Page 102 of Death Valley

Then another appears. And another. Five, seven, a dozen emerging from the trees to form a loose semicircle around the cabin. Their pale skin gleams in the moonlight, eyes reflecting an eerie blue like animals caught in headlights.

“Jesus,” I breathe, counting more shapes as they materialize from the darkness. “There’s so many of them.”

I don’t know if I’m relieved or not that Lainey isn’t among them.

Then the semicircle parts, figures stepping aside to create a path. From the darkness of the forest, a new shape emerges, moving with deliberate purpose.

It steps into the moonlight, and my breath catches painfully in my throat.

The figure is male, though barely recognizable as human anymore. His skin has the same waxy pallor as the others, but there’s something different about him—something more controlled, more aware. He wears the tattered remains of what might once have been hiking gear, the fabric darkened with old stains. His blonde hair hangs long and matted around a face that’s both familiar and monstrously transformed.

“Adam,” I whisper, the name tearing from me before I can stop it. “That’s Adam. That’s Lainey’s boyfriend.”

As if he hears me through the walls, through the boards, through the howling void that separates human from monster, Adam’s head turns toward the window. His eyes, that same unnatural blue as the others but somehow more present, more aware, lock onto mine through the gap in the boards.

And he smiles.

Not the mindless snarl of the hungry ones, but a deliberate, almost gentle curving of lips that reveals too many teeth, too sharp, gleaming like polished bone in the moonlight.

“Motherfucker,” Jensen comments. “Sure is him, alright. I reckon he seems different than the others. More like Nate, less like Hank.”

He’s right. He seems to be in more control, less feral. “If Adam bit Lainey when he changed, maybe her blood, the McAlister blood, helped?” It’s the only explanation I can come up with.

Adam lifts one hand in an almost formal gesture, and the other hungry ones respond immediately—spreading out around the cabin, taking positions at every window, every potentialexit. They move with the coordinated precision of pack hunters, directed by Adam’s silent commands.

“That fucking seals the deal. He’s controlling them,” Jensen murmurs in disbelief.

Before I can respond, a sound draws my attention to the far side of the cabin—a rhythmic thumping, like something being repeatedly struck against the wall. It’s joined by another, then another, a percussive symphony of blows from all sides.

“They’re testing the defenses,” Jensen says, moving to check a different window. “Looking for weaknesses.”

A sharp crack splits the air—wood splintering as something impacts one of the boarded windows with tremendous force.

Then another crash, another board giving way under relentless assault.

“They’re breaking through!” I warn, already moving to reinforce the weakening barrier.

But it’s too late.

The board splinters entirely, and pale arms thrust through the opening—too many arms, multiplying in the confined space like some nightmarish hydra. Fingers like talons scrabble at the remaining defenses, tearing at wood with inhuman strength.

I fire my gun through the gap on pure instinct, the report deafening in the small cabin. One of the arms jerks back, dark fluid spraying from the wound, but it’s immediately replaced by others. More hands, more arms, reaching, grasping, tearing.

“Save your bullets!” Jensen is at my side, axe raised. He brings it down on the limbs, severing one, then another, the creatures screeching wildly. The arms fall to the floor in a thump, but they’re still writhing, as if they have a mind of their own.

Fuck me.

I take the hunting knife from my belt loop and start stabbing at the arms, hacking away at them, dark blood flying, doingenough damage for some of the arms to withdraw, getting out of the way just in time before Jensen chops some more in half.

But despite the massacre, they aren’t stopping. The hunger that drives them is stronger than pain, stronger than the instinct for self-preservation.

“We can’t stop them like this,” Jensen growls, breathing hard. I glance at him, at the blood sprayed all over him.

Just then a cold hand clasps over my arm, trying to pull me back against the boards.

“Duck!” he yells and I do so just as he brings the blade down on the forearm. The creature squeals, yet the forearm still remains gripping my arm, black blood running down it.

I yelp, twisting away from the window, yanking at the arm until it lets go and I throw it across the room.

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