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dull steel butcher knife. When I headed back to the stairwell, I looked into the living room, and saw a stream of blood flowing from around the bar. The blood went past my feet. Such a dark red.
    Now I went towards the bar. Curiosity drew me. Perplexed. The dog’s nuzzle pointed from around the bar, mouth slack. The fur glowed dark red, matted down with blood. The tongue, thick and swollen, lay splattered over the bloody tile. The knife held rigid in my hands. Then the dog’s head pulled back a moment, then returned to where it was. The fur had a dent where its head had been resting. Now the angle was different. I peered over the counter. A teen from across the street wore nothing but shorts, and had three ragged slashes down his mottled back. Hair drenched with sweat and blood dangled down his scalp. I let out a muffled cough. The head snapped up. Flesh, fur, meat and muscle hung from his jaws, blood dripping down his chin and running down his neck. Those sunken eyes stared at me as if in wonder, then the jaws opened in a gruesome screech. He straightened up and lunged at me; I backed away from the bar, but he fell over it. Bloody claws scraped at me as his legs kicked. I drew the knife out; he hollered at me, and I sunk the blade down into his neck, pressing down with force and feeling the flesh and tissue shear under the tip and blade of the dagger; blood squirted all over my shirt. He twitched once, then lay still. Blood gushed up and around the knife. I let it there and collapsed onto the couch, breathing so hard I felt my lungs would burst. The Anthony Barnhart
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    blood smeared all over my hands and shirt when I found the stupidity to try and wipe it off.
    Sunlight from the window caressed my face. It was broken, a gaping hole looking into the room. Glass shards covered the floor, glittering like jewels in the morning light. A fine wind breathed in, and I welcomed it. The street was deserted. I saw a man run down the sidewalk, obviously in fright. But he was not chased. Why was he running? Then I knew. We all had to run. No one was safe. Hartford was a nightmare. It succumbed. And I had a thought, a fear, a revelation: we will succumb, too.
    All of us.

    9:00 a.m.

    Chris King no more
    Dead are not dead
    What happened to Hannah’s brother

    So I went back upstairs. What else to do? I didn’t feel like waiting for death by the broken window. The door was locked. I felt fear ripple through them when I jiggled the door-knob. They got the message when I knocked and let me inside. Hannah looked at me. “Did you change your mind?” Then she saw the blood spattered over my clothes, her hand flashed up over her mouth, and she fell back against Les. Les just gaped at me in shock. Hannah turned and dropped back to the bed, and started to cry again. Hands folded over her head, tears dripped between tender fingers.
    “What in the name of everything sacred happened?” Les mouthed, jaw dropping as if all the muscles suddenly popped loose. My breath still came in ragged breaths. The blood was warm on my hands.
    “You were right. There was someone out there.” My own voice surprised me—
    my soul was churning, mind screaming, and all that came was a detached drone. Les nodded. “Is the person still there?”
    Shook my head. “No.”
    “Do you want some water?”
    “Yeah.” I allowed myself into the bathroom, ran water over my hands. The light above me bobbed. Surprising, with all the accidents and fires and mayhem, the electricity was still running. Then I remembered that Spring Fal s was Anthony Barnhart
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    hooked onto a back-up electricity generator. It had a couple of hours of electricity stored on it, so we had… I looked at my watch. Only about another two hours and the electricity would short out. By noon, we’d be without power. And night. I pushed it from my mind. Didn’t want to worry about that. My stomach growled, and bladder cried. I relieved myself. Knock knock on the door. Les.