Reining in one of the ponies, Righteous Weeks called out, "What in hell's going on? Somebody makin' a break I don't know about?"

Voodooman could only shake his head. "I don't think so."

"Be one hell of a diversion."

"You got that right," agreed Voodooman in his Texarkana drawl.

Despite what the announcer said, nothing was under control. In fact, the trouble was spreading like wildfire, doubling every couple of minutes. The number of cops was shrinking by the second, and now some of them were joining the fray, crazy and blue-faced as the women, attacking and grappling with anybody they caught, forcing their victims down like spiders on flies and sucking the life breath out of them-a kiss of death. "Love Potion Number Nine," Marcus thought crazily, but there was nothing funny about it. It was all happening so fast. People were dying-they were as dead as any corpses Marcus had ever seen, and he had seen a few. But then the weirdest thing kept happening, the ridiculously crazy thing. The victims-the corpses frozen in their last death rictus-would jump up and maul someone else. It was like a murderous game of tag: You're it.

Voodooman could see the whole deranged business because the crowd was thinning as people fled the stands. They ran down onto the field, scattering in all directions, and the horrible blue attackers followed them. Marcus couldn't believe how many of the things there were already. Another few minutes, and there wouldn't be anybody alive and sane left in the arena. For a moment longer there were isolated bursts of wild shooting, then no more guns, no more guards, no more control.

Frozen with shock, Voodooman said, "What the fuck they doin' to 'em?"

"I don't know, brother, but leave us get the hell outta here."