He heard them coming toward the door, heard the scuffling of feet, heard the boys’ crying, probably beyond reason now, heard curses and prods from the Tuttle brothers. It was then that he saw the huge, crude circle painted with thick, black paint on a cleared-out part of the rotting wooden barn floor.

Zero hour. No time, simply no time now to bring the others in.

Savich barely made it down behind a rotted hay bale before one of them opened the tack room door and shoved a slight, pale boy in front of him. The boy’s filthy pants were nearly falling off his butt. It was Donny Arthur. He’d been beaten, probably starved as well. He was terrified. Then a second terrified youth was shoved out of the small tack room next to him. Rob Arthur, only fourteen years old. Savich had never seen such fear on two such young faces in his life.

If Savich ordered the Tuttles to stop now, they could use the boys for shields. No, better to wait. What was all that crazy talk about ghouls? He watched the two men shove the boys forward until they actually kicked them into the center of the circle.

“Don’t either of you move or I’ll take my knife and shove it right through your arm into the floor, pin you good. Tammy here will do the other with her knife. You got that, Little Bloods?”

Tammy? Her knife? No, it was two brothers-Tommy and Timmy Tuttle, more than enough alliteration, even for the media. No, he couldn’t have heard right. He was looking at two young men, both in black, long and lean, big, chunky black boots laced up the front to the knees like combat boots. They carried knives and guns.

The boys were huddled together on their knees, crying, clutching each other. Blood caked their faces, but they could move, and that meant no bones were broken.

“Where are the Ghouls?” Tammy Tuttle shouted, and Savich realized in that instant that he hadn’t misheard; it wasn’t the Tuttle brothers, it was one brother and one sister.