He understood all about responsibility—to family, to the business, to the Vane name. One of these days he would make his own mark—like his grandfather, like his father had. But sometimes a guy just had to get away from all that and have a beer, a couple of burnt hot dogs, and a night around a campfire with good friends.

He didn't know where the hell they'd gone off to, but he was too lazy to find out. He sipped the beer, ignoring the little voice in his head that said he didn't actually like the sharp, yeasty taste all that much. He smoked a cigarette and watched the fireflies put on their nightly light show.

The hoot of an owl was just creepy enough to give him a thrill, and the steady hum of insects added a nice backdrop to his thoughts about how soon he might talk Patsy Hourback into the backseat of his car. So far she was being very strict about limiting their activities to tonsil-diving kisses and the occasional tantalizing handful of breast—on top of her shirt.

He really wanted to get that shirt off Patsy Hourback.

The trouble was, she wanted him to say he loved her first, and that was just way too intense. He liked her, a lot, and he had a serious case of lust going for her, but love? Jesus.

That was scary, long-time-in-the-future stuff. He didn't love Patsy, and didn't see his feelings going in that direction. When he took that fall it would be… later—that was for sure. It would be a hell of a lot later, and with someone he couldn't quite see yet. Someone he didn't even want to see yet.

He had a lot of things to do first, a lot of places to go.

But meanwhile, his just-in-case condom was burning a hole in his wallet, and he really wanted a shot at Patsy Hourback.

He finished the beer and contemplated having the second of his share of the six-pack. But it wasn't much fun drinking it by himself.

The rustle in the brush made him grin. "That must've been the longest piss in history, especially when you've got that little dick to work with."

He waited for the rude comment or insult, then frowned when the woods settled into silence again. "Come on, guys, I heard you out there. You don't come back, I'm going to drink the rest of the beer myself."

The answer was another rustle, from the opposite direction. He felt a chill creep up his spine, but defended his manhood by reaching for the second beer. "Yeah, that's going to scare me. Jesus, it must be Jason in his hockey mask! Help, help. You two are so lame."

He snorted, popped the top on the beer, and took a long swallow for form. The growl came out of the dark, and was wet and hungry.

"Cut it out, Hawke, you asshole." But the order squeezed out, thin and jumpy, from a throat that had snapped shut. His hand inched along the ground in search of one of the sharpened sticks they'd used to roast the dogs.

The scream ripped through the silence, horrible and packed with fear and pain. Brad shot to his feet, the stick clutched in his hand like a sword. He whirled in a circle, fear gnawing at his belly as he searched the shadows.

For a long, long moment, there was no sound but his own raging heart.

When the scream came again, it was his name.

Fireflies flashed in mad flicks of light as Brad sprinted toward the sound. It had been Flynn's voice, a desperate high-wire sound of terror, of agony, that couldn't have been faked. There was another call, equally urgent. This one from Jordan, from behind him, and it seemed to shatter the night.

Torn, panicked, he spun back. A thrashing sounded in the dark, rushed toward him with a force that couldn't have been human. Suddenly the night was full of sound. The wind roared through the trees, limbs crashed to the forest floor around him. And cries came from every direction at once. As he ran, the summer heat turned to bitter, biting cold and a mist spilled over the ground, rising like a river until it was nearly to his knees.

Fear was wild in his belly—for his friends, for himself.

He burst out of the trees into the high grass that spread beneath the spears and towers of Warrior's Peak.

The moon, fat and full, rode overhead. In its light he saw his friends, sprawled in that high grass. Torn to pieces. Mindless prayers ripped from his throat as he raced forward.

He slipped on blood, and worse, went down on his hands and knees in a gruesome skid near Flynn's body. His stomach heaved as he clutched at his friend and his hands came away wet and warm.

The blood dripped from Brad's fingers in the clear light of that perfect white moon.

"No." He said it softly, in a voice that shook. Closing his eyes, he gathered himself, dug as deep as he could. "No." His voice strengthened as he opened his eyes and forced himself to look again. "This is bullshit."

While Brad stared, fighting grief and fear, Flynn turned his head on his torn neck and grinned. "Hey, asshole. Guess what? You're next."

Though his heart scrambled inside his chest, Brad pushed to his feet and repeated. "Bullshit."

"It's really gonna hurt." Still grinning, Flynn rose. There was a chuckle, hideously juicy, as what had been Jordan did the same. They started toward him in lurching steps.

"We're all meat," Jordan said, and winked at Brad with the single eye that remained in its socket. "Nothing but meat."

He could smell them, smell the death, as they closed in. "You're going to have to do better, Kane. A hell of a lot better, because this is bullshit."

It did hurt, a shocking, stunning pain that radiated from his chest to every cell of his body. Brad bore down on it, used it, and forced his lips into a smile as he stared at the horror-movie images of his friends.

"You guys are seriously messed up." He managed what passed for a laugh, fought not to pass out.

And woke shuddering with cold in his own bed.

Rubbing a hand on his throbbing chest, he sat up, took a deep gulp of air. "Well, it's about fucking time."

* * *

"So, we really looked gross?"

Flynn offered Brad a sunny smile. They sat with Jordan at Brad's kitchen table. He'd waited until morning to call, though it had been a very long two hours alone with the images of his experience chasing through his head.

He'd told them nothing but that he needed them to come. And, of course, they had.

Now, in the bright light, with the scent of coffee and toasted bagels, the entire experience seemed overblown and sloppy. Too many nightmares piled into one, in Brad's opinion, for it to hold solid.

"Let's see, most of your throat was gone, and a good part of your chest was missing. And you," he said to Jordan, "your left eye was dangling pretty effectively out of its socket, and some of your face was torn away."

"Could only be an improvement," Flynn commented.

"I think I slipped on some of your brains," Brad told him. "Not that you'll miss them." "Flynn slips on his own brains half the time," Jordan shot back. He studied Brad over the rim of his mug. "You hurt?"

"Chest throbbed like a bitch for about an hour, and I came back with the mother of all headaches, but that's about it."

"So the question hangs, how did you get back?"

"First, I had more time to prepare, knowing what happened to each of you. More time to figure out what might be coming and what to do about it. I had this little thing going in my head, what you could call a key word that I had planted there to snap me out. It worked."

Flynn bit into bagel. "And the word is?"

" 'Bullshit.' It's crude," he continued as Flynn sprayed crumbs. "And it's human and to the point. And the other thing is, well, he was sloppy. I can't say it wasn't effective, especially at first. I felt sixteen. Hell, I was sitting by the campfire, drinking warm beer and thinking about Patsy Hourback's body."

"She did have a great body," Jordan recalled.

"Anyway, I was pretty obsessed with Patsy that summer. Actually I was mostly obsessed with sex, but Patsy was the headliner. So in the beginning of it, I was back there, in the woods by the Peak. Then Flynn starts screaming like a girl—"

"How do you know it wasn't Jordan?" Insulted, Flynn sulked over his bagel. "How come I have to scream like a girl?"

"Take it up with Kane," Brad suggested. "At that point, I was just whacked out. You were both screaming and calling for me. But it started to go off, just a little. The wind, the fog, the cold. It was overkill, and it started to click in my head. When I saw you, the two of you lying there, I lost it again for a minute. Then I was sliding on Flynn's brains, or maybe his intestines."

"Trying to eat here," Flynn complained.

"It was too much, you know? And it wasn't holding. I wasn't sixteen anymore, not in my head. He'd lost the grip, I guess you could say. And I knew it was him. I knew it was bullshit."

Brad rose to get the coffeepot. "Going over it for the last couple hours, I figured out what he was trying to do."

"Separate us," Jordan said.

"Got it in one. Isolate me—sitting alone while you two are off together. Then finding you mauled when you'd been calling to me for help."

"Then having us turn on you," Flynn finished. "The zombie twins. Pits us against you. How are you going to trust, much less work with, a couple of guys who try to eat your brains? I've seen the movies," he added. "That's what zombies do."

"He wanted me to feel alone and alienated, and threatened."

"Maybe worse," Jordan added. "If you hadn't yanked yourself out, we might have done some damage. When he tries for you again, he'll be more direct."

"That's okay." Brad picked up his coffee. "So will I."