Slow, he ordered when he felt the car's acceleration. Slow, you jackass, or you'll take out a tree.
Matt cleared his throat.
A rock thumped under a tire and they all held their breath.
The windshield wipers seemed louder, more final.
"Oh," Peg said as they passed between the twin motels.
He looked, and nearly braked. On the side of the road was Carter Naughton, walking. The headlights paled him, took him out of the dark until the car was abreast. He did not turn his head; he staggered sideways, righted, and kept on walking.
Twenty yards later they passed Tess Mayfair; on the left side Mitch and Rose Adams.
Pebbles rattled against the undercarriage, and a dead leaf plastered itself against Colin's window.
Denise was with her brother fifty yards along; the ax was gone from her shoulder, the naked bone stark and obscenely clean in the passing light.
"What are you
Alex Fox, in his best suit.
Susan behind him.
The patrol car's horn blared, and he gasped while Peg grabbed for Matthew. The horn blared again. None of the dead looked around or slowed.
There was still sufficient light to outline the treetops, to give black substance to the swift-sailing clouds.
Muriel North beside Reverend Otter, whose head rocked on what little muscle had been left at his dying.
The temperature in the car rose until Colin cranked down his window an inch or two, no more. The wind was cut to a breeze, and it cooled him though the air itself was warm.
Hattie Mills, her blouse shredded and her black skirt in ribbons down her right side. Colin refused to watch her, though he felt Peg's gaze shift to see his reaction.
"They're gonna see Gran," Matt said matter-of-factly. His thumb rubbed over the rough butt of his gun.
Bill Efron, his vest open and his thick white hair spotted with mud.