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puddle of blood.
    “Oh God,” Meredith whispered.
    Despite her concern, Meredith had no time for hesitation. She heard another enormous crash behind her—probably Ben hitting the first floor landing—and darted through the kitchen and out the open back door.
    At the rear of the property was an enormous field. At one time it had been used for growing crops, but with Sheila’s husband deceased, it had succumbed to overgrowth. To Meredith’s right, fifty feet away, was a barn.
    She darted forth without hesitation, her feet pummeling the earth. Although she didn’t dare turn around, she could sense Ben’s presence behind her. The hissing had increased in volume and his footfalls thudded against the grass.
    The sun blazed overhead, illuminating the field in a golden film. Meredith squinted from the glare. There was still no sign of Sheila. Her hope was that the woman had made it to the barn; that she was waiting for her.
    When she was twenty feet from the barn doors, she noticed that they were hanging open. Had Sheila left them ajar? Was the woman in there, bleeding and injured?
    Her mind scrambled for answers while her feet traipsed the ground.
    She’d almost reached the entrance when she felt something brush the back of her neck. Startled, she tried to pick up speed, but she was too late.
    Ben had caught up, and he grabbed ahold of her shirt and flung her to the ground. Meredith pitched forward and onto the dirt, landing on the rifle. The blow knocked the wind out of her, and she struggled to roll over.
    Ben was latching on to her legs. She kicked behind her, striking Ben in the face. His grasp relented, and she grabbed hold of the rifle underneath her.
    This time she was able to turn around.
    She rolled onto her back, propped the gun in front of her, and took sight of her attacker. Ben was still advancing, even though it looked like she’d broken his nose. The same substance that had bled from his arm now erupted from his face, and his eyes glowed a milky white.
    Despite his injuries, he showed no signs of slowing down. He wasn’t going to stop until she was dead.
    Meredith pulled the trigger, watching the top of his head explode.
    His eyes rolled backward, his body crumpled, and Ben fell onto his face.
    She stared at him for another minute—this man that had once been her neighbor and friend—and felt a sob rise up in her throat.
    How would she explain this to the man’s wife? How would she go on living after what she’d done?
    Tears sprung to her eyes, and she dropped the rifle in the grass. She’d just killed her neighbor. She was a murderer.
    But he wasn’t Ben anymore.
    Meredith stared at the top of his head, at his pallid, gray arms, and tried to convince herself that she’d done the right thing. Before she could come to any resolution, she heard a commotion coming from the barn.
    Sheila.
    It wasn’t over yet. The woman needed her help. She forced herself to her feet.
    Muffled cries wafted from the barn, and she heard a series of scuffs and bangs. From the sounds of it Sheila was in trouble. Meredith retrieved the rifle and dashed the ten feet to the doors, then kicked them open with her foot.
    Her stomach instantly dropped.
    Lying on her back, stomach torn open, was Sheila Guthright. Sitting on top of her was Ben’s wife Marcy.

6
    “M arcy! Get the hell off of her!” Meredith shouted.
    The woman that had once been Marcy snarled, her hands wrapped around the old woman’s intestines.
    “Now!”
    Meredith aimed the gun, her finger on the trigger. Her face was wet with tears, and she fought to control her emotions. In just a few minutes, she’d been forced to kill one of her closest neighbors.
    And now she was poised to kill another.
    Marcy hissed at her, holding up her blood-laced fingers as if to taunt Meredith. She lowered her hands back to Sheila’s stomach, ready to continue her parade of gore, but before she could, Meredith fired.
    The gunshot echoed through the barn.
    Marcy fell sideways,