The hollowed out eyes of a time ravaged zombie stared at Horus. He ran his towel over the bathroom mirror before his reflection was claimed by the steam. The image in the glass was horrifying but he couldn't keep from looking. His wasted, scarred body made him want to break down in sobs, but he held himself straight and refused to give into the impulse. If he took that plunge into self-pity, he might never find his way back out.

He chose to take solace that the shower had improved the appearance of that dirt and blood cover wreck who stepped into the bathroom.

Onward, he thought. Upward.

Slipping into clean clothes, Horus wondered who they had belonged to. They weren't Kyle's style. They were plain, heavy-duty work clothes. Perhaps they had belonged to the original owner of the house before the infestation of Kyle Silvers took over.

The weight of them pressing against his skin was foreign. The hefty twill was both a luxury and burden after the threadbare rags he was used to. When he was dressed, he looked almost human. Trimming his hair and beard would help even more with the illusion, but he had lingered too long already.

It had been a big risk cleaning up. Every second that ticked by, the police and firefighters were getting closer. Someone must have seen the flames, even in this remote location. There would be a response. The question was: how long would it take to reach this mountain hideout?

The risk had been necessary. There was no way he could get by in civilized society looking they way he had. He wouldn't make it very far in the world. He'd be picked up and sent for a psych evaluation by the first cop he came across. That might have been okay if he was just looking for rescue, but Horus still had work to do—work that couldn't be accomplished from inside of a hospital.

He had almost left after dispatching the two Kyles in the kitchen. He hadn't been thinking clearly and ran outside with no plan and nothing in his hands but the old cavalry saber. A row of parked cars was out front and he tried one locked door after another. His mind was pitched between panic and a sense of total defeat as none of them yield to him. Then a cry erupted from the church.

A chorus was cheering in joyous Hallelujah.

How many of the bastards were in there? Twenty? Thirty? A hundred? They were buzzing around inside the church like a nest of feral yellow jackets. The jubilation of their voices twisted in his gut and he knew he couldn't leave them to continue their evil plots.

The cars were forgotten about and Horus made for the long, utilitarian building where the Kyles congregated. First, he was bold and almost stormed up the steps, but then slyly, Horus slunk around the side. Using the base of a massive five hundred gallon propane tank to boost himself up, Horus peered in a window.

The lights were on and the place was brightly lit. The benches were just as full as the night they had paraded him down the aisle, a lifetime ago. Rapt faces stared up in unison to the pulpit, where words drifted out from the thin pane of glass.

"I say again," the voice was screaming in rage and rapture, "The new world begins today. The Beast has been freed from its cage and is unleashed. The old world is in decline. It is already crumbling. It is rotted from the inside and will fall on its own. But I ask you, will we wait for its demise? Will we sit idly by and wait for it to collapse under its own bloat?"

The congregation shouted back, "No!"

"Will we meekly keep hidden and let the world end with a whimper?"

"No!"

"No." The preacher paused for dramatic effect. Horus still remembered Sunday services well enough to guess the preacher was glancing at his audience, driving his point home with a fierce look in his eyes. "We will usher in this new age. We help the Holy Beast in its crusade of destruction. We will be the instruments of prophecy and will not rest until the cities are on fire."

A loud cheer went up and Horus had heard enough. It was time to end it. But how could he stop them all with only a dull sword and his weak arms.

He searched out desperately for an answer, and one came in the form of a toolshed, leaning forlornly in an empty patch between the house and the church.

There may be a way to destroy this wasp's nest.

The rotting wood yielded to a good kick, tearing the hasp's screws from the spongy timber. Like God had set everything before him, Horus found everything he needed. On a tool bench there was a whetstone that went into his pocket for later, when he'd have time to sharpen his blade. Hanging from a rafter he found the chain that he used to secure the handles of the double front doors of the church. From a toolbox, he dug out a small crowbar that made the perfect wedge to keep the back door from opening. And on a high shelf sat the blowtorch, which he lit and propped up next to the propane tank.

Horus retreated to the porch pacing its length waiting for the tank to go up. With each passing minute, his concern grew. Something must have gone wrong. He needed to go back to check. He forced patience on himself. He didn't want to be like some cartoon character inspecting the firing mechanism of a gun while looking down the barrel. Walking up to the makeshift bomb would be just as foolhardy.

To take his mind of the slow progression of the flame against the steel hull, Horus went inside. Back in the kitchen, he began searching for supplies. He was going to need some way off this mountain other than his feet. He found what he was looking for in the pockets of the partially decapitated Kyle. The car keys and the thin wad of cash would get him away from here.

Using the table for support, Horus raised himself back up and noticed the blinking lights on the laptop screen. The image was a map of the Southwest overlaid with dozens of tiny, yellow markers. It took a little time to decipher the meaning of what he was seeing. When the answer came, Horus realized the computer was probably the most valuable object in the whole house. If he left with nothing else, he had to make sure he held on to the computer. It contained his destiny.

Near the other Kyle, he found a pistol in a kitchen drawer. It was a 9mm Beretta. Horus could swear was the same one he used to keep in his glove box. He could still remember the man in the gun store showing him how to use it. It had a loaded clip but there didn't seem to be any other ammo for it in the drawers.

In the fridge, he found a plate of chicken and took it to the window, nearly slipping in blood on the way. The linoleum kept it from draining and the deep crimson plasma pooled where the floor bent and sagged creating a gory bayou of swamps and tributaries.

Horus watched the church while he ate piece after piece of the leftover poultry. Occasionally when he tossed the bones on the floor, they would make a small splashing sound in one of the bloody bogs. His teeth tore at the meat nervously. His agitation rising until—like a climax—a blinding flash of light turned night into day. A fireball launched itself into the air, high above the roofline. It was followed by a shockwave that rattled the glass so fiercely, he raised his arm to protect his eyes for fear it would shattered.

The blast collapsed the side wall and sent the roof tumbling down as fire tore through the building. Horus finished off the plate while listening to the screams and the roar of the flames.

He waited to see if anyone escaped the inferno, but no one emerged, and when he was satisfied that none of them were going to get out and that those that hadn't died in the blast or the fire had succumbed to smoke inhalation, he went upstairs and took his shower.

Feeling clean and fresh, Horus loaded up his treasures into an SUV. The air outside had a biting cold to it he hadn't noticed earlier, which was strange since it felt as though the smoldering church should have warmed things. There was a strange familiarity to starting the engine. The simple everyday act that happened without conscious thought was suddenly elevated to a moment filled with emotion and an overwhelming sense of triumph. Horus took a moment to savor it then tore out of the parking spot, spraying gravel against the aluminum siding.

About halfway down the mountain, he heard sirens and saw the flaring of emergency lights on the landscape. Horus pulled into a narrow access lane and shut everything off and waited for them to pass. When the last one was gone, he referred to the map on the computer again.

Little indicators showed the locations of the Kyles all over the United States. The blip for Horus's vehicle merged into a bundle covering a mountain in western Nevada. The next nearest marker was in New Mexico.

"I'll never get tired of killing you," he said easing the SUV back out on the road, prepared to complete the task that God had given to him.