She kept the grip light, her head still recovering from the blow that knocked her unconscious. Mason stood at the bottom of the stairs, revolver leveled at Ella, but his eyes on the front door. The hairy woman standing on the far side of the door, visible through the side windows, was swaying back and forth impatiently, waiting to sell Girl Scout cookies, or Mormon Jesus, or Jehovah’s Witness Jesus. She was a Rider. There was no doubt about that. The hooked teeth were impossible to mistake, and that adaptation, combined with the hair-covered body, was an unlikely combination to be repeated. But why was it knocking on the door? To call it strange behavior was an understatement. ExoGenetic creatures were driven by instinct. By hunger. They didn’t knock on doors. Then again, they weren’t supposed to talk, either, but Peter had communicated with Kristen before he shot her. Perhaps the other Riders could speak as well? It didn’t matter. None of it. What mattered was that the creature outside wasn’t just her enemy, but the enemy of every living thing that wasn’t also a Rider or a Woolie.
