"No. The second one in the kitchen window got past us. We were just looking for it."

"Listen, please," Ba said, holding up his cleaver.

They quieted. A rasping sound…from down the hall…like chisels working wood.

"Where—?" Alan began.

"Oh, God, I think I know!"

She turned and led them toward the cellar door. As she rounded the corner she skidded to a halt and bit back a scream. All three chew bugs were there, nose-on to the cellar door, gnawing at the wood in blind determination to get through to what lay beyond it.

And from the other side she heard the wail of a child's small, frightened voice.

"Mommy? Are you out there, Mommy? What's that noise? What's happening, Mommy?"

"Get them!" she said through her teeth in a controlled screech. "Get them!"

Ba leaped forward, Alan rolling behind him. Ba cut one in half, then another. As their body parts flopped and flew around, Alan reached out with his towel-wrapped hand and grabbed the third by its tail. He swung it against the floor, smashing its head. Glass-like teeth flew in all directions. The last chew bug lay still.

"Get the upstairs windows, Ba," he said. "I'll look after the ones down here."

As the two men hurried off in different directions, Sylvia opened the basement door just enough to slip through and step onto the landing, then quickly pulled it closed behind her.

Jeffy's face was ashen as he stared up at her.

"Don't let them get me, Mom!"

She took the boy in her arms and clutched him tight against her. Her mind raced.

Jeffy had been right. Those things were after him. But why?

"It's okay," she told him. "We've killed the bugs and as soon as the house is sealed up tight we'll get out of here."

A moment later she heard Alan's wheelchair on the other side of the door.

"Okay, gang," he said, pulling the door open. "The coast is clear. All the windows are down. No holes in any of the other screens."

She stepped out into the hall, carrying Jeffy. Alan was smiling but she noticed that his eyes were apprehensive as he looked at the boy.

"Why don't you and Ba go to the movie room while your mother and I get some hot chocolate. Then we'll all watch a movie."

The movie room? It was a converted over-sized pantry where they'd set up the giant screen TV. Perfect for movies any time of day because it had no windows. Was that why Alan was suggesting it?

Jeffy let go of her and went with Ba. He no longer looked afraid. What could possibly harm you when Ba Thuy Nguyen was holding your hand?

As soon as Jeffy was out of earshot she turned to Alan.

"What's wrong?" Stupid question. "I mean, what else is wrong?"

"They're all over the place, Sylvia," he said in a low voice. "A huge flock of them swarmed in just as we finished closing up. They're at every window, trying to get in. Listen."

She did. And she heard it. A cadenceless tattoo, as if a thousand people were outside bouncing tennis balls off the windows. It congealed her blood to think of how many of those creatures it took to make that kind of noise.

"Who do we call? The police, the fire company, who?"

"Nobody," Alan said. "The phone's out."

"Then we're trapped."

"I think we're safe for now. We'll see what the morning brings. But until then, let's keep Jeffy as calm as we can."

"They're after him, aren't they?"

Alan nodded gravely. "Sure looks that way."

She bit back a sob as she dropped into Alan's lap and flung her arms around his neck. She was afraid for Jeffy. If anything happened to him…

It was all she could do to keep from crying.

"Why, Alan?"

"I think Mr. Veilleur might know."

Sylvia said nothing. Mr. Veilleur…she'd thought of him too. But she didn't trust him. He was hiding too much. Besides, what could a feeble old man do against these hideous things?

She pulled away from Alan and stood up. She took his hand.

"We'll handle this ourselves. Let's make that cocoa."

So good!

The horror, the pain, the bloodshed, the ravenous, screaming FEAR soaks through from above, filtering through the tissues of the earth, through the living granite into the conduits of Rasalom's changed flesh.

His raw flesh has healed now, hardened into a tough new covering. His hands and feet remain fused to the walls of the granite pocket, reaching deeper and deeper into the rock, sending intangible feeder roots through the surrounding earth, searching for more nourishment. More.

And as he feeds Rasalom gains mass, grows larger, thicker. The granite walls of the pocket flake away to accommodate his increasing size. The chips slide to the bottom and collect there like shattered bones.

SATURDAY

1 • DAWN

Monroe, Long Island

It took her a moment or two to appreciate the silence, but shortly before dawn she realized that the incessant beating on the windows had stopped.

Sylvia was the first to know because she hadn't slept a wink all night. Jeffy had fallen asleep half way through his umpteenth viewing of Pete's Dragon. Alan dropped off a short while later in his chair. Ba had spent much of the night working on some sort of weapon—carving tiny niches into the wood of one of his billy clubs and fixing chew-bug teeth in them with Crazy Glue. But even he dozed now and then. Sylvia had sat by the door of the movie room, keeping it open an inch or two, listening at the gap.

Silence. She was almost afraid to believe it could be true. As she rose from her chair, Ba sprang up, instantly alert.

"Missus?" he whispered.

"It's all right, Ba. I'm just going to take a look outside."

"I'll come."

"That's okay. I'll just be—"

But he was already by her side, peering into the hall. When he was satisfied that it was safe, he stepped out and held the door for her. Sylvia sighed, smiled her thanks, and followed him.

She wondered if she'd ever get used to having someone around who was ready to lay down his life for her at any moment. How long had it been? Sometime around 1979 or 80 when she'd recognized Ba in a TV news story about the boat people arriving in the Philippines after crossing the South China Sea with nothing but the clothes on their backs. He'd stood out because he towered above his fellow Vietnamese; she'd dug out the picture her late husband Greg had once shown her, telling her about this huge South Vietnamese fisherman his Special Forces group had trained as a guerrilla, how they'd become friends. The man in the photo and on the tube were the same. She'd rushed to Manila, brought Ba and his wife Nhung Thi back here, and paid all of Nhung Thi's medical bills when the cancer hiding in her lung broke out and spread through her body. After her death, Ba had stayed on as driver, groundskeeper, and one-man security force. Sylvia had told him a thousand times that he didn't owe her a thing, but Ba didn't see it that way.

Now, as he glided ahead of her, as silent and fluid as a shadow in the pale light that filtered down the hall from the rooms on either end, his newly customized billy club poised at the ready, she was glad he'd never listened to her.

They entered the dining room and went directly to the windows. Sylvia pulled back the sheers and gasped. The screens hung in tatters, the panes were smeared and fouled, the mullions gouged and splintered.

But no bugs. Not a single chewer or booger bug in sight. It was as if they'd evaporated in the morning light—or gone back to where they came from.

"Let's take a look outside, Ba."

He led the way to the front door, motioned for her to stay back, opened it, then slipped outside. A moment later he returned.