He did not understand how any of it could happen when his mind was going blank. None of it came from his will. None of it was directed.
It just happened.
The moaning things came at him.
And his sword devoured them.
4
Three terrible minutes later, Tom unlocked the trunk and opened it.
Benny was cowering in the back of the trunk, huddled against Tom’s gym bag. Tears and snot were pasted on his face. Benny opened his mouth to scream again, but he stopped. When he saw Tom, he stopped.
Tom stood there, the sword held loosely in one hand, the keys in the other. He was covered with blood. The sword was covered with blood.
The bodies around the car—more than a dozen of them—were covered with blood.
Benny screamed.
Not because he understood—he was far too young for that—but because the smell of blood reminded him of Dad. Of home. Benny wanted his mom.
He screamed and Tom stood there, trembling from head to toe. Tears broke from his eyes and fell in burning silver lines down his face.
“I’m sorry, Benny,” he said in a voice that was as broken as the world.
Tom tore off his blood-splattered shirt. The T-shirt he wore underneath was stained, but not as badly. Tom shivered as he lifted Benny and held him close. Benny beat at him with tiny fists.
“I’m sorry,” Tom said again.
All around him was a silent slaughterhouse.
And then it wasn’t.
From the sides streets, from open doors, more of them came.
More.
More.
Mr. Gaynor from down the block. Old Lady Milhonne from across the street, wearing the same ratty bathrobe she always wore. The Kang kids. Delia and Marie Swanson. Others he didn’t know. Even two cops in torn uniforms.
“No more,” Tom said as he buried his head in the cleft between Benny’s neck and shoulder. As if there was any comfort there.
No more.
But there was more, and on some level Tom knew there would always be more. This was how it was now. They’d hinted about it on the news. The street where he lived proved it to be true.
5
He kicked his way through them.
He kicked old Mr. Gaynor in the groin and watched the force of the kick bend him in half. It should have put him down. It should have left him in a purple-faced fetal ball.
It didn’t.
Gaynor staggered and went down to one knee. His face did not change expression at all. Nothing. Not even a curl of the lip.