Jack's father said, 'It's my house, and you're—'
Then the newcomer spotted Jack and lurched wildly, falling back against the front wall and violently cocking a shotgun. The man screamed, 'They're in the house!,' and raised his weapon.
Jack's father leapt in front of the gun and yelled, 'Don't shoot! That's my son. He won't hurt you.'
The gun's barrel wove in tight circles as the newcomer sought a clear shot.
Jack called out, 'Please! It's all right.'
The newcomer glanced at his companion, who was now hunched in the corner and moaning, 'Oh shit. Oh shit, it's in here with us.'
Jack's father said firmly, 'You can leave if you want.'
There was a long, tense silence. Finally, the newcomer lowered his gun and said, 'All right. We'll let it alone.' He glared at Jack, and added, 'But you stay the hell away from me.'
The newcomer was named Sam, and his companion was Todd. Sam was bigger and louder, and leader of the two.
After things had settled down, Todd explained, 'We joined up with a militia to hold Portland. But the dead, they . . .' He stopped and stared at the floor.
Sam said flatly, 'It's not good down there. Not good at all.'
Jack's father said, 'Where did you hear about this house?'
'In Freeport,' Todd said. 'Some people had stayed here. There was a girl too. She had a note for your son.' Todd fished an envelope out of his vest pocket. He glanced uneasily at Jack and said, 'I guess that's him.'
Sam grumbled, 'Maybe that's not such a good idea.'
Jack's father scowled and said, 'Let him have it.'
Todd shrugged and tossed the note out onto the table. Jack scooped up the note and opened it.
It was from Ashley, letting him know that she was all right and that he should join her if he wasn't safe. She gave the address where she was. Jack stuck the note into his pocket.
Sam's voice was shaky: 'South of here there's this dead kid with no face. People call him the skull-faced boy. He's smart, he can talk, like that one there.' Sam nodded at Jack.
Jack murmured, 'Dustin.'
Todd said sharply, 'What?'
Jack said, 'He hurt his face like that. I saw it.'
Sam stared, horrified. 'You know him?'
Jack realized that he'd said something wrong.
'Dustin was a friend from school,' Jack's father explained. 'He was with Jack the night this . . . all started.'
Todd's voice was almost hysterical: 'Sam! This is crazy. He's one of them. One of the skull-faced boy's —'
'Shut up!' Sam growled. 'Just shut up.'
There was a long silence.
Jack's father said, 'Come on, son. Let's go outside.'
Jack was chained up again. Then he crouched there in the shadow of the garage and listened to the voices that drifted out through the bright cracks in the boarded-up windows.
First came Jack's father's voice: 'What's this all about?'
Todd replied anxiously, 'We lost Portland because of the skull-faced boy. He's organized the dead down south into some sort of army.'
Sam broke in, 'He's trained them. They go after people they know—family, friends. The dead act like they have feelings. People hesitate, won't fight, then it's too late.'
Jack's father said, 'What's that got to do with us?'
'Don't you get it?' It was Todd again. 'Jack is part of this. He's friends with the skull-faced boy. He's pretending to be nice, just waiting for his chance to strike.'
'He's dangerous,' Sam added. 'He knows about this house, and now the one in Freeport too. What else does he know? He's got to be destroyed.'
'No,' Jack's father said.
Todd pressed him, 'He's not your son anymore. Your son is dead and gone. Now it's just a thing, a thing in your son's body. Using your own love against you.'
Sam added, 'People have a right to protect themselves. If one of these folks here went out one night and shot that thing you keep in the backyard, I wouldn't blame them.'
One of the other residents hissed, 'Keep your voice down. He might hear.'
After that the voices fell to a low, incomprehensible murmur.
Jack waited for hours. Then he watched as the back door swung open. A shadowy figure with a gun crept across the yard toward him.
Was it Sam? Or Todd? Or one of the others? In the darkness, Jack couldn't tell.
It was his father, who stepped from the shadows, then bent to unlock the chains and said, 'It's not safe for you here anymore. I'm sorry.'
'I'm sorry too,' Jack whispered, rising to his feet. He hugged his father, then escaped into the night.
Jack found Dustin's army standing in a great field north of Portland. The thousands of dead milled about in loose formations and watched Jack with their empty eyes. Their groans filled the night.
Jack moved among them and shouted, 'Dustin! I'm looking for Dustin. Dustin, can you hear me?'
Finally a voice responded, 'Hey! Hey you. What do you want?'
Jack stopped and turned. A balding dead man in olive fatigues was approaching.
Jack said, 'I'm looking for the skull-faced boy.'
'The Commander, you mean,' the man replied. 'He'll want to see you too. We can use someone like you.'
The man led Jack through the crowds, up to a low hill where a small crowd of dead men conversed in hushed tones. Dustin stood at the peak of the hill, and his back was turned. Standing like that he seemed normal, familiar.
Jack called out, 'Dustin.'
Dustin glanced backward, so that one white eye showed in his eerie skeletal profile. He wore a ratty army jacket. He said, 'You've come back.' Then he turned away, so that again all that was visible was the back of his head, and said, 'Where have you been?'
'Up north,' Jack said.
Dustin asked, 'Did you encounter any of the living? Any armed groups?'
'No,' Jack lied.
'We'll be headed that way,' Dustin continued. 'North. Along 95, toward Waterville . . . Your hometown.' He waited for a reaction.
Jack said nothing.
Finally Dustin added, 'Anyway, it's time for training.' He walked out to the edge of the hill and regarded the hordes below, then shouted, 'Don't shoot!'
They moaned back, 'Don't . . . shoot . . .'
'It's me!' Dustin yelled. 'You know me!'
The voices of the dead drifted up toward the sky: 'It's me . . . You know me . . .'
'Please help me,' Dustin shouted.
'Please . . . help me . . .' they wailed.
Dustin nodded with satisfaction and turned away from the crowds. 'That's our strategy, Jack. My soldiers possess determination, but not much else. A resemblance to loved ones is one of our few assets.'
Jack said, 'What are you doing? What do you think you're going to accomplish?'
'Peace,' Dustin said, then added, 'The living want to destroy us. All of us. Our only chance is to convert them, to make them like us.'
Jack stared at the lines of moaning dead. They stretched as far as he could see.
