Seventy yards.
He pulled the pistol from the clip at the small of his back. It slid out quickly, and the weight was good in his hands. Side by side, he and Molly lifted their guns.
She fired first.
As though they sensed the shot before she took it, the Prowlers darted out of the bullet's path.
Impossible, Jack thought. Or, at least, it was impossible for them to have dodged the bullet. They must have seen her aim, gauged the trajectory . . . how close would they have to be before that trick wouldn't work?
Forty yards.
"Wait," he said. "Don't waste your clip. When I tell you, you shoot mine and I'll shoot yours."
"Jack . . ." Molly said, voice revealing her terror.
It matched his own.
"You know," growled one of the Prowlers, "I usually don't like to eat this late."
Twenty yards.
Just what I need. A monster who thinks he's funny.
Ten.
"Fire!"
He twitched his aim over to fire at the Prowler lunging at Molly, and squeezed the trigger four times in rapid succession. The beast dodged at least one, another went wild, but two bullets ripped into his chest, stopping his momentum. He dropped dead.
Jack flinched as he turned to face the one coming for him.
He was on its back, limbs splayed wildly, part of his head missing where a bullet had shattered his skull.
"I didn't even hear you firing," he whispered in relief and amazement.
Molly went to him and her arms slipped behind his back in a light, quick embrace. "What now?"
Jack swallowed hard. "The girl. Molly, I . . ."
"I know," she said. "We can't just leave her to them."
Together they went to the back of the Jeep. Jack unlocked the crate and flipped the top open. Though they had retrieved two pistols from the large chest before, the two of them gaped at its contents. Two rifles. Three pump shotguns. Boxes of ammunition and clips. Half a dozen small round objects Jack suspected might be grenades. At least five semiautomatic pistols, though he thought there might be more. And an assault rifle, a small thing with a long clip jutting from its belly and a metal stock stretching out behind it.
Molly took a deep breath and let it out noisily. "Most of this stuff I can't even imagine using. I mean, I couldn't aim a rifle, and I'm sure as hell not tossing explosives around. I'd kill us both."
Jack nodded slowly. After a moment, he reached into the crate and withdrew a long, mean-looking pump-action shotgun. He cracked it open and found that it was fully loaded. Satisfied, he slung the weapon over his shoulder and reached back in for another, which he handed to Molly.
"Anyone can fire one of these. Aim in the general vicinity of something, and you'll hit it," he told her.
"All right," she said, though somewhat reluctantly.
For one long moment Jack stared into the chest again, wondering if he should bring the assault rifle or a grenade or two. But he was no more confident than Molly of his ability to use either without killing them both.
"Artie would hate this," Molly said suddenly.
Jack froze. He swallowed hard and stared at the guns, glanced at Molly, and found the sight of her bearing arms very disturbing. This was wrong. Guns were nasty, brutish things. But then, what choice did they have?
"I think he'd understand, given the circumstances," he quietly assured her.
Molly frowned. "Do you really think so? The way he felt about guns?"
Jack reached into the Jeep and shut the crate, locking it up. "We're not killing anyone, Molly. Not even aiming a gun in the wrong direction. We're after monsters just like the ones that killed Artie.
"Trust me. He'd understand."
There was no way he could tell her that he had had that very discussion with Artie's ghost.
Fortunately, Molly did not argue it further. She slid her pistol into the clip at the small of her back and held the shotgun in front of her with both hands. Jack slammed down the back of the Jeep and they set out across the parking lot, moving as fast as they could.
"This is suicidal, you know," she told him.
"Then why are we going?" Jack replied.
They did not speak for quite some time after that, for they both knew the answer. They could not just leave that girl to the Prowlers. Behind the school, they found a trail that led up into the forest toward the mountains. It was possible, of course, that the Prowlers had simply gone through the trees, headed in another direction entirely.
But it was also possible that they were following the path. And Jack and Molly had nothing else to go on.
Together they jogged along, peering into the darkness for any sign of the monsters' passing, listening intently for some sound that would indicate the girl was still alive.
CHAPTER 10
Sirens pierced the night, and emergency lights cast the trees on either side of School Street in a flickering, ghostly red and blue. Alan Vance ground his teeth as he trailed the ambulance up toward the school. Tina had met him at the Paperback as planned, and they had worked for hours to help clean up the mess the vandals had left behind. Then, a little after eight, Tina had started to get a migraine and headed home. Alan had been moping about it, wondering if she really did not feel well or if she was angry with him for something, when the sheriff had called.
Shots fired down on School Street, near the library. One of the neighbors had called it in. Alan had run out to the car and sped toward the scene. At the center of town he had fallen in behind the ambulance, tires squealing a bit as they raced around corners. On the way to the scene, the sheriff had come over the radio, shouting at them all to hurry.
The ambulance hit a speed bump ahead as they raced past the high
