focused on the siren, still bleating in the background, as shock enveloped him.
Myrna handed Don the hammer. Slowly, with a sense of calm, he raised it over his head and brought it crashing down. There was a solid crunch as the swing ended between the dog's eyes. Then he raised the hammer back up and hit it again. Rocky let go. Immediately, the dog's jaws snapped at his leg, but Don lurched backward.
Rocky sat back on his haunches, staring at Don with clear contempt. Then the dog opened its mouth and tried to speak. Vocal cords that had never formed words before began to do so now. To Don's eyes and ears, it was like something inside the dog was borrowing the animal's vocal cords for its own purpose.
'Rrrraaarrgghh! Rowwwlll!'
'Jesus ...'
Rocky seemed to laugh.
Grimacing, Don swung again.
The dog's head collapsed as the hammer sank deep inside.
Rocky died a second time.
That was how it started. They left the dog's bloody corpse laying inside the garage. Later, while Myrna went to the veterinarian's office to make arrangements for disposing of Rocky, Don drove himself to the emergency room to see if he needed stitches and to get a shot, just to be safe.
The hospital echoed of chaos-pure, raw anarchy. Waiting and wounded patients whispered of a possible biological or chemical terrorist attack, something that was making people and animals turn crazy.
Homicidal dead ducks attacked an old man in the park who fed them every morning. A rapist cut an old woman's throat, only to have her turn the knife back on him minutes later while he was humping her corpse. A bus driver had a heart attack behind the wheel, died-and then purposely sent the bus careening into a crowd of people at the next stop. A woman shot her husband in a domestic dispute and then he rose up and shot her back, along with the cops responding to the call and the paramedics sent to revive him.
When he was finally admitted after many hours of waiting, Don watched a patient in the next trauma room flatline, then start thrashing a few minutes later, grappling with the doctor hovering over him. The EKG showed no heartbeat, even when the man began biting the doctor. Don left the hospital after that, making do with antibiotics and a gauze pad.
Myrna didn't come home that night. Calls placed to the veterinarian's office were met with a busy signal, just like the calls to Mark's dorm.
By the time Don decided to look for her, the police were ordering people to stay in their homes, and the National Guard was patrolling the streets. The electricity and the phone lines went out soon after that.
He wondered about Mark, and hoped the situation was better in California-but even then, he knew in his heart that it wasn't.
He checked on his next-door neighbors, Rick and Tammy and their son Danny, and made sure they were safe. The neighbors on the other side, the Bouchers, were on vacation in Florida. After checking in with Rick, Tammy and Danny, Don went back to his home, weeping for his wife while praying for her return, and locked himself inside the panic room.
After the fourth terrorist attack on New York City, Don had hired a security company to convert the closet in Mark's now empty bedroom into a panic room, using frame materials that were resistant to forced entry, high winds, and even bullets. He'd spared no expense. The walls, floors and ceilings were all lined with thick plywood for extra strength, and an alarm system, Modem, and phone were installed as well. The electromagnetic lock insured 'top security with an ability to withstand tremendous forces' (as per the brochure), and could not be picked or pried open. An electronic keypad with a key code allowed entry only by those who knew the combination-Myrna and himself. A solar powered backup battery was installed on the roof, in case the electricity was suddenly cut off. It operated the alarms, the phone, and the keypad.
He had plenty of bottled water and dried food, batteries, matches, candles, a handgun, knife, and fire axe. He could wait out whatever was happening outside.
He'd been asleep when Myrna returned.
The keypad's beeping woke him. Somebody was on the other side, entering the code. There was a mechanical click and then a rush of air as the door slid open. The bedroom beyond was dark, but he could see her silhouette in the doorway.
'Myrna! Oh my God, honey, where have you been? Are you okay?'
'I'm fine, Don.'
Don paused. Her speech seemed oddly muffled. Distorted.
'Well, I'm just glad you're home. I've been worried sick. I thought that maybe you were-'
'Dead?'
'Yes.' He got up, his joints stiff from sleeping on the floor.
Myrna stepped into the room, into the soft glow of the candlelight.
'I'm afraid she is dead, Don. Just like Rocky and Mark. It's just me in here now. But you can join them, if you'd like. In fact, I insist!'
'W-who?'
She lurched toward him, the thing that wore his wife's body. One broken leg trailed behind her, and there was a gaping, pink hole where her nose had been.
'Myrna?'
'She was cheating on you. Spreading her legs for Mr. Pabon, the guy who owns the Mexican restaurant. Twice a week and overnight when you were away on business. His dick was bigger. Much bigger.'
It looked like his wife, spewed obscenities with her mouth-her voice. It knew about their son and neighbors- but Don realized that the creature wasn't Myrna.
