CHAPTER ONE
 

1.
Tiny Fingers

So small.
So very, very small.
The fingers pressed under the front door of her home were so very small. She could not stop staring at those baby fingers straining frantically to reach her as she stood shivering on the porch. The cool morning air lightly puffed out her pink nightgown as her own pale fingers clutched the thin bathrobe closed at her throat. Texas weather could change so fast, and this early March morning was crisp.
I knew we needed weather stripping, she thought vaguely.
The gap under the front door was far too large. These new modern homes looked so fancy, but were actually not very well built. If they had bought the nice Victorian she wanted, there wouldn't be a gap under the front door. A gap large enough for that little hand to slide underneath.
The tiny fingers clawed under the edge of the door.
The banging from inside the house had become a steady staccato. It had a rhythm now, as did the grunts and groans. The sounds terrified her. But what was truly horrible were those tiny, desperate fingers.
Her voice caught in her throat when blood began to trickle out from beneath the door. Of course the blood would eventually flow out. There was so much. It had been everywhere when she stood in the doorway of Benjamin's bedroom. The walls had been splashed red.
She covered her mouth with her hand. Another wave of chills flowed over her as her knees knocked together.
The rhythm changed to a new beat as a second set of fists banged against the door.
Through the lead glass of the door, she could see the dim outline of her husband's body. It was distorted by the thick smears of blood on the inside of the panes. She stared long enough to make out Lloyd's misshapen hands battering against the glass before her gaze was inexorably drawn down to those tiny fingers scrabbling so frenziedly toward her.
She really should have insisted on Lloyd putting in weather stripping.
An angry howl from the other side of the door made her jump, and her thick raven hair fell into her face. With trembling hands, she pushed back her tresses. Her gaze did not waver from those tiny fingers.
The pool of blood was slowly spreading toward her bare feet.
She should move.
But where?
The tiny fingers were now raw, with tips of bone showing. Yet they still sought her out.
There was a loud thunk to her left, and her attention shot over to the window. Mikey stood there, hissing as he beat on the window with clenched fists. His torn lips were drawn back in a grimace as his dead eyes latched on to her hungrily.
"Why, Mikey, why?" Her voice was a plaintive whisper.
Why had her twelve-year-old son rushed back to try to fight his father? Why hadn't he run when she screamed at him to follow her?
Clutching her head, she swayed slightly. She felt something cold touch her toe and looked down to see blood welling around her foot. Stepping back, she returned her focus to the fingers pressed under the front door. The tips of the tiny fingers were skinless.
"Benjamin, please stop," she whispered.
He always followed her everywhere. Every time she went to the bathroom, the persistent three-year-old would be on her heels. She could never relax and just go. She would have to talk to him as he lay outside the bathroom, one eye pressed against the crack, his tiny, chubby fingers pressed under the door.
Was one eye pressed against the crack under the front door now?
How had he managed to get downstairs? There was so little left of him. Lloyd always was a big eater....
She almost vomitted as both hands flew up to cover her mouth. Gagging, she stepped away from the door. Her body was shaking violently. She heard a clattering sound now, painfully loud. Covering her ears with her hands, she took another step back.
Why wouldn't it just all stop?
The rattling noise was louder and her jaw hurt.
Oh, her teeth were chattering.
She closed her eyes, swaying.
Those tiny fingers ... those tiny fingers ...
Glass shattered and growls filled the cool morning air. Her eyes snapped open to see Mikey trying to shove his way through the broken window.
"No, no, no..." She stumbled backwards down the front steps and fell when her bare foot slipped on the slick dew-drenched grass.
The glass shards ripped away Mikey's flesh as he scrambled through the window, but the twelve-year-old didn't seem to notice. He kept pushing forward, growling and snarling.
It was then that she screamed. Screamed louder than she ever thought possible. Screamed as she should have when she found Lloyd hunched over Benjamin, eating away her baby's tender flesh. Screamed as she should have when Lloyd pursued her and Mikey down the stairs. Screamed as she should have when Mikey turned back to try to defend her. Screamed as she should have when the front door slammed behind her and she realized she was alone.
She screamed until her voice died in her throat.
And still Mikey grunted and hissed as he slowly dragged his torn body through the shattered window. Lloyd, blood drenched and crazed, came up behind Mikey and fastened his vicious gaze on her. Determined, he crawled over his son, breaking the remaining glass out of the window frame.
Slowly, she stood. Her gaze strayed to the door.
Tiny fingers still searched for her.
She pressed her hands against her face as she watched Lloyd and Mikey wiggle and jerk their way through the narrow window.
"Get in the truck now!"
She blinked.
"Get in the truck now!"
She turned slowly. An old, battered white truck sat on her perfectly manicured lawn. The engine was hot and grumbling.
Where had it come from?
"In! Now!"
She raised her eyes to see a tall, slim, blond woman in a business suit and hunting jacket standing next to the truck with a shotgun in one hand.
"Get in now!"
Looking back, she saw Mikey slip from the window, wet, bloody, and battered. For a moment, she remembered how he looked when he had just been born. Her shriveled-up little monkey boy.
After struggling to his feet, Mikey leaped forward.
It was time to leave her family. The money she had carefully squirreled away to provide for her and the kids in a new life would have to stay hidden in the closet. The suitcase she had packed for when they finally ran away to the women's shelter would have to remain in its hiding place in the attic.
Lloyd had destroyed what remained of their life together.
It was time to go.
Wrenching the passenger door open, she looked back to see Mikey hurtling toward her. She jumped in and slammed the door shut just as he impacted with the side of the truck. His battered, chewed-up face pressed against the glass as he bared his teeth and his growls ripped at her ears.
"Mikey," she whispered. She pressed her hand against the glass, blocking his gruesome face from her view.
She looked away.
The blond woman slammed her door shut and shifted gears. The truck roared into reverse as Lloyd rushed toward them, hissing loudly.
The blond shifted again and the pickup truck rolled forward and accelerated down the quiet suburban street just as the sun rose over the tops of the houses.
She dared to look back, dared to see what followed. Falling behind were Lloyd and Mikey: her husband and her son. And they were not alone. Others, bloodied and crazed, were racing out of houses, screaming in either terror or hunger.
She tore...