elapsed between entries.
I thought I would have bad dreams all the time. But I keep dreaming about when I was a little girl. When my father would tuck me to bed and pull the covers up to my chin and kiss me on the forehead. I would feel safe. And I knew I belonged there.
I love you daddy. I miss you.
I hate that I do not belong here. I hate being afraid of the monsters and of Trevor and what he might do. He might kick me out.
I just want to be happy. Just for one day. I want my daddy to come and tuck me in and give me a kiss and tell me everything is going to be all right. To tell me that he loves me.
Trevor could not read any more. His rear end slid off the mattress and he fell to the floor.
Oh God, what have I become?
– Trevor stormed through the woods retracing his steps as best he remembered. He found the faded game trail, not nearly as clear a path as that day in late June.
'Come out! I know you can hear me! I don’t care about the rules!'
'Ah, what’s wrong now? Took a little bloody nose and you be lookin’ to turn and run.'
Trevor swiveled around and saw the Old Man, the campfire, and the white wolf.
'Screw you!'
'I am pretty darned sure I told ya’ not to come lookin’ for me like I’m your high school guidance counselor.'
'What have you done to me? I'm turning into a monster!'
The flames intensified. The Old Man’s eyes widened.
'Monster? I expect you’re right on that, Trevor. Seein’ the ways in which you go blastin’ the baddies. I suppose them things out there, they thinking you a monster. Now ain't that a hoot? Any-who, Trev, you go thinking that all this was my doing, if that’ll help you sleep the night. But the truth, Trevvy, is that I did nothin’ to you. All this has been down there the whole time, waiting to be let out. Buck up, Trev, you’re a natural born leader, makin’ the hard decisions and whatnot, knowin’ when to sacrifice some to save others. I am mighty pleased.'
Is that who I am? Am I glad that Sheila is gone because I thought her useless?
'No! I’m going to make it right. I’m going to get Sheila back. Even if I have to kill every goddamn thing in my way! Even if I have to…'
…show compassion…make her belong…
'Wow,' the Old Man grinned. 'You are hoppin’ mad. A regular fury. You stay angry. Wake up every morn asking you-self, what can I kill today? But Trev, you gotta change the way you doing business. Now that you went and got all these fine folks around you, don’t go rushing in when you got plenty of folks who can die first. I think it's about time you started-what’s that fancy word? — oh yeah, 'delegating' your authority. You still gotta survive.'
Trevor cursed him. Trevor cursed himself, too.
– A Humvee and a Suburban raced along a country road avoiding a fallen tree, a flipped garbage truck, and scaring away a six-legged fury red thing resembling a dog-sized anteater.
'Faster, faster,' Trevor insisted from the passenger seat in the Suburban.
As had been the case all morning, Trevor's eyes burned red and he growled words. His hands fidgeted constantly and he spoke in sharp, machine-gun-like bursts.
Now he focused his boiling emotions to action. Thirty minutes ago Nina, during airborne patrol, spotted a group of people on Route 11 about twelve miles from the lake and half that distance north of Wilkes-Barre. He knew the odds that the group might be Red Hands with Sheila were remote, but he could not pass any chance to avenge yesterday's raid on the estate.
According to Nina's last sighting, the group approached a small town along the western bank of the Susquehanna.
Trevor’s team included himself, Jon Brewer, and six K9s in the Suburban. Stonewall McAllister, 'Bear' Ross, and Dustin McBride (the 'Second Brigade' leader) rode in the Humvee.
The cars turned onto Route 92 and headed east under a sullen dull blanket of cloud cover threatening rain. They passed isolated homes and trailers. Shadows moved on the edge of the forest and around those dwellings but time did not allow for investigation.
Ahead of them lay the small town of West Pittston, founded in the mid-1800s as a result of the anthracite boom. The 1959 Knox Mine disaster flooded shafts, entombed workers, and left the town with no more mines but a host of mom and pop shops, a strip mall, a convenience mart, and two bridges crossing the Susquehanna into the mirror town of just plain old ‘Pittston.’
Massive Oaks lined the riverbanks while home styles ranging from colonial to modern, from rich to poor, lined the streets. Armageddon made them all the same: empty.
They came to an intersection where Rt. 92 met Rt. 11. The latter approached from the south, merged with 92, and then went east across the river via a concrete bridge. Homes, a small shop, and big trees surrounded the junction while a tangle of destroyed cars cluttered the roads.
A group of ten human beings stood together near the bridge. One of them held the attention of the rest. He wore black clothes and carried something in his hand.
The Suburban halted at the edge of the intersection behind the remains of a chain-reaction crash leftover from last summer.
Trevor eyed the group as he exited the SUV. His first impression suggested a holy man gathering his flock, although that flock seemed lethargic, as if they might be sleepwalkers.
This group did not appear related to the Red Hand tribe who abducted Sheila. Still, so many people in one place presented an opportunity to collect more survivors.
'Hello! Hello!' Trevor waved toward the crowd.
The K9s, including Tyr, held defensive positions next to the transports.
As Trevor crossed the intersection, he sensed something not quite right.
'Help! Help!' A voice cried from the middle of the gang.
The flock parted and the 'holy man' approached with open arms.
'Greetings my children!'
Trevor studied the priest as he walked-glided-across the pavement between wrecked cars. The man appeared older, but not old: thin but naturally so, not emaciated. His eyes were the eyes of a fire and brimstone preacher. Or a madman. He held an object, probably a bible.
'Help!' Two of the sleepwalkers shuffled, nearly fell, as they restrained someone.
'Father…what is going on here?'
'Spreading the good word, my son.'
Trevor realized his error. The man did not hold a bible but, rather, a container.
The thin man with fire in his eyes opened the container.
'Come, hear the word of Voggoth and be one with The Order.'
He held aloft a small thing: a slug or a fat worm.
The clergyman reached the creature toward Trevor who instinctively raised his weapon and categorized the preacher as a ‘hostile.’ The missionary anticipated resistance, and he wasn't quite human.
Four eel-like tentacles slithered forth from the holy man’s neck. Two grabbed the barrel of Trevor’s M4 and twisted it toward the ground. The other two snared Trevor’s throat, choking and pulling him toward the slug- thing.
'Do not resist, my child. Accept the living God.'
A flash of cold steel.
General Stonewall McAllister’s blade severed the vile appendages. The cleric dropped the squirming creature and stumbled backward.
'Heretic! Heretic!'
One of Stonewall’s boots stomped the slug thing wiggling on the pavement. It squealed.
The clergyman, retreating to his flock, shouted angrily, 'Sinners! You are beyond salvation! Feel the wrath of the living God!'
Several-but not all-of the sleepwalking humans charged, brandishing crowbars, boards, hammers, and other blunt instruments. Many of them sported large gray and red patches on their faces and arms. Their eyes
