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Two of the hatchlings leaped, scrambling up the truck’s right side. Shoot them, or save the rounds?

Paulius jammed his pistol into its holster, then yanked the fire axe from its bracket. The first hatchling scurried over the stacked hoses. Paulius swung the axe like a baseball bat — the red blade sliced through the pyramid-shaped body, sending the top part flying over the truck’s side. The thing collapsed, spilling purple goo across the hose.

The other hatchling leaped. Paulius didn’t have time for a second swing. He brought the axe in front of him, rear point facing out. The hatchling couldn’t change direction in mid-air: it impaled itself on the spike.

He shook the twitching thing from the axe, heard a gunshot from inside the cabin: Bosh shooting at someone who’d closed in and tried to yank open the driver’s door.

Paulius felt something heavy land on the truck, dropping the bed down a few inches before the shocks lifted it back up. There, on the rear b.u.mper, only his big head and gnarled hands visible, stood a yellow monster. Its hands reached into the bed, the long bone-knives jutting from the back of its arms. Muscles flexed as it started to crawl forward.

Paulius dropped the axe and once again drew his P226.

The creature looked up at him. Thick lips curled back from too-long, too-wide teeth. Yellow lids narrowed — even over the truck’s engine, Paulius heard a deep growl.

He squeezed the trigger. The 9-millimeter round hit dead-center in the creature’s forehead. A cloud of blood and brains puffed out the back of its skull. The muscle-monster fell back, crashed onto the pavement and tumbled forward.

Paulius realized the Converted had stopped firing while the monster tried to get in, because as soon as it fell away bullets started hitting all around him, punching into the equipment boxes, kicking up flakes of red paint. He dropped and crawled across the hoses toward the cabin, desperate for whatever cover he could find.

Bosh’s voice in his ear: “Hold on, Commander! Turning right on Rush, and there’s a lot more cars here!”

Paulius pressed his back against the cabin wall, and held on tight as the twenty-one-ton vehicle smashed past yet another obstacle.

THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM

Cooper Mitch.e.l.l wasn’t sure if he should hope. If he believed he might escape, would that jinx it? What if he wound up with a signpost rammed through his a.s.s and out his mouth?

He hid behind a rack of pantsuits on the first floor of Barneys, not even fifteen feet from the front door. The SEALs had to get him out. They just had to; all this couldn’t be for nothing.

The weird thing about a city with no traffic was the sense of stillness, the quiet. If he closed his eyes, he could have been in the woods of Michigan, save for the occasional roar of a bloodthirsty monster. That lack of sound let things carry through the streets — he heard distant gunshots, powerful crashes of metal hitting metal, and the growing-closer sound of a gurgling diesel engine.

Was that Klimas? Had he really pulled it off?

Tim came down the stairs, cell phone pressed to his ear.