She exhaled a shaky laugh, then half-turned until he felt her cheek on his chin. “Wonder which one we’re in.”

Not one with a happily ever after, he thought, grimly. Not for me. When this was over, he’d have to turn himself in. It had been crazy to run, a panicked and brainless move, and that was no kind of life for Casey. But before that, he could save his brother, and keep Emma safe. Of course, when everything came out about Big Earl, she wouldn’t want to have anything to do with him. But I can do a few things right before then.

“This is important,” he said. If she turned her head just a little more … Idiot; stay sharp. He forced himself to pull his head back a little. “In the movies, they pump out those bullets really fast because they’re firing blanks. No kick, no climb; they never have to draw down again. But you’ll have to, okay? So aim for center mass. You have a much better chance of actually hitting someone that way. But that means you’ll have to wait until whoever’s coming is close. I know that’s scary, but …” His eyes scoured her face, and he knew that he really should let her go; she seemed to have figured out how to hold the weapon. But this moment may never come again. “You’ll have to bide your time, Emma, pick your shot. Okay?”

“I can do that.” She paused. “This is going to sound stupid, like one of those bad movies? But Eric … please be careful.”

“Yeah.” The voice came from the porch, and Eric looked up to see Chad, shotgun in hand, scuffing down the steps, with Bode just behind. “We will,” Chad said. “Thanks for your concern.”

In the wash of light spilling from the house, Eric saw Emma’s cheeks color as she stepped out of his arms and turned. “Eric, I mean it—”

There came a rolling boom, distant but unmistakable, and Eric knew: that was not thunder. He looked over at Bode and Chad. “We have to go, now.”

“Got that right.” Bode shot the bolt of his rifle. “Playing our song, man.”

Emma looked at Eric. “What was that?”

But it was Chad who answered. “Nothing real good.”

CASEY

Where’s His Tongue?

“TONY!” RIMA CRIED. “Oh my God!”

Jesus. Casey felt all the air wick out of his throat. Tony was pressed against the glass, palms flat, fingers splayed, like a little kid peering into a toy store window. Tony’s face—what was left of it—was a macerated, staring mask of blood and skin, bone and muscle, grinning teeth with no lips and bulging eyes with very little flesh. When the boy opened his savaged mouth, more blood gushed, slick and steaming, to splash the glass.

No tongue, Casey thought, crazily. He hasn’t got a tongue. Where’s his tongue?

“EHHH EEE NNNN!” Tony gurgled. His smeary hands swarmed over the glass. “OHHHENNN UHHH, EHHH EEE NNN!”

“Tony! Let him in, Casey!” Rima tried reaching past to jab open the locks. “Hurry! Open up, and let him in, hurry!”

“NO! Don’t open it, don’t open it!” Before he knew what he was doing—no, no, that was a lie; he knew what he was doing, all right—Casey gave her a good one, a stinging backhanded swat. He pulled the slap at the last second; he didn’t want to knock her out, just stop her. The blow caught Rima on the forehead just above her left eye. He heard her gasp, and then she went sprawling, the back of her head thudding against the passenger’s side door. “Rima, damn it! Stop! We can’t help him!”

“What is wrong with you?” Tears were leaking from her eyes, and a thin trickle of blood inched down her jaw from where she’d bitten her lip. She put a trembling hand to her forehead, like a little girl who couldn’t believe that the parent she thought was so wonderful just five minutes ago could turn on a dime. “We would help you.”

“Then you’re stupid,” Casey said, flatly. “You’ve got a death wish. Getting ourselves killed won’t save him.”

“My God, what are you?” Her mouth worked like she wanted to spit. “How can you do this? Why are you letting him do this?”

“Him? What the hell are you—” He broke off at a sudden, wet, squeaking sound that reminded Casey of running his finger over the condensation of a bathroom mirror. He looked back to see Tony’s hands scrabbling over the glass like wet spiders, his bloody fingers trying to dig in but finding nothing to grab. At the sight, Casey’s stomach turned over.

Every man for himself, boy, Big Earl whispered. You’re doing the right thing. Don’t listen to her. Stay strong. Be a man.

No. But it was such a tiny thought, no more substantial than a soap bubble, and he could feel the crush of Big Earl’s enormous hand over his mind. This … Dad, it’s not right, it’s not—