Ben moved the flashlight quickly to take in the whole picture. Harry lay dead in a pool of blood, his arm chewed halfway through. Helen lay dead too, not far away, a garden trowel protruding from her hacked-up chest. With an additional flutter of his eyelids, Harry opened his eyes wide. Then he began to sit up. Holding the flashlight and the gun at the same time, Ben stepped as close as he dared, and took careful aim. He quivered but pulled the trigger—and was jolted by recoil as the top of Harry’s head was blown off and the loud report of the rifle echoed in the dank basement. Ben looked down, moving the flashlight and pointing it. He shuddered as he thought he could see splatters of blood on the bottoms of his trouser legs. Then, he remembered Helen—and he pointed the flashlight in her direction. Her face and hair were caked with blood; blood had come in a stream from her mouth and nostrils, and several of her teeth were broken and twisted; her ribs, where some flesh had been eaten away, showed glistening white in the beam of the flashlight.
