was shoved through the rear bumper.

Randy slammed the brakes and spun the steering wheel. He felt the truck almost tip over as it slid sharply to the side, stopping only inches from the wreckage. He flung the door open and leaped out. The car was no longer recognizable. Neither were his friends. Earlier tonight, they'd sat in his bedroom, listening to music and playing video games and laughing and talking and breathing. They'd had arms and legs and heads and hair. He refused to believe that the scraps of raw, dripping hamburger that were strewn through the wreckage was all that remained of them. He inched forward, screaming Stephanie's name, and something crunched beneath his heel. Randy lifted his foot and glanced down. He'd stepped on someone's finger. He couldn't tell if it was Steph's or Sam's.

Randy bent over and wretched. Vomit splashed his shoes and steamed on the road. He took a deep breath, screamed and then threw up again. His stomach cramped and spasms shook his body. He vomited a third time and then gasped, trying to catch his breath. He smelled gasoline and motor oil and blood. He staggered backward, moving away from the wreckage. Wisps of white smoke rose from it...but then he realized that it wasn't smoke. The shredded metal and fiberglass and rubber wasn't on fire. These wisps were something else. There were two of them-small, ethereal puffs of white. They reminded him of the way his breath looked when he exhaled on a cold day. They drifted above the accident scene like cigarette smoke, slowly gliding upward. Suddenly, there was a flash of light that made Randy think of the bug-zapper light in his parents' backyard. The two white clouds flattened out and then disappeared. The entire sky flashed blue, and then the darkness returned.

"What the fuck? What the fuck?"

With his throat raw and his eyes nearly swollen shut, Randy charged forward, wanting only to escape this new horror. He paused after taking a few steps. What if he slammed headfirst into the same unseen barrier that had stopped his friends?

He glanced back at the wreckage. His vision blurred and the world began to spin. Randy's sobs finally ceased as he toppled backward, hit his head on the ground and lost consciousness.

Donny was thinking about the kiss. About how warm Marsha's lips had been. How she'd tasted. How her tongue had felt sliding across his. How her breath had caressed his face. He didn't want to; he'd been trying instead to focus on keeping them both alive, but he just couldn't help himself. It had brought back all kinds of memories that he'd thought he buried once and for all. He was disappointed and angry with himself. As wonderful as it had been, the kiss would just make things more difficult. Marsha was already having a hard time with him leaving. He still planned on doing so, just as soon as this crisis was over.

Marsha gasped, and squeezed his hand hard. Donny glanced at her, and then in the direction she was staring.

The first thing he noticed was the dead body lying in the middle of the street. Despite the horrific groin injury, it wasn't as grisly as some of the corpses they'd seen tonight-but it was certainly the strangest. The body had been positioned like da Vinci's Vitruvian Man drawing (which one of Donny's fellow soldiers had sported as a tattoo on his bicep). Some sort of weird circle had been drawn around the corpse with chalk. The circle had four points and was decorated with bizarre symbols. Donny didn't recognize any of them.

The second thing Donny noticed was the dark-haired man standing over the body. Donny didn't know him, and he could tell by the look on Marsha's face that she didn't know him either. His manner of dress and his long, unruly beard identified him as Amish, which was strange. To the best of Donny's knowledge, the closest Amish enclave was over near Renick. The man appeared to be in his midthirties, although Donny couldn't be sure. His complexion and build seemed youthful, but his eyes were older. Judging by his expression, the stranger was just as startled as they were. Then Donny noticed the blood. It was all over him, smeared on his clothes and face. His hands, especially his right hand, were stained crimson.

"Despite how this may look, I didn't kill him, if that's what you're thinking."

The accent confirmed what Donny already suspected. The man wasn't from Brinkley Springs, nor even from West Virginia. He was certainly a Yankee. Donny detected what sounded like a Pennsylvanian accent.

"I'm inclined to believe you," Donny said. "But there's blood all over your hands."

The Amish man looked at his palms and then back up at them. His expression turned sad.

"Yes, there is. Too much blood, I'm afraid. You have no idea."

Donny nodded at the corpse. "Looks like that guy had his pecker torn off, roots and all. I don't reckon you could have done that."

"No, of course not. But I guess you've no reason to believe me."

"I didn't say you did it. No offense, but you don't look strong enough to do something like that. But no, to answer your question. I don't think you did it. We've seen the ones who could."

The stranger flinched. He took a step toward them, and Marsha slid closer to Donny's side. Her grip on his hand tightened. He slid one arm around her for comfort.

"You saw who did this?" The stranger's tone was excited.

"I'm guessing it was the same people."

"Where? How long ago?"

Donny shrugged. "Ten minutes ago, maybe. Back that way. That's why we're going this way."

"Show me."

"Hell, no. Trust me, mister. The last thing you want to do is tangle with those guys."

"There's more than one?"

Donny nodded.

"How many?"

"We saw two of them," Marsha said. "Dressed all in black. They're wearing old-time clothes, like they're Pilgrims or something."

The stranger frowned, as if puzzled.

"Why do you care?" Donny asked.

"Because somebody has to. Because it's my job to care about things like this."

"What are you, some kind of cop? Because, to be honest, you sure don't look like one."

The Amish man smiled. "I'm not a police officer. I guess you could say that I'm more of a private detective. I specialize in what you'd probably call 'weird' occurrences."

"You're certainly in the right place tonight," Marsha muttered.

The stranger smiled and nodded, and then wiped his bloody hands on his pants. Donny noted that the effort didn't do much good. All the stranger succeeded in doing was making more smears.

Something flashed overhead. All three of them glanced upward, but the sky was dark again.

"Heat lightning," Marsha said.

"Maybe," the stranger agreed. "Or maybe it was something else."

"What's your name?" Donny asked.

"You can call me Levi Stoltzfus."

That struck Donny as odd. The stranger hadn't said my name is. Instead, he'd said you can call me. He chalked it up to just a quirky speech mannerism-perhaps something from the Amish or Pennsylvania Dutch.

"I'm Donny Osborne and this is my girlf...my...This is Marsha Cummings."