Late afternoon shadows filled the church. As he got to his feet, he grimaced and gingerly touched his skull. His fingers came away sticky with blood. He lurched out into the dying light of the setting sun. There was no sign of either his horse or Farley. “Goddamn lyin’ horse thief,” he muttered under his breath. All that bastard had left him was a piece of junk jewelry, tucked inside the front breast pocket of his shirt, and the grandpappy of all headaches. But as he stood in the deserted street, Yoakum could not help but remember Farley’s story about the living dead. It was pure poppycock, plain and simple—it had to be. But if Farley had been lying, then where had everybody gone? As the Texas sun dropped its blood red eye, and the lengthening shadows drew the town into dusk, Yoakum heard what sounded like a dog pawing at a door. As he turned around, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise, he realized that the sound was coming from more than one place. The scratching was quickly replaced by a louder, more distinct noise—one that made every hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
