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'You tried to knock my brains out,' he said.

'I know. I'm sorry.'

His hand moved higher and he began to massage the nape of her neck. 'Why did you do that?'

'I don't know.'

'You don't know?'

'Huh-uh.'

'Were you mad at me?'

'I don't know you.'

'Did somebody send you?'

'I just came with the pizzas.'

'And you just suddenly got an urge to brain me?'

'Yeah.'

'Don't like my face?'

'It wasn't you. I just wanted . . . to kill whoever came to the door.'

'Real nice.'

'I'm sorry.'

'What do you think we oughta do about it?'

He didn't call the police, Maureen realized. He brought me in here and stripped me, instead.

'Maybe you should call the police,' she murmured.

'Would you like to be arrested? Would you like to go to prison? You assaulted me with a deadly weapon. That'd be a prison term for sure, wouldn't it?'

'Maybe.'

I'd rather take my chances with the police, she thought.

Trevor. Oh God, Trevor. If Rory hadn't been sick . . .

One hand continued to rub her neck. The other, his

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Someone was down low, peering in at her.

She sat up fast. Too fast. The sudden motion made her head spin, her vision cloud, her stomach churn. She grabbed the rim of the tub, hunched forward, threw her legs wide and vomited between them. The spasms wracked her. Pain throbbed through her head. Tears filled her eyes.

When she was done, she stayed bent over. She gasped to catch her breath. Water pounded against her head and shoulders and back. It ran down her face. She blinked the wetness of water and tears from her eyes. While she watched her mess spread out and slide toward the drain, the dizziness faded. It left confusion, shame and fear.

I'm naked in someone's bathtub. Who is that guy? What's happening?

He's the guy I tried to smash with a rock, she realized.

Why the hell did I want to do that?

What's he doing with me?

'Hope you didn't get any on you,' he said.

Maureen didn't look at him. She stopped holding onto the side of the tub, and wrapped both hands around her upthrust knees.

'What's your name?' he asked. He sounded friendly. The friendliness seemed mocking.

'Maureen.'

'Name's Buddy,' he said. 'I'm gonna be your buddy.'

He touched her back. His hand moved gently, making slow circles.

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He realized someone was shrieking in his ears.

And he realized he hadn't lost the axeman.

He sped away from the roadblock, away from all the attackers but one.

The head of the axe was still buried in the hood. And its handle seemed to be buried in the man who'd put it there.

The center line ended. An intersection. 'Detour!' Trev yelled.

He swung a hard right. But not hard enough to lose his guest. The guy stayed put, riding through the rain like a big, limp hood ornament.

2

Maureen thought, the pizzas are getting soaked. She knew she should stop this and get up and put her clothes back on and take the pizzas to the door, but it felt so good to be sprawled on the grass with the hot rain splashing down on her. She didn't want to get up ever.

When the rain filled her mouth, she choked. She raised her head and opened her eyes.

She was in a bathtub, not on the lawn. Not her bathtub. It wasn't rain coming down, but spray from a shower nozzle. There was a curtain rod, but no curtain enclosed the right side of the tub.

And she wasn't alone.

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turning away from the roadblock. The sweep of his headbeams lit four black shapes rushing in. Coming at them. A man with an axe. A woman with a tire iron. A woman who seemed to have no weapon and a kid maybe twelve or thirteen from the size of him with something bigger than a softball swinging at his side.

From behind Trev came a quick, high sucking sound.

'Oh my God!' That was Francine.

It isn't a softball, Trev realized as he rammed the pedal to the floor.

It was the head of a girl, and the kid was swinging it by its long hair.

He figured he could speed through the group. Not touch any of them.

But if he tried that, the bastard with the axe might bash the windshield, let the rain in. So he steered for the axeman.

The guy didn't try to dodge clear. He met the car face on, swinging the axe down from straight overhead with both hands as if he planned to split a log. It chopped into the hood. Then its handle caught him in the belly, hoisting him off his feet.

Something whacked the windshield in front of Trev's face.

The head. Face first. The blow mashed its nose flat. Teeth broke from its open mouth. Pale blurs of eyes glanced in at him. Then the head bounced away and through his side window Trev saw the kid stumbling backward, still hanging onto the thing's hair.

'Jesus!' he gasped.

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Trev turned his attention to the windows. His car appeared to be flush against the side of the station wagon. He couldn't see anyone inside.

But as he studied the car, he saw another in the glow of his headlights. A compact Dodge. Its rear against the front bumper of the wagon.

'Oh, man,' he muttered.

'What?'

'Two of them.'

'What?'

An intentional roadblock?

He stepped on the gas pedal. His car lurched forward with sounds of scraping, crunching metal. Then it parted with the side of the wagon and the noises stopped.

'What's going on?' Francine demanded.

Trev didn't answer. He backed up, watching the wagon. Parked at its rear was a pickup truck.

'Trev! Answer me!'

'It's a trap,' he said, trying to keep his voice calm.

'A what?'

'Make sure your doors are locked,' he said, and the car rocked on its shocks. He darted his eyes to the rearview mirror. Couldn't see anything but darkness. Couldn't see the man or woman scuttling over the trunk toward the back window. But the slight shaking of the car told him someone was there.

A hard thud against the rear window. He shot the car forward and heard a muffled outcry.

'What was that?'

'Lost a visitor,' Trev said, and wrenched the wheel,

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Trev flinched as something pressed his shoulder. Then he realized it was Francine's hand.

'You know,' she said, 'maybe we can drive out of this if we just keep going. If it's the rain making people nuts and we get out from under the storm . . .'

He hit the brakes and jerked the wheel, shouting 'Hold on!' and they skidded and slammed the side of a station wagon blocking the lane. The force of the impact jerked him, tried to throw him over onto the passenger seat, but he kept his grip on the wheel.

Behind him, the women were gasping and moaning.

'Anyone hurt?' he asked, twisting around to look back.

Francine had been hurled against Lisa, and Lisa was hunched down against the right-hand door.

'I think I'm OK,' Lisa muttered.

'I can't believe this,' Francine said, pushing herself up. 'I just can't believe this.'

'At least we didn't break any windows,' Trev said.

'What're we doing out here?' Francine blurted.

Great, he thought. She's losing it.

'Just take it easy,' he said.

'Take it easy? You almost got us killed, you fucking maniac!'

'Mom, cut it out.'

'Well, he did!'

'I didn't expect there to be a goddamn car stopped sideways in the middle of the street.'

'If you hadn't been driving like a maniac . . .!'

'I'm sorry. I really am.'

'Lot of good sorry does.'

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right, slipped beneath her armpit and closed gently around her right breast. Squirming, she dug her fingernails into her knees.

'No, don't,' she said. 'Please. Come on.'

'I think maybe you should be very nice to me, and maybe we won't have to bother the cops with this.'

His hand moved in a slow circle, palm stroking her nipple.

Maureen let out a shaky breath.

'You like that, don't you.'

'Come on, stop.'

'Bet it feels a lot better, now you're awake to enjoy it.' Laughing softly, he thumbed her nipple. 'Yeah, I already felt you up pretty good. This is better, though. This is a lot better.'

The hand slid down from her breast, down her chest and belly. And lower. When he fingered her public mound, she grabbed his wrist with her left hand and jerked it toward her hip. She rammed her right elbow back. It missed Buddy. Her upper arm collided with his face as he fell toward her, but she knew she hadn't done much damage.

And she knew she was in trouble.

The hand at the back of Maureen's neck shoved her away. She released his wrist. She flung her arm up. The far wall of the tub smacked her arm down against her side. A hand covered her face, pushed her down.

It went away. As she struggled to push herself up, Buddy rose from his crouch beside the tub. He wore nothing. He was grinning. He had a wide neck. His

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arms and chest were bunched with heavy muscles. His penis was erect. Big and thick and pointing high.

He climbed into the tub.

His broad body blocked the shower.

Maureen kicked at his shins until he squatted and grabbed her ankles. The water came again, splashing her face and torso. He spread her legs wide. He pulled her toward him. She twisted and bucked as her back slid over the slippery bottom of the tub.

Buddy sank to his knees. He tried to shove his hands under her rump, but she knocked them away.

'Naughty naughty,' he said, and punched her just below the navel. Right fist, then left, then right again. The blows bashed her breath out, made her guts feel hot and mushy, tore all her strength out.

She tried to struggle, but couldn't move.

Buddy stuck his hands under her rump. He clutched her buttocks and lifted.

Spine bent, arms hanging limp, the back of her shoulders and head sliding along the tub's bottom, she was dragged forward and impaled.

3

John, along with several other men, carried the bodies into the kitchen. It was Dr Goodman's suggestion.

Earlier, someone had called the police and Good-

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man had phoned for ambulances. While the doctor's call had at least been picked up, he'd been told that no units were available. So there would be no cops, no ambulances. Not for a while, anyway. Maybe not for a long while.

Dr Goodman thought it best, for everyone's sake, to remove the bodies from sight.

Among the dead were Andrew Dobbs, the reporter from People Today, and the female photographer who'd charged into the restaurant with him. She had no purse, no identification. The man she'd bludgeoned to death with her camera was Chester Benton, a local real estate agent. The man whose throat had been ripped open by Dobbs's keys was Ron Westgate, a high school teacher.

Four dead.

And John, himself, had killed the woman.

According to Goodman, she'd probably suffocated as a result of a collapsed trachea. John could've told him that, but he'd feigned ignorance. Why draw attention to himself?

Steve Winter, lugging her by the arms, knocked open the door to the kitchen. John followed him into the brightness with the woman's legs.

The savory aromas of the kitchen stirred his hunger.

After things had settled down a little, Cassy had ordered the cooks and dishwashers (who'd rushed out with knives and cleavers too late for the action) to return to their jobs. She planned to see that everyone ate.

Good for her, John thought as he followed Steve past a bank of ovens.

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'I'm famished,' Steve said. Apparently, the wonderful odors were working on him, too.

'At least we don't have to worry about starving,' John told him. 'Good place to be in time of siege.'

'You going to stick around?'

'Aren't you?'

'Carol wants to go home.'

'I want to get home, too. Hell, my kid's with a sitter. I don't know about going out there, though.'

'What do you think's happening?'

'Shit if I know.'

'You think it's the rain?' Steve asked.

'I've never heard of rain making people homicidal.'

'I've never heard of rain being black.'

'Hold up,' John said.

They stopped and waited while two men came out of the freezer, looking pale and cold.

'OK. Go on ahead.'

John followed him into the walk-in freezer unit. The air felt like cold water seeping through his shirt. He wished he'd kept his blazer on. Until he remembered where it was and thought about Cassy's warm bare skin against its lining.

Looking over his shoulder, Steve stepped alongside the body of Andrew Dobbs.

They set the woman on the floor beside him.

Steve scowled down at her black face. Then he met John's eyes. 'Do you think this is it?'

'It? What do you mean?'

'You know.'

'The end of the world?'

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'The Big One. World War Three. Only they didn't nuke us, they hit us with some kind of biological shit.'

That had already occurred to John. He supposed it must've occurred to everyone.

'Let's get out of here before we freeze up,' he said.

He waited for Steve. The two walked side by side toward the freezer door.

'So what do you think?' Steve asked as they stepped into the warmth of the kitchen.

'I don't know what's going on, but I don't think it's Doomsday. I sure hope not.'

Steve let out a nervous laugh. 'You and me both.'

'For godsake, don't bring up anything like that in front of the women. They're spooked enough as it is.'

They stepped aside as two men approached with the body of Chester Benton, and John wished he'd been quicker to take out the camera woman. Maybe it wouldn't have helped, anyway. For all he knew, the first blow might've been the fatal one that rammed a shard of skull into the poor guy's brain.

'If it's not the Big One,' Steve said, 'what do you think it might be?'

'Something of ours?'

'We're not supposed to be developing chemical weapons.'

'What we're supposed to be doing and what we are doing ain't necessarily the same thing. You know? Maybe the honchos decided to test out their new secret weapon on the citizens of Bixby.'

'No, that's . . .'

'Or maybe something just went wrong. Maybe that

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