Rebecca had set up a camping stove and was brewing coffee. Rebecca’s father had put on winter-print camouflaged hunting clothes too, and was wearing a blaze orange baseball cap.

“Hey Pop, you think that Quentin can make it back? Maybe we should get down to Sacramento on our own.”

“He’ll be back,” her father said. “I’ve known that boy since he was a kid. If Quentin says he’ll come back for you, you can put your last dollar on it.”

A monstrous loud crash came from the shop above them—glass being broken. It was much louder than anything they’d heard. Mr. Stewart turned down the TV and looked at his daughter. He walked to the bottom of the stairs and looked up at the door. It shook on its hinges as the Howlers tried to tear it down.

He didn’t want to show it, but he was terrified.

CHAPTER 17

Lieutenant Bell made small talk. It seemed like the only thing he could do. He told the girl about his parents’ place in Mississippi, near Tupelo, where he’d grown up. He described the town. He told her about summertime back home: the humidity, his parents’ nursery, the fact that all the men in his family had served in the military, going back to The Spanish American War. He talked to make himself feel better. He told the girl that he’d never been in the snow until he went on a Boy Scouts-sponsored trip to Colorado when he was fifteen.

The girl had listened to him, but not really been there with him. Bell could sense it as they drove down the two-lane country road. The road had been freshly plowed, as the Sheriff promised. The only time she spoke was to give him directions. “Turn here,” she’d said. And then she’d not said another word until the next time she told him, “Turn right here,” in the same flat tone of voice.

Each turn had produced a narrower country road. The one they were on now stretched straight as a black string in front of them. To their left and right was a seemingly endless pine forest, white-carpeted, the trees tall, old-growth pine. Here and there he could make out a summer cabin, set back in the woods. He had to remind himself that things weren’t as they appeared, that the world had been turned on its head. Staring down the road, he remembered the title of a rockabilly song his grandfather used to play on his old-school phonograph: “I Forgot To Remember To Forget.”

“You ever been down South?” Bell asked. His left side was hurting, but talking seemed to be the best medicine. He wanted to talk, and not think about all the horrible things he’d seen in the last twelve hours. Bell waited for an answer, but the girl didn’t speak. He turned and looked at her. “It’s different down there in winter. It doesn’t snow too much in Tupelo,” Bell said.

Still nothing from the girl.

He looked out on the road, listening to the pleasant sound of the Volkswagen’s engine. It was a sound he knew well; his mother had an old bug that his parents had had for years. It was the first car he’d ever driven.

The road was empty. They had seen no one at all since they’d pulled out of Timberline.

He turned to look at the girl. She was beautiful, even in profile. He thought she looked like Gwyneth Paltrow. Her hair was very blond, summertime-hay color, her complexion peaches and cream. Wish I’d met her before all this happened. He looked out on the road again. A deer, just a greyish specter a hundred yards in front of them, sprang from the right side and quickly disappeared into the forest. Bell glanced down at the fuel-tank gauge. It was full.

“You were lucky to gas up,” Bell said. “Is there a heater in this thing?”

“Yes.” It was the first time she’d answered a question since she’d gotten in the car. She reached forward and turned on the heater. Bell watched her fingers work the knob and felt a rush of warm air hit his boots.

“Thanks.”

“You’re bleeding,” Lacy said. “I have a friend nearby. I think we should stop in. He’s a vet, maybe he can help you.”

“Am I that ugly?” Bell said, trying to joke. He looked down at his wound. The bandages the medic at the base had wrapped him in were heavily stained and filthy. Newer bleeding stained the darker dried blood. The lieutenant saw she had almost smiled.

“Your dad said I should take you to this Phelps place,” Bell said.

“It’s up here, on the right. My friend’s place,” Lacy said. “Please.”

She turned and looked at him. It was a painful thing to see. She was trying to keep from crying. He could see her lips quivering and he felt as if he should stop the car, or reach out and take her hand; but he did neither, afraid he would do or say the wrong thing.

Lacy reached over and touched his arm. “Please?”

“Okay. Sure,” Bell said. He slowed the car down. They had been passing a painted-white fence for the last quarter-mile. Lacy faced the road again.

“It’s here. Up this driveway,” Lacy said.

Bell slowed the car. He reached behind him for the pistol. Quentin had given him his service automatic and two full clips; Bell had tossed the weapon and ammo onto the car’s backseat when they’d gotten into the VW. He brought the pistol up and laid it on his lap as they turned into the driveway and past a sign that said: “Veterinary Medicine. Dr. Robin Wood.”

Bell pulled the VW up a driveway to the front of a single-story ranch-style house from the ‘60s. An old blue Japanese pickup truck was parked next to a newer Prius in the carport. He turned off the engine and reached for the pistol in his lap. He had the idea that they hadn’t come because of his wound at all, but for some other reason. Some horses trotted over from a corral and hung their heads over the fence that faced the house. Bell saw the front door of the house open. A man about his age stood in the doorway.

Lacy got out of the car and walked toward the door. She was crying, and Bell brought the gun up in case the man in the door was one of them. But it was clear from the look on his face, and the length of his arms, that he was human. Bell watched the girl fall into the young man’s arms. Seeing how he held her, Bell understood why they’d stopped here: she had a boyfriend and she’d wanted to be with him.

He got out of the car and noticed the bloodstain he’d left on the driver’s seat. He felt light-headed and held onto the roof of the car as he climbed out. He hesitated as the couple in the doorway embraced. He looked away, out to where the horses had been standing in the big corral. The horses had moved into the field, and were galloping for no good reason.

He watched them and thought of the sergeant. It was silly, but he wanted to talk to Sergeant Whitney again. He wanted to tell him what had happened to the world in just a few short hours, tell him that the world had been turned on its head since they’d landed in that field. No one had warned them when they’d gotten into their helicopter that morning, fresh from a good night’s sleep, full of breakfast and bravado, that nothing would be the same for either one of them—ever. But he would never have that conversation. He put the pistol in the big pocket of his flight suit and walked slowly toward the front door, which had been left open for him.

As he got near the door he could hear Lacy crying. It was sounded very loud and her tone was that of a child who had been hurt. It was awful. For the first time in his life, he thought of suicide. The idea of it welled up from some deep ugly pit. It was this new reality, where nature itself had become perverted and hostile, that was too much to take. It was as if the world hated him, specifically, hated the sergeant, hated everyone.