"Why? If it's war, we're in the best place we can be. And if it isn't, there's nothing anyone..."

"Just turn on the radio," Glen cajoled his wife, his voice soothing. Anemic because of her pregnancy, she had not worked in weeks. She had stayed in the house, slept, and if awake had alternated between boredom and bad-temper. "I'll be back from the beach in a few minutes. I saw everyone on the block go down that way ten minutes ago."

They heard heavy boots on the porch. Their dog, a year-old rotweiller, ran from the back of the house and barked a challenge.

"I'll see who it is," Glen told her. He walked quickly through the house. He pushed aside the front curtains.

"Who's there?"

"Get to the beach! This is an emergency."

Glen switched off the living room lights, simultaneously flicking on the porch light. He saw a bearded, leather-jacketed man in a chromed Nazi helmet. He saw the longhair swinging a short-barreled shotgun toward him.

Even as he stumbled back, the door exploded in front of Glen, the lock and knob and door jam disintegrating. Glen fell backward, and tumbled to the floor.

The man kicked the door open, saw the dog, fired again. The blast took away the dog's foreleg at the shoulder. The yelping animal rebounded from the wall and, in crazed rage, leaped at the man. The gun blasted again, and the dog's head disappeared in a red splash. The gunman stepped over the twitching remains and pointed the sawed-off barrel at Glen's face.

"Up, motherfucker! Out on the street! Who else is in here?" The biker stepped past Glen, started toward the bedroom.

"NO!" Glen screamed, lunging up from the floor. He grabbed the weapon with both hands, trying to twist it away. The biker kneed him in the stomach. Then he whipped the shotgun's stock into Glen's face.

Blood and broken teeth sprayed from the householder's mouth. Glen attacked again. The bearded man grinned and kicked Glen in the stomach with vicious force, slamming him back against the wall.