In Laymon's Terms

Somehow, he managed to put down each creature before it reached him, though one got near enough that when it fell—momentum pushing it toward him despite the gunshot—it crashed heavily into his legs.

He glanced back into the room as he started to follow Diane and Jessie; creatures were pouring into it from the hall and crashing through the ceiling, perhaps a dozen in all.

He ran.

Diane threw her daughter into the front seat of the truck and, glancing back only a moment, followed. The ignition growled but started right up. The brake lights flashed a moment, and then dimmed; she wasn’t planning to wait for him.

Dirk dove for the bed of his truck, catching it just in time. The truck slid sideways when Diane turned the wheel too sharply, and then they were on the road, snow as relentless as earlier.

Peering over the back of the truck, Dirk watched what looked like an army of those white furred creatures loping after them, some almost quick enough to catch up. Diane pushed the pickup as fast as it might go, which was probably too fast for her on this slick road, but he wasn’t about to slow her down.

Later, they’d have a little talk about her trying to steal his truck. Maternal instinct, he reminded himself; she wanted to get her daughter to safety. Was that enough of an excuse to forgive her? Well, she was cute. He had a weakness for cute.

The distance between truck and creatures grew, and Dirk allowed himself to relax.

The truck stopped suddenly, smashing into something with a cacophony of grinding metal and shattering glass. The rear end of the truck jumped; Dirk flew forward, over the cab. He hit the edge of the crumpled hood on the way down—it was wrapped around a tree—thumped on the ground and slid through the snow. He heard screaming, but saw nothing until he stopped.

Despite the pain that wracked the entire left side of his body, he saw what had caused the accident: creatures, dozens of them, several deep across the road. Rather than barrel through the mass, Diane had tried to swerve around them. She was still in the truck, head bleeding, bits of windshield hanging in front of her. She appeared to be unconscious. The girl, Jessie, had been ejected. One of the creatures picked her up like a fireman carrying a victim from a burning tower, like a demented hero saving the child from harm.

Every creature’s eyes were turned on Dirk.

He got up, pushed himself to run despite the pain, picking one of the 9mms off the ground as he ran (pure luck, of course, but even still nowhere near enough bullets). He should not have been able to run. His ankle was broken, and his arm, at least three ribs. Breathing was a chore. But he did it. He had to. The only other option was death.

He didn’t look back as he ran. He’d know when the creatures caught up to him. He heard them in the snow, but only because of their number.

Up ahead, a house came into view as the snow let up. If he could get inside, he could maybe bar the door. Find a vantage point from which to use up the rest of his ammunition. Maybe another weapon.

Maybe he’d last the night, and the creatures would flee with the coming light.

Dirk pushed the idea of failure out of his head. Diane and Jessie were gone now. He never knew them, anyhow.

Behind him, one of the creatures howled. It sounded just like a wolf, and so drastically different that the chill already eating his bones frosted over. Impossibly, he reached the front door of the house, pounded with one fist (his bad arm) and shoved with his other. The door gave way too easily. He stumbled inside, slamming it shut behind him, panting, desperately forcing back the pain. But inside, safe for half a moment more than he had been, his weight was suddenly too much on his ankle and he crumpled to the floor.

A moment passed. Only one. He had time to twist painfully onto his side, an opportunity to see the white night against the windows—but it was every window, ground level and above, as if there were no walls inside this house. Just like inside the motel.

Silhouettes appeared in the windows. As his eyes adjusted to the low light levels, Dirk saw that he was in another facade: there were no walls, merely two by fours propping the exteriors up. He’d crossed into a Twilight Zone Hollywood set, littered with fakes, perhaps a whole town like that.

He knew he’d find nothing to reinforce the door. No weapons. Not even a light switch. Turning so he was completely on his back, he pointed his weapon at the front door.

When it opened, he shot. And shot. Dirk kept shooting until he was out of bullets. The creatures poured into the false house.

Jacqueline Mitchell