“Are you feeling okay, Sandy?” Smith asked.

“Sure,” Sandy said, “I’m fine.”

Smith’s uneasiness was not allayed.

Sandy had been bitten by the things twice – or actually, by the same one twice, in two separate fights, once on the hand and once inside his mouth. In the discussion after they had killed the creature, Sandy had said it felt as if it had sunk a row of huge needles into the bottom of his mouth, in the soft part just below the gums; the three men had theorized that the things had extensible fangs that gave them a firm grip on their victims while they did whatever it was they did that allowed them to eat their way in.

Did they have some sort of venom, perhaps? Was Sandy poisoned?

Or worse?

Smith was still in the kitchen; he glanced around casually.

Annie was stirring the pot of vegetables on the stove, paying no attention to her guests just now. To her left was the refrigerator, to her right the countertop and double sink. To the right of the sink was what he wanted – a rack of carving knives.

“’Scuse me a minute,” he said to Sandy.

He strolled around the kitchen table the long way, to the counter by the sink.

“Can I help you with anything, Ms. McGowan?” he asked.

She looked up. “Oh, no, I’m doing fine, thanks. You fellows make your plans.”

“All right. Thanks.” He strolled back, and casually pulled a knife from the rack as he walked past.

It was a good knife, a bread knife with a walnut handle and a serrated stainless steel blade.

Sandy and Khalil had gone on into the living room. Sandy had settled on the couch, while Khalil stood by the window, looking out at the garden. The sky was clouding over, Smith noticed. He held the knife casually in one hand, as if he had forgotten it was there.

“How’s your hand, Sandy?” he asked.

“My hand? It’s fine,” Sandy said.

“Let’s see,” Smith said.

“Hey, it’s fine, so fuck off, okay?”

That was almost the first thing Sandy had said this evening that was in character, but by now Smith was seriously worried.

“Khalil,” he said.

Khalil looked at him, then looked at Sandy, sitting on the couch. He tensed.

Smith lifted the knife.

“Let’s see the hand, Sandy,” he said.

“Hey, fuck yourself, Smith, my hand’s fine!”

“Then let me see it, Sandy. What’s the big deal?”

“What’s that knife for, asshole? That’s the big deal. You gone nuts, planning to cut off my fingers?”

Sandy’s attention was focused on Smith and the bread knife; he was caught by surprise when Khalil grabbed his arm and lifted it.

“The scars are there,” Khalil reported.

“Just scars?” Smith asked.

Khalil nodded.

“Hey, I told you it was fine!” Sandy insisted. “Christ, so I heal fast. What the hell is wrong with you, anyway, Smith?”

“Hold him still,” Smith said, approaching carefully, the knife raised.

Khalil looked very worried, but he held the arm where it was.

“Khalil, look,” Smith said. He reached out, wincing, and pricked the middle finger of his own left hand on the tip of the knife.

A red drop of blood appeared and dribbled down the blade.

Khalil nodded, and his worried look faded somewhat. He turned his full attention to Sandy.

Smith hesitated. It was Sandy who had him worried, but what if Khalil, too, was tainted?

He had to risk it.

“Now you, Sandy,” he said. “Just a drop of blood.” He wiped the knife on his shirt – the garment was already hopelessly damaged and dirty – and took another step toward Sandy.

Sandy suddenly began struggling, and Khalil forced him back down, shifted his hold. The two wrestled briefly, and although Sandy was the larger man, when it was over Khalil had Sandy in a full Nelson.

Smith took Sandy’s hand and pricked the finger.

No blood appeared.

He pressed harder.

Sandy struggled again, but no blood came.

Smith shifted his aim, and drew a cut down Sandy’s upper arm.

The knife left a white line; no red.

Smith cut more deeply, and the skin parted to reveal ropy grey flesh beneath. Khalil stared.

Smith stepped back. He glanced uneasily at Khalil, but then focused on Sandy once again.

“We know how to kill you,” he said. “And we should kill you. You murdered our friend, the man whose skin you’re wearing.”

The Sandy thing just stared at him.

Smith needed time to think of what to do next. He couldn’t bring himself to just fling himself on the thing, cut open its chest and eat its heart out, here on Annie McGowan’s couch.

At least, not yet.

“Ms. McGowan,” he called, never taking his eyes off the creature, “Could you come in here, please? And bring a sharp knife, a paring knife would be fine.”

Annie answered, “What?”

Smith repeated his instructions, and added, “And lock the front door on your way, please.”

A moment later he heard her bustling into the room behind him. He didn’t turn.

“Give the knife to Khalil,” he said.

Clearly puzzled, Annie obeyed.

Khalil accepted the knife uncertainly.

“Let me see your blood,” Smith said. He leaned forward so that the tip of the bread knife was resting lightly on the false Sandy’s chest.

Comprehension dawned; Khalil loosened his hold on the creature enough that he could use the knife to prick his finger.

Blood welled up immediately, thick, red, human blood.

Smith relaxed.

“Forgive me,” Khalil said, “but Mrs. McGowan?” He made a small questioning gesture.

That had not occurred to Smith. He nodded. “Ms. McGowan,” he said, “I’m sorry to have to ask this, but could you draw a little blood for us? It seems to be the surest way to be certain you’re… well, still you.”

She blinked. “I’m not sure I understand what’s going on here,” she said, but she took the knife Khalil offered her, and cut across the base of her thumb.

Blood flowed freely, red and shining.

“Thank you,” Smith said. “So it’s just Sandy.”

“Here,” Khalil said.

Smith stared at him. “What?”

“It is just Sandy of the four of us here. We don’t know about elsewhere.”

Smith nodded; Khalil was right; Maggie had gone home, and the nightmare people might have gotten her there.

There was nothing they could do about it right now, though. Not if it was already too late.

But if there was still time…

“Ms. McGowan,” he said, “Would you please phone Maggie, and warn her that the nightmare people have been active again? If she can, I think she should stay with other people at all times, and to stay awake, and it might be wise to stay in well-lit places. If she wants to come here, that would be fine, but not alone – someone should walk with her.”

“All right,” Annie said. She looked at the false Sandy, at the knife at his chest, and hurried to the kitchen.

3.

“Now,” Smith said to the imitation Sandy Niklasen, “What are we going to do with you?”

The creature didn’t reply. It watched Smith warily.

“You probably think,” Smith told it, “that we’re going to kill you, that we’re going to cut you open and eat your stinking black heart. And you may be right. On the other hand…”

He paused for dramatic effect, but the thing just stared at him. It still looked exactly like Sandy; except for the cut on its arm, its disguise was perfect.

“On the other hand,” Smith said, “If you tell us everything we want to know about your kind, maybe we can make a deal – you leave us alone, we let you go. What do you think, hey?” Khalil, where the thing couldn’t see him, shook his head angrily.

“I think you guys are nuts,” it said. “You think I’m one of them? Hey, I’m Sandy Niklasen; I helped you kill one of them last night!”

Smith shook his head. “No,” he said, “You aren’t. Sandy’s dead. You ate him, and now you’re wearing his skin. We know it, and you know it, and there’s no point in denying it.” He flicked the knife aside for an instant to point at the exposed flesh of the thing’s arm, then quickly pressed the tip back against its chest, a little harder than before.