Page 109

He sees the door shimmering, almost gone, and he runs and throws himself through it. And the last thing he hears is Maggie saying, “Keep driving.”

FORTY-ONEELLIE

I hit the ground, and everything leaps on me at once. The rabid dog, the zombies, the thin man, the shooter shouting in wordless affront, as if they’ve robbed him of his prey.

Good.

That’s all I can think. That’s the only iota of satisfaction I can get from this. That, as these monsters leap in to rip me apart, the shooter will have failed again.

Teeth grab my leg. Something else clamps on my arm. Fingers wrap in my hair, and they all pull, trying to rip what they can from me.

Be quick, I plead to any higher power that will listen.

Please let it be quick.

I shut my eyes, and I plead for a fast death because I know I cannot fight. Finally, I cannot fight. The zombies are swarming over me and the monsters are pulling me apart, and I have lost.

My last thought is for Henry. That I hope he’s safe. I hope the bartender didn’t vent his fury on him. Let it be me, all me. I’m the one who hurt the bartender. Please don’t let Henry suffer—

I hit the ground again.

For a second, I think I’ve looped. That this is how I will die, endlessly dropping from that tree branch, knowing I have no chance, the monsters leaping on me, ready to rip my body apart.

But I didn’t fall far, only a foot or so, and now I’m lying on my back, and the forest has gone silent around me.

No, not silent. I hear …

An owl? I open my eyes, blinking hard, and something tiny skitters through the leaves as the owl hoots and a distant dog barks and above me there are stars, glorious stars, beacons of pure white in a navy-black sky.

I scramble to my feet. My knee buckles and pain rips through it, but I put my hand on the tree trunk for balance. Then I run. I follow the sound of the dog, just a regular little dog yapping in a yard.

“Ellie!”

Henry’s bellow is as sweet as that yapping dog and those ordinary stars. I veer toward it as I grit my teeth against the pain. I reach the road, and he’s running for me, and I can see the bar to his right, the ruined building and overgrown parking lot.

He reaches me, and we only clasp hands, both of us knowing that clock is ticking.

Five minutes.

I look around. Our cars are on the road. Just sitting there. Five vehicles stopped in a row. No sign of an accident, no tree blocking the road.

I pull my keys from my pocket.

“No time,” he says, and he grabs my hand and runs.

He’s running away from the cars, and I want to dig in my heels and say no, the cars are safe, the cars are fast, the cars are our escape.

But he’s right.

Five minutes.

The clock is ticking, and by the time I get my car started, it’ll be too late to get past whatever boundary we need to cross.

So we run. We bear down, and I run like I have never run in my life. My legs are both on fire now, and I have no idea how badly they’re injured and I don’t care. I just want to live.

The dog is still barking, and it comes from somewhere in the distance ahead. A car turns from a side road and heads in the other direction, the taillights on, the faint strains of music wafting out.

Does that mark the end? Are the dog and the car past whatever boundary we need to pass?