He didn’t finish the sentence; the blast was clearly audible despite the intervening seven-block distance.

In fact, it was very loud indeed, loud enough to rattle windows and echo from the surrounding houses.

Buckley’s head whipped around, and he stared in the direction of the explosion. “Son of a bitch!” he said. “You fucking maniac, what if there were innocent people around? Where was it?” He looked for some sign of what had happened, and wasn’t sure if he could make out a waver in the air that might be heat or smoke – or might just be more of the thick summer haze in the air.

“Apartment C14,” Smith replied calmly. “About a hundred gallons of gasoline, a hundred pounds of flour scattered around or balanced on the printer, some cotton waste, and all the other combustibles I could find. And there’s gas in some of the other basements, too. Took me all night to set it up.”

“Shit!” Buckley slid into the car and slammed the door; Smith removed his elbow from the car’s roof.

As he watched Buckley drive away, Smith asked Khalil, “Shall we go watch?”

In the east, hidden by the haze, the moon was full and round.

3.

It was a very satisfactory blaze as far as it went, Smith thought. The blast had blown out solid concrete walls. Most of C Building had caved in, as he had hoped, and any nightmare people who had been in there were not going to be out roaming around tonight as if nothing had happened.

He supposed that they could slip out easily enough, but not with their disguises intact. By the time they tracked down new victims for their skins, would they have time to find new ones for their larvae, as well?

He frowned. Or might they plant the larvae first?

Not if anyone saw them coming, of course, and without their disguises that meant they could only attack sleeping victims.

And who, around here, would be asleep, with all this going on?

How far could they get, without intact skins, with cops and firemen and onlookers on all sides?

And the fire had spread quickly; D Building was ablaze from roof to basement.

Unfortunately, A and B buildings hadn’t caught. He had stashed open cans of gasoline around empty apartments in both of them, the apartments that had been occupied by the nightmare people he and his comrades had destroyed; he had hoped that a spark would carry, but he hadn’t managed to rig anything more definite.

Blinking against the heat and glare he crept across the parking lot, unnoticed by anything human – all eyes seemed to be on the burning buildings.

But of course, there were eyes present that weren’t human at all.

He tried to move casually, and stepped down onto the little patio of apartment B11 as if he were just trying to get a better view.

He had the crowbar under his shirt, Sandy Niklasen’s cigarette lighter in one pocket of his shorts, Khalil’s switchblade in another. He didn’t expect to need the crowbar or the knife; this apartment, occupied until three days before, was one he had broken into that morning and hidden gasoline in.

He reached the door and tugged at it.

It didn’t move.

Startled, he pulled harder.

It still didn’t move.

He looked in through the glass and saw that someone had wedged it shut with a piece of one-by-two.

“Shit,” he muttered. He pulled up his shirt and pulled the crowbar up out of the waistband of his shorts. Then he glanced around, to see if anyone was watching.

Someone was. A familiar face was hanging down over the edge of the balcony overhead.

“Howdy, Mr. Smith,” said the thing that had replaced Nora Hagarty.

He froze, and stood staring at it.

He didn’t have his carving knife. The switchblade was in his back pocket, on the right, and his right hand held the crowbar.

Besides, the chances were that the thing wasn’t alone.

He remembered that Nora Hagarty’s apartment was B22, but the one directly above him now would be B21 – that meant the creature was visiting.

It wouldn’t be alone.

And this was the night of the full moon. If the thing reached him now, and got its larva down his throat, it would take him two weeks to die.

What he had seen happen to Elias was hideous, but at least it was fairly quick; if this one got him now, on this one particular night, the same thing would happen in slow motion.

Two weeks, it would take.

Two weeks.

Another figure, man-shaped, leaned around the corner of the entryway; he couldn’t see its face, just a black outline against the roaring inferno that had been C Building, but when it smiled, a stray reflection from the glass door behind him showed him shining needle teeth gleaming orange in the firelight. And the thing that had Nora Hagarty’s face was doing something the real Nora Hagarty would never have attempted, swinging itself down over the balcony railing, ape-like, preparing to drop down to the patio below.

He turned back to the door and swung the crowbar with all his strength.

The glass snapped, and a spiderweb of cracks appeared, but it didn’t shatter.

“Fucking safety glass,” he muttered, and swung again.

A soft plop behind him told him that the Hagarty thing was down. He didn’t look back.

The glass shattered this time; he kicked his way through and into B11.

Red eyes gleamed at him from the hallway, and a smile reflected firelight from silver teeth.

“Oh, shit.” He ran for the doorway of the apartment; even as he did, it opened, and another figure stood there.

The gasoline. Where had he put the gas in this one?

In the bedroom; he had poured half a can on the bed, then closed the door, hoping that it wouldn’t all evaporate away. The other half-gallon he had stood in the closet with the cap loose.

In the bedroom – at the other end of the hallway.

There were two of them behind him, coming in through the shattered glass door, and one standing in the hallway smirking, and another in the door to the stairwell, and that just left the kitchen.

He ran for it, and made it – but so what?

The kitchen was just a walk-through, with counter and cabinets on one side and appliances on the other, and open at each end – one to the dining area, one to the hallway. And at the hallway end the nightmare creature was already waiting, smiling at him.

He snatched at the cabinets, pulling them open, and found what he wanted – a quart bottle of cooking oil. He pulled it out, opened it, and poured half of it on the floor.

The creature’s smile vanished, to be replaced by puzzlement.

Smith pulled out Sandy’s lighter, knelt, and flicked the wheel, then touched the flame to the pool of oil.

It took longer to catch than he had expected, but when it did it flared up quite satisfactorily; he lost most of the hair off one forearm, and tumbled over backwards, away from the flames.

The nightmare people, two at each end of the kitchen, frowned at him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” one of them asked.

“Trying to get a fire going,” Smith told it. “If I’m going to die, I don’t want to leave enough skin on the four of you to do you any good.”

Only when he said that did he realize that that really was his plan, that he didn’t know of any way he might survive.

He realized he was sprawled on the floor next to the burning oil, and he got to his feet.

The front of one of the floor cabinets seemed to be catching; he splashed more oil at it. Then he pulled down a canister and spilled flour onto the flames.

It roared up, and he backed away, almost into the hands of the two at the near end.

“Get some wet towels from the bathroom!” one of them called.

One of the two in the hallway vanished, presumably to fetch towels.

Inspired, Smith yanked out the end of the roll of paper towels from the wall beside the sink, feeding it into the flames; the fire raced up the streamer, leaving fluttering black cinders drifting in the air en route, and settled onto the roll itself.