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To avoid leaf piles, I can’t make a beeline for him. I end up over on his right, and I let him get a little ahead before I veer in and—

Raymond moves into a small clearing, and I get my first real look at him and …

And it is not Raymond.

I could tell it was a man, stocky in build, wearing a gray jacket, like Raymond’s suit coat. But this is someone with dark hair and a gray windbreaker.

Not Raymond.

I stand there, staring, my brain spinning to fix the presumption. And then I see what’s protruding under his arm.

A rifle butt.

I let out a gasp, and it’s so quiet—so very quiet—but the shooter spins, and I wheel and run for the nearest tree. The rifle fires. Pain rips through my upper arm just as I slide in behind a massive tree trunk.

I almost stay there, as if he won’t know exactly where I’ve gone. Luckily, the impulse lasts only a heartbeat, and then I dive for another tree and another, until I duck down behind a bush, one hand over my mouth to stifle my panting breaths, the other fingering my upper arm where the bullet hit.

It only grazed me, though blood flows hot over my chilled fingertips.

I calm my breathing. Behind me, the shooter’s steps are slow and methodical as he searches for his prey.

Because Raymond isn’t the only threat out here. The thing that Caleb had become isn’t the only other threat either. There’s the rest. Our worst fears. Zombies for Henry, and for me?

For me, it’s a much more everyday fear. A fear that should never be everyday, but it is, isn’t it? A man with a gun and a grudge. Or just a man with a gun and the will to use it, to kill as many people as he can, striving for the path to become more. To become important.

I bite back a hysterical giggle at the irony.

I’m here because I was supposed to die to save someone important. And she died fulfilling someone else’s twisted need to be important.

For me, though, this isn’t just the everyday fear of a horrifyingly everyday monster. It’s a quarter century of nightmares fueled by guilt.

I catch my breath behind my muffling hand and then squeeze my eyes shut to think. So what’s my plan now?

Get away.

Just get as far as I can from this tailor-made-for-me scenario.

My upper arm burns, but I remind myself it’s only one injury I’ve sustained tonight, and if the others haven’t stopped me, this one won’t either.

I pick up the rock I’d had such high hopes for. Something tells me I can’t kill this threat, but I can put the rock to another use. I count to three and then I pitch it just as I leap up and run—

A rifle retort, just as I’m swinging toward a sheltering tree, and again the bullet nicks me, this time in my calf.

My calf? My upper arm made sense if he’d been aiming for my head or chest but …

Am I really trying to figure this out? Expecting it to conform to logic? This isn’t an actual shooter chasing me. It’s a nightmare, and if he only managed to clip my leg, then I should be thankful, because those bullets are very real.

And that particular bullet hit a much more important body part for someone trying to run. I dart behind a tree, only to have my leg give way, pain shooting through it. I brace myself and then I strain to hear his footsteps. There’s a tree to my left. Three feet away. Beyond that the forest gets thicker, and I can duck and dodge and maybe, just maybe, get away.

I only need to get far enough that he can’t hear anything crackle underfoot. Then I’m free to move faster and get farther.

I don’t hear anything. I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut to focus on finding his footsteps, but there’s nothing.

Is this part of the nightmare? I escape, and then I’ll run and find myself right back where I started?

Don’t think about that. Don’t try to guess ahead. Work with what I have. If I can’t hear the shooter, then maybe he’s headed in the other direction.

I open my eyes, and my insides turn to water, both knees giving way as I fall back against the tree.