He stuffed shopper coupons and magazines into the mailbox, shut it, drove back onto the road and checked his next batch.

The Jewells.

It was insane to think that flesh-eating bacteria had hit g.a.y.l.o.r.d of all places. Nothing happened in g.a.y.l.o.r.d, which was exactly why John Burkle loved it so much.

He pulled up to the Jewells’ mailbox and put in two days’ worth of mail. He started to drive away, then stopped when he saw Bobby Jewell walking down his long, tree-lined driveway. Bobby was carrying his little daughter, Chelsea, who was waving a letter. What a doll that one was. All those blond curls. If she turned out to be half the looker her mother was, the girl was going to break some hearts when she got into high school.

“Hey there, Chelsea,” John called. “Got some mail for me?”

“Yes sir, Mister Postman!”

About ten feet from the truck, Bobby set Chelsea down. She ran forward, holding the letter up as if it were an object of great importance. Little kids were such a hoot—something as mundane as mailing a letter could carry newness and excitement.

“Here you go, Mister Postman!”

John took the letter with affected importance. “Well, thank you very much, young lady.”

Chelsea actually curtsied. John just wanted to eat her up.

“You’re welcome, Mister Postman. My daddy wants to show you something.”

“Oh?” John looked up. Bobby had closed the distance and just stood there. John knew Bobby from summer softball league, but d.a.m.n, the guy didn’t look good at all. Sunken eyes, pale skin. Looked like he’d lost at least fifteen pounds.

“Hi, John,” Bobby said. “I got to show you the d.a.m.nedest thing.”

“What’s that?”

Bobby unzipped his coat, reached in and pulled out a rusty red monkey wrench. “This thing is stuck like you wouldn’t believe.”

John looked at the wrench, then looked at Bobby. Why the h.e.l.l would Bobby show him a stuck monkey wrench? John’s internal alarm went off—what if Bobby looked like c.r.a.p because he had that flesh-eating s.h.i.t?

“Uh . . . Bobby, I don’t have time right now.”

“Why’s that, Mister Postman?” Chelsea said.

John automatically looked down at the girl. Even as he did, he knew that it was a mistake. By the time he looked up, the monkey wrench was a rusty red blur. He flinched just before the wrench smashed him on the left side of his jaw. He slid to the right, falling off his seat and into the van. He tried to get to his feet, but they were tangled in the gas and break pedals. Time became a dreamy, slow-moving sludge. He knew that the wrench was coming again, the moment before that metallic hit dragged on forever.

His Taser.

His hands searched for his bag, for the weapon that could save him, but it was too late.

The slow-motion sensation evaporated when he felt a blast on his left ear. His head exploded with concussive pain. The van seemed to spin around him. He tried to get up again, but his arms and legs felt so weak. Then he felt weight bearing down on him; he felt strong, callused hands on forehead and jaw, forcing his mouth open.

He felt a small, hot, wet tongue slide into his mouth.

And then he felt the burning . . .

APPLEBEE’S

Perry Dawsey had never thought normality could seem so surreal.

Or so G.o.dd.a.m.n uncomfortable.

He sat in an Applebee’s in g.a.y.l.o.r.d, Michigan, waiting for his burger to arrive. Kitsch lined the walls. Some Top 40 s.h.i.t played on the sound system. There were tables filled with fat men, fat women and fat kids. Dew sat to Perry’s left. Perry sat across from Claude Baumgartner. Baum had lost the metal brace, but his nose was still a mess. Jens Milner, whose eye remained quite black, sat on Perry’s right, across from Dew.

Add in Perry’s nasty facial cuts and they looked like a foursome back from a fight club—a fight club that Dew had clearly won, since all he had was a little Band-Aid on his head.

Baum and Milner just sat there, staring at Perry, not saying a word.

This was another of Dew’s brilliant ideas. Sure! Why the h.e.l.l not? Let’s sit down for lunch with a couple of guys I f.u.c.ked up before I walked into a house and slaughtered a family. Why, a lunch like this is so d.a.m.n normal it should be in a f.u.c.king Applebee’s commercial.

“I don’t get it,” Baum said. “Why don’t we just go to the Jewells’ house?” Baum’s right hand hovered near his left lapel, next to his t.i.t. Sometimes it rested on the table, sometimes Baum pretended to scratch his chest, and sometimes the hand just hung there in midair. His hand seemed to orbit around the pistol in his shoulder holster. Perry didn’t mind so much. He kept his own hand on the table’s edge—if Baum made a move, he’d jam the table into the f.u.c.ker’s chest and drive him right to his back.

Baum kept staring at Perry, staring with that att.i.tude. It was hard enough to keep things under control without some motherf.u.c.ker calling you out with his eyes. Perry wanted to smash his face in, but Dew expected more of him. So Perry would hold it in. For now, anyway.

“We can’t go near the house,” Dew said. “Murray’s orders.”

Milner huffed. “That’s to keep Mister Happy here from killing the family, and you know it. We’ve got the address. Baum and I can go.”

Like Baum, Milner just kept staring. Didn’t anyone teach these CIA guys any manners?

“No way,” Dew said. “We can’t go near it until Ogden arrives and sends some boys with us. Believe me, Murray was really specific. Seems the new chief of staff has it in for him. If we show our faces at the Jewell house before Ogden arrives, Murray is screwed. And if Murray is screwed, he’ll make sure everyone at this table is even more screwed. Trust me on that. So we might as well get some grub while we wait. And incidentally, Baum, if you don’t get that hand away from your gun, I’m going to shove it up your a.s.s.”