“They’re coming back,” he said. He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the cover of trees.

“Wait.” She yanked free. “What if it’s the police, looking for me?”

“You don’t want to be found here. Run, lady!”

He turned and sprang away, moving faster than she thought possible on snowshoes. The approaching vehicle had cut off their easiest route out of Kingdom Come, and any trail up the slope would leave them fully exposed to view. The boy was fleeing in the only direction left to them, into the woods.

For a moment she hesitated; so did the dog. Nervously, Bear glanced at his departing master, then looked at Maura as if to say What are you waiting for? If I follow the boy, she thought, I could be running away from my own rescuers. Am I so thoroughly brainwashed that I’d willingly stick with my kidnapper?

What if the boy is right? What if Death is coming down that road for me?

Bear suddenly took off running after his master.

That was what made her finally choose. When even a dog had the sense to flee, she knew it was time to follow.

She chased after them, her snowshoes clacking across the frozen mud. Beyond the last burned house, the mud gave way to deep snow again. Rat was far ahead and moving into the woods. She labored to catch up, already out of breath as she frantically kicked up powder. Just as she reached the trees, she heard the sound of a dog barking. A different dog, not Bear. She ducked behind a pine and looked back at Kingdom Come.

A black SUV pulled to a stop among the ruins, and a large dog jumped out. Two men emerged, carrying rifles, and they stood scanning the burned village. Although they were too far away for Maura to make out their faces, they clearly seemed to be searching for something.

A paw suddenly landed on her back. With a gasp, she turned and came face-to-face with Bear, his pink tongue lolling out.

“Now do you believe me?” whispered Rat, who was crouched right behind her.

“They could be hunters.”

“I know dogs. That’s a bloodhound they got there.”

One of the men reached into the SUV and pulled out a satchel. Crouching beside the hound, he let it sniff the contents.

“He’s giving it the scent,” said Rat.

“Who are they tracking?”

The hound was moving now, wandering among the ruins, nose to the ground. But the smell of the fire seemed to confuse it, and it paused beside the blackened timbers where Maura and Julian had earlier lingered. As the men waited, the dog circled, trying to catch a whiff of its quarry while the two men fanned out, searching the area.

“Hey,” one man yelled, and pointed to the ground. “Snowshoe prints!”

“They’ve spotted our tracks,” said Rat. “Don’t need a dog to find us now.” He backed away. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

He was already moving deeper into the woods, not looking back to see whether she was behind him, not caring that his snowshoes were clattering through underbrush. The hound began baying, pulling in their direction.

Maura chased after the boy. He moved like a panicked deer, shoving through branches, scattering snow in his wake. She could hear the men in pursuit behind them, shouting to each other, and the bloodhound’s excited howling. But even as she scrambled through the woods, the debate still raged in her head. Am I running from my own rescuers?

The rifle shot answered her question. A chunk of wood exploded off the tree near her head, and she heard the bloodhound baying closer. Terror blasted new energy into her bloodstream. Suddenly her muscles were pumping wildly, legs thrashing ahead through the woods.

Another rifle shot exploded. Another chunk of bark splintered off a tree. Then she heard a curse, and the next shot went wild.

“Fucking snow!” one of the men yelled. Without snowshoes, they were sinking, mired in the drifts.

“Let the dog loose! He’ll bring her down!”

“Go, boy. Get her.”

Fresh panic sent Maura plunging ahead, but she could hear the bloodhound gaining on her. On snowshoes, she could outpace her human pursuers, but she could not outrun a dog. In desperation, she scanned the trees for a glimpse of Rat. How had he gotten so far ahead? She was on her own now, isolated prey, and the hound was closing in. The snowshoes made her clumsy, and the undergrowth was too thick here, clawing at the frames.

Ahead, she saw a break in the trees.

She burst through a tangle of branches, into a broad clearing. In a glance she took in the skeletal beams of three new houses, frozen in mid-construction. At the far edge of the clearing, an excavator was parked, its cab almost buried beneath snow. Beside it stood Rat, frantically waving at her.

She started toward him. But halfway across, she knew she would not outrun the bloodhound. She heard it crash through the underbrush behind her. It landed like an anvil against her shoulders and she pitched forward. She put out her hands to break her fall and her arms sank in elbow-deep snow. As she landed, she heard a strangely metallic clunk beneath her, felt something slice right through her glove and into her hand. Sputtering, her face coated in icy powder, she struggled to push herself up, but debris shifted away beneath her weight, and she floundered, as helpless as if trapped in quicksand.

The bloodhound wheeled around and leaped at her again. Weakly she raised an arm to protect her throat and waited to feel teeth sink into her flesh.

A flash of gray suddenly soared past, and Bear collided in midair with the bloodhound. The yelp was as startling as a human shriek. The two dogs thrashed and rolled, ripping at fur, their growls so savage that Maura could only huddle in terror. Red spatters stained the snow, shockingly bright. The hound tried to pull away, but Bear gave him no chance to retreat, and again dove straight at him. Both dogs tumbled, plowing a blood-smeared trench through the snow.

“Bear, stop!” commanded Rat. He came into the clearing, clutching a branch, ready to swing it. But the bloodhound had had enough, and the instant Bear released him, the hound fled back toward the truck, crashing through underbrush in his panic to escape.

“You’re bleeding,” said Rat.

She tore off her soaked glove and stared at her lacerated palm. The slice was clean and deep, made by something razor-sharp. In the churned-up snow, she saw scraps of sheet metal and a jumble of dull gray canisters, dredged up by the dogs when they’d thrashed and rolled. All around her were snow-covered hummocks, and she realized she was kneeling in a field of construction debris. She looked down at her bleeding hand. Just the place to pick up tetanus.

A rifle blast jolted her straight. The men had not yet given up the chase.

Rat pulled her to her feet and they plunged back into the cover of woods. Though their tracks would be easy to follow, the men pursuing them would not be able to keep up in deep snow. Bear led the way, his bloodstained fur like a scarlet flag waving ahead of them as he trotted deeper into the valley. Blood continued to stream from Maura’s sliced palm, and she pressed her already saturated glove against the wound as she obsessed irrationally about bacteria and gangrene.

“Once we lose them,” said Rat, “we have to get back up the ridge.”

“They’ll track us back to your shelter.”

“We can’t stay there. We’ll pack as much food as we can carry and keep moving.”

“Who were those men?”

“I don’t know.”

“Were they from The Gathering?”

“I don’t know.”

“Goddamn it, Rat. What do you know?”

He glanced back at her. “How to stay alive.”

They were climbing now, moving steadily up the ridge, and every step was a labor. She did not know how he could cover ground so quickly.

“You have to get me to a telephone,” she said. “Let me call the police.”

“He owns them. They just do what he wants.”

“Are you talking about Jeremiah?”