The Dark Ones by Anthony Izzo Page A

listened at the top of the stairs and Sara heard only the wind. They had to try for the garage, for barricading themselves in a bedroom would only serve as a trap, and Sara didn’t know if she could hold them off again. At least going for the car, they had a chance.
    Joanne crept out on to the landing and looked down into the family room. It was free of intruders. A line of muddy, misshapen footprints stained the rug. She didn’t want to go down the stairs. If they were on fire behind her, she still might not move.
    Behind her, from one of the bedrooms, glass broke.
    The issue was decided and Joanne hurried down with Sara grabbing the tail of her robe. It was smooth and slick, tough to hold. Joanne continued, holding the gun in a shooter’s grip, both hands on the handle. She moved it back and forth, sweeping the room. When no boogeymen popped out and scared her, she hit the bottom of the stairs and rounded them. The door was still open, the wind brushing in a mess of leaves.
    The dirty footprints led to the kitchen, and Sara was loath to follow them. “Do you have any other car keys?”
    “Just the set on the counter,” Joanne said.
    That ruled out the front door. From upstairs, a series of thuds and bumps shook the house. Glass broke, and the sound of heavy furniture being turned over shook the ceiling. They’re looking for me and they’re angry , Sara thought.
    She urged Joanne to the garage and the taller woman went first, holding the revolver in front of her. The light was out in the kitchen, casting the room in shadows. Sara looked at the switch and saw a splash of mud on the wall. Someone had turned the light off. The kitchen was empty. Sara spied the keys still on the counter. She picked them up.
    The footsteps led to the garage door and she didn’t want to go that way, but the crashes behind them became louder and she heard footsteps on the stairs. And that horrible, gurgling chatter coming from the other room.
    “Let’s roll,” Sara said.
    “Get the door, fling it open. I’ll hold the gun.”
    Sara moved into position, gripped the doorknob. She flung it open. Joanne aimed the gun, froze for a moment.
    She looked to Sara and said, “Clear so far.”
    The last word came out in a gurgle. A black spear tore through Joanne and punched out the back of her robe. She looked at Sara with surprise, croaking noises coming from her mouth, and then she was dragged forward into the garage, the weapon still jutting from her blood-soaked back. Sara started to scream, then clamped a hand over her mouth. The woman who had taken her in, albeit for a short time, had been butchered.
    Sara pressed her shoulder against the door, but someone on the other side countered and the door swung and threw her back into the counter. A sharp pain shot through her back where one of the knobs dug in. She landed on her rear end and quickly scrambled to her feet.
    Now she could see into the garage, where Joanne’s body lay facedown next to the Audi. Her attacker stepped into view and entered the kitchen.
    He wore black tattered rags that stank of something old and sour. His face was a mess of charred skin and pink blisters. One eye revealed a milky white cornea. He reached out his clawed hand; a spear with barbs on its tip seemed to materialize from the darkness itself. The attacker grinned, revealing jagged yellow teeth.
    “Time for pain,” he growled.
    He stepped closer, and Sara heard two more step behind her, but she was frozen and could not turn. I’m going to die , she thought.
    The man who killed Joanne cocked the spear at his waist. She would have to use the Light.
    She closed her eyes and took herself back to a good place in her mind, this time imagining a field of golden wheat and a sweet summer breeze ruffling the grain. And sun on her face. Warmth spread from her torso and through her shoulders, down her arms and into the palms of her hands, making them tingle.
    She opened her eyes and saw the attacker had stopped. He