the spout of the fuel can. Held the container by its handle. Used her

other hand to tip the bottom. A pale gush of gasoline arced out of the

spout. She swung the can left and right, saturating the carpet along

the width of the steps, letting the stream splash down the entire top

flight.

On the first step below the landing, the Giver appeared in the wake of

its shadow, a demented construct of filth and slithering sinuosities.

Heather hastily capped the gasoline can. She carried it a short

distance along the hall, set it out of the way, and returned to the

stairs.

The Giver had reached the landing. It turned to face the second

flight.

Heather fumbled in the jacket pocket where she thought she had stowed

the matches, found spare ammo for both the Uzi and the Korth, no

matches. She tried another zipper, groped in the pocket--more

cartridges, no matches, no matches.

On the landing, the dead man raised his head to stare at her, which

meant the Giver was staring too, with eyes she couldn't see.

Could it smell the gasoline? Did it understand that gasoline was

flammable? It was intelligent. Vastly so, apparently. Did it grasp

the potential for its own destruction?

A third pocket. More bullets. She was a walking ammo dump, for God's

sake.

One of the cadaver's eyes was still obscured by a thin yellowish

cataract, gazing between lids that were sewn half shut.

The air reeked of gasoline. Heather had difficulty drawing a clear

breath, she was wheezing. The Giver didn't seem to mind, and the

corpse wasn't breathing.

Too many pockets, Jesus, four on the outside of the jacket, three

inside, pockets and more pockets, two on each leg of her pants, all of

them zippered.

The other eye socket was empty, partially curtained by shredded lids

and dangling strands of mortician's thread. Suddenly the tip of a

tentacle extruded from inside the skull.

With an agitation of appendages, like the tendrils of a black sea

anemone lashed by turbulent currents, the thing started up from the

landing.

Matches.

A small cardboard box, wooden matches. Found them.

Two steps up from the landing, the Giver hissed softly.

Heather slid open the box, almost spilled the matches. They rattled

against one another, against the cardboard.

The thing climbed another step.

When his mom told him to go to the bedroom, Toby didn't know if she

meant her bedroom or his. He wanted to get as far as possible from the

thing coming up the front stairs, so he went to his bedroom at the end

of the hallway, though he stopped a couple of times and looked back at

her and almost returned to her side.

e didn't want to leave her there alone. She was his mom. He hadn't

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