“Want to think about getting off me, handsome?” the admirably padded lady herself asked, sounding breathless. “I mean, if it wouldn’t discommode you any?”

Brad crawled off them both, collapsed in a heap, then rolled over on his back. He looked up at alien stars, swollen things that blinked on and off like the Christmas lights they strung over small-town Main Streets every year on the day after Thanksgiving. What he was looking at were no more real stars than he was the King of Prussia… but they were up there, just the same. Yes they were, right over his head, and how bad was your situation when the sky itself was part of the damned conspiracy?

Brad closed his eyes so he wouldn’t look at them anymore. In his mind’s eye-the one that opened widest when the other two closed-he saw Gary Ripton tossing him his Shopper. Saw his own hand, the one not holding the hose, go up and catch it. Good one, Mr Josephson! Gary called, honestly admiring. It came from far away, that voice, like something echoing down a canyon. Closer by, he heard howls from the greenbelt side of the fence (except now it was the desertbelt). These were followed by a series of hard thuds as the boar-coyotes threw themselves at it.

Christ.

“Brad,” Johnny said. Low voice, leaning over him, from the sound.

“What.”

“You all right?”

“Fine as paint.” Still not opening his eyes.

“Brad.”

“What!”

“I had an idea. For a movie.”

“You’re a maniac, John.” Eyes still shut. Things were better that way. “But I’ll bite. What’s it going to be called, this movie I can be in?”

“Black Men Can’t Climb Fences,” Johnny said, and began laughing wildly. It had an exhausted, half-crazy sound to it. I’m gonna get Mario Fucking Van Peebles to direct. Larry Fishburne’s gonna play you.”

“Sure,” Brad said, sitting up painfully. “I love Larry Fishburne. Very intense. Offer him a million up front. Who could resist?”

“Right, right,” Johnny agreed, now laughing so hard he could barely talk… only tears were streaming down his face, and Brad didn’t think they were tears of laughter. Not ten minutes ago, Cammie Reed had come within a hair of blowing his head off, and Brad doubted if Johnny had forgotten that. Brad doubted if Johnny forgot much of anything, in fact. It was probably a talent he would have traded, if given the opportunity.

Brad got on his feet, took Bee’s hand, and helped her up. There were more thuds at the fence, more howls, then gnawing sounds, as if the hungry abortions over there were trying to eat their way through the stakes.

“So what do you think?” Johnny asked, letting Brad help him up as well. He staggered, found his balance, wiped his streaming eyes.

“I think that when the chips were down, I climbed just fine,” Brad said. He slipped an arm around his wife, then looked at Johnny. “Come on, honky. You climbed to success over your first black man, you must be all tuckered out. Let’s get in the house.”

The thing which hopped unsteadily through the gate at the rear of Tom Billingsley’s backyard was a child’s version of the gila monster Jeb Murdock blows off a rock during his shooting contest with Candy about halfway through The Regulators. Its head, however, was that of an escapee from Jurassic Park.

It hopped up the back steps, slithered to the screen, and pushed at it with its snout. Nothing happened; the screen opened outward. The gila stretched its saurian head forward and began chomping at the bottom panel of the door with its teeth. Three bites was all it took, and then it was in Old Doc’s kitchen.

Gary Soderson became distantly aware of a rotten breeze blowing into his face. He tried to wave it away, but it only grew stronger. He raised one hand, touched something that felt like an alligator shoe-a very large alligator shoe-and opened his eyes. What he saw leaning over him at kissing distance, staring at him with a curiosity which was almost human, was so grotesque that he could not even scream. The lizard-thing’s eyes were bright orange.

Here it is, Gary thought, my first major attack of the dt’s. Ahoy, mateys, A.A. dead ahead.

He closed his eyes. He tried to tell himself that he didn’t smell swamp-breath or hear the toneless clickety-click of a tail dragging across kitchen linoleum. He held his dead wife’s cold hand. He said, “Nothing there. Nothing there. Noth-”

Before he could finish the third repetition (and everyone knows the third time’s the charm), the monster had plunged its teeth into his throat and torn it open.

Johnny saw small feet through the open pantry door and looked in. Ellie and Ralphie were lying in there on what looked like a futon, holding each other. They were fast asleep, gunshots from out back notwithstanding, but even in slumber they had not entirely escaped what was happening; their faces were white and strained, their breathing had a watery sound that made him think of stifled sobs, and Ralphie’s feet twitched, as if he dreamed of running.

Johnny guessed that Ellen must have found the futon and brought it into the pantry for herself and her little brother to lie on; certainly Kim Geller hadn’t done it. Kim and her daughter had resumed their former places by the wall, only now sitting in kitchen chairs instead of on the floor.

“Is Jim really dead?” Susi asked, looking at Johnny with wet, shiny eyes as Johnny came in behind Brad and Belinda. “I just can’t believe it, we were playing Frisbee like we always do, and we were going out to the movies tonight-”

Johnny was completely out of patience with her. “Why don’t you go out on the back porch and have a look for yourself?”

“Why are you being such a bastard?” Kim asked angrily. “My daughter may never get over serious trauma like this. She’s had a profound shock!”

“She’s not the only one,” Johnny said. “And while we’re at it-”

“Quit it, man, we don’t need to get fighting,” Steve Ames said.

Undoubtedly true, but Johnny no longer cared. He pointed a finger at Kim, who stared back at him along its length with hot, resentful eyes. “And while we’re at it, the next time you call Belinda Josephson a black bitch, I’ll knock your teeth down your throat.”

“Oh, gosh, don’t you think your shit comes out smoking,” Kim said, and rolled her eyes theatrically.

“Stop it, John,” Belinda said, and took his arm. “Right now. We’ve got more important things to-”

“Fat black bitch,” Kim Geller said. She didn’t look at Belinda as she said it but at Johnny. Her eyes were still burning, but now she was smiling. He thought it was the most poisonous smile he had ever seen in his life. “Fat black nigger bitch.” That said, she pointed her own finger at her mouth and visible teeth, like a woman trying to get suicide across in a game of charades. Her daughter was looking at her with a stunned expression. “Okay? Did you hear it? So come on. Knock my teeth down my throat. Let’s see you try.”

Johnny started forward, meaning to do just that. Brad grabbed one of his arms. Steve grabbed the other one.

“Get out of here, you idiot,” Old Doc said. His voice was harsh and dry. It got through to Kim, somehow, and she gave him a startled, considering look. “Get out of here right now.”

Kim rose from her chair, pulling Susi out of hers. For a moment it seemed they would go into the living room together, but then Susi pulled away. Kim reached for her, but Susi continued to back off.

What do you think you’re doing?” Kim asked. “We’re going into the living room! We’re going to get away from these-”

“Not me,” Susi said, shaking her head quickly. Tou, maybe. Not me. Uh-uh.”

Kim stared at her, then looked back at Johnny. Her face was sick with a kind of hateful confusion.