Nate Carver woke, heart racing. He snorted, sucking air into his lungs, then rolled off the bed and down onto the soft and impractical shag-pile carpet.
Laying on his back as he fought to calm his breathing, he squinted to focus on the dim slivers of moonlight above him, swallowing time and time again, like he was forcing razors down a parched throat.
Status report.
Nighttime. Either early or late, judging by the gray light leaking in past the bedroom drapes.
And someone is here.
Someone or something.
Terror squeezed his heart as the cogs of his mind began turning. Remembering. The nightmare was real.
He reached into the space beneath the bed and found the baseball bat. His fingers wrapped around the handle, and Ravi’s smiling face emerged out of memory as the publicist handed over the keys to the apartment. Sure, this was an upmarket place in Evanston, Chicago, but you never could be too careful, Ravi had said. Hence the bat. Nate swept the memory away as he rolled over and got to his feet, reluctant as a rusty Tin Man.
Ravi was dead, along with almost everyone Nate knew.
Two weeks ago, the enemy came.
And now they were in his apartment. They, or the remnants of humanity that scavenged like rats in the wreckage.
His legs shook as he moved toward the door. How long had he been out for? What did he remember?
Taking his meds, then handing the bottle to Sophie.
Sophie.
Where was she?
He raised the bat and pulled the door open, rushing forward, swinging, into the half-familiar living room. He’d only lived here a few weeks; two of those since the world ended.
A flashlight snapped around, blinding him.
Voices. Human voices. Thank God. Young voices.
“Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?” he yelled, even as he strode forward, terror giving way to anger. If they were going to shoot him, they’d have done it already.
One flashlight, at least two people. They were in the kitchen, and the light darted back and forth as they stuffed whatever they’d stolen into a bag and ran for the door.
Nate, legs stiff and robotic, reached out for the flashlight, grabbing a handful of hoodie as the burglar screamed, tearing away from his grip.
Beyond, he could sense, more than see, the open front door and the dark apartment landing beyond.
How had they gotten in? He’d locked and bolted the door with care every night.
No time for questions, right now.
“Get out of here!” he bellowed, swinging the bat without trying to connect. They were burglars, sure, but they were also kids.
Pounding sneakers, a rush of wind and they were gone.
He slammed the door behind them and stood for a moment, head bowed as he waited for his heart to stop pounding. He glanced up at the poster he’d been leaning against. A young Nate Carver looked back at him, dressed in trademark oversized black leather jacket, face smoothed by makeup. Young, but not exactly innocent, even back then.
Sophie.
He stumbled toward her room.
Sophie, the daughter he hadn’t known existed three weeks ago.
Sophie, his constant companion since the world ended. The only thing in the world he cared about now.
He opened her door, straining to see anything in the blackness beyond. Then he stopped, turned back and felt around until he found the candle on the bookshelf outside and then the precious box of matches.
Screwing his eyes half closed against the sudden brilliance, he lit the candle, as the flame seethed in a fog of steam. Jesus, it was cold.
Then he leaned the bat against the wall and went inside the room.
“Soph? You here?”
Nothing.
And her bed was empty.
Panic rose, thickening his throat as he fell to his knees and brought the candle down. Was she under here? No, just shadows and storage boxes.
It only took seconds to check the rest of the apartment.
Where could she be?
Then he gasped and looked down at the hand that had grabbed at the burglar.
Had that been her?
Could it have been?
But why?
He stood in the living room, candle sweeping left and right as if she might emerge from the shadows.
She wasn’t here.
But he wasn’t alone.
They were here.
Terror suffocated him as he stood like a rabbit in the headlamps.
The baseball bat was still leaning against the wall outside Sophie’s bedroom. Not that it would have done much good, but he’d decided that, when they came for him, he’d face them swinging.
But it was aware of him, aware he’d noticed it. As soon as he moved to get the bat, it would attack.
He kept his eyes on the shadows beneath the counter-top and tried, desperately, to calm his thoughts.
That’s how they found you. A panicked mind was like a hilltop beacon to them. Breathe in — two, three, four — out. In — two, three, four — out.
He was invisible on a calm sea.
As he edged his way backwards, he forced down the horrors he’d seen these past weeks, pushed them out of his mind. Bodies torn apart and consumed. And the worst, the very worst, those who’d lost their minds. Ignored by the creatures and left to starve to death or attack other survivors. And now Sophie was out there. And he was in here. With one of them.
Breathe!
He couldn’t help her if he was dead.
Edging back, he put out his hand without taking his eyes away from where he knew the thing to be, fingers groping for the bat.
He sensed it moving out from beneath the counter. A darkness within the shadows, getting ready to strike.
There. Finally, his fingers wrapped around the bat’s handle.
It moved toward him, a shimmer in the dark, a ripple in the fabric of space.
Now.
He yanked the bat and swung double-handed as it came for him, weapon whistling through empty air.
In his terrified mind, he saw jagged teeth puncturing his flesh, even as he felt the thing’s weight, saw the blood pouring down his arm. Reflexively, he tried to fling it away, roaring in pain and fear as, with his other arm, he tried to rip it from him.
It felt like wet, clammy nothingness, and its teeth sank in deeper as it gripped tighter. Agony.
The candle lay where he’d left it and, in desperation, he reached for it, bringing it up to see the unseeable. But the brighter the light, the less it illuminated. The ripple had gone and only the pain and weight told him he was locked in a mortal battle with a barely visible, demonic creature.
He stabbed the darkness with the candle flame, bringing it so close he could feel the heat on his blood-soaked hand.
And then a stab of unbearable pain, a hideous shriek, and the weight vanished. His arm was free.
He waved the candle around where it must have hit the floor but found nothing. Nate stood up, eyes searching the darkness, head moving left and right, seeking any tell-tale ripple. When you hurt them, their camouflage failed. He’d heard that. So, where was it?
Not on the floor.
Something landed on his back, sharp claws rending through his t-shirt as he roared in pain. He was a fool. Always look up. He knew that, but he’d forgotten, and he called out as the thing sliced through the skin of his back.
He staggered, dropping the bat and clutching at his back, but finding nothing he could get a grip of.
Then, as he fell backward, his heel tripped on a pair of boots, and he lost his footing. His arms went out, and he toppled to the ground. His head hit something hard and heavy on the way down and blackness took him.