LONG BEFORE DAWN PROLOGUE 7:30 AM The war never ended. It could be a dazzling winter morning, the sun shining like it had just been born, glinting on the snow like a multitude of diamonds; and the war still smoldered like a buried ember, ready to catch the world on fire. It could be a languid summer afternoon, hot as hell's boiler room, bugs humming in the bushes; and the war still cast a chill into the humid air, a warning that the light would not last forever. And every evening, when the shadows joined together like drops of liquid darkness growing into an ocean, the sleeping beasts awoke, and the fighting began again. Ken Fletcher knew the odds were bad, but that didn't stop him, any more than it stopped a gambler on the strip. With his wife Lauren and their friend George Follett, Ken had scored a few victories; these, like the war itself, passed unnoticed by most. They were minor wins anyway, against minor foes, the grunts, the shock troops, instead of the generals. Today it would be different. Today they had caught up with a general. He cut the engine and it shuddered as it died. From the driver's seat, Ken stared across a field of shattered blacktop toward the decrepit building, the old warehouse. It was still in the shadow of the trees, but the small hill where he had stopped was catching the full morning sun; it was why he'd chosen this spot. He and his two passengers disembarked from the vehicle. The dewy grass showed dark lines behind the car, like bruises, marking their passage up the knoll. It sloped gently down to the remains of the parking lot. The blacktop had been reduced to a network of increasingly small plates separated by a spider web network of expanding cracks. Soon—not yet, but soon— there would be small trees and bushes growing where cars and trucks had once roamed. Nature was turning the macadam back into soil; there was no longer any clear demarcation 1 LONG BEFORE DAWN where the grass ended and the pavement began. Toward its edges the lot was visible as necrotic patches of grey between spreading colonies of tough wide-leafed weeds and crabgrass, whereas in its interior the asphalt remained mostly free of vegetation. Disuse had had its way with the building as well, each day leaving some mark of its passage on the structure. The sun and rain had warped and twisted the network of boards that had been nailed over the windows and doors of the place, so that now the building's interior darkness was visible through large gaps in the aged planking. A large oak had fallen against the right side of the warehouse, buckling the wall and smashing through the roof; rusty stains like dried blood spilled from the wound, running down the corrugated iron shell of the building. Ken could imagine, years and years ago, warehouse employees sheltering in the shade of the tree, hiding from the summer sun as they ate lunch from brown paper bags. Did something of the past still linger, ghostlike, in this place? Or was time the perfect solvent, erasing every trace of what once had been? Could those workers under the tree see, in the right circumstances, the wreck the place had become, see the three frightened people setting up outside, a traveling minstrel show whose music was violence, whose instruments were weapons? If you can see us, Ken thought, pray for us; because desolation is where we dwell. "Big building," George said, shading his eyes with his left hand. His right clutched the handle of a battered suitcase. "Yeah, but it's early," Ken said. "We'll have time to search it." "Krone will be up and about," George said. "We know that." Lauren, Ken's wife, was impassive as she spoke, her gaze locked on the warehouse. "We've got a gun for Krone." "Yeah. Yeah, we do." George stared at the warehouse a moment more, then turned and started walking back and forth, working out the kinks in his muscles. Despite his size—he was nearly as big as Krone, though nowhere near as strong, no one was—he insisted on riding in the tiny back seat of Ken's vehicle. He always told Ken a man should be next to his wife, and would not be persuaded otherwise. After several minutes of walking and stretching, George crouched down and balanced the suitcase on his knees. With thick, slightly trembling fingers, he undid the locks and lifted the lid of the bedraggled case, revealing the tools of their unusual trade: Sharp wooden stakes and a mallets; holy 2 LONG BEFORE DAWN symbols from five different religions; medical supplies; garlic cloves; a crowbar; three small flashlights; a gun, for Krone. Everything was securely buckled or belted or snapped into place, to keep the suitcase from rattling like a box full of rocks. George took the gun, holding it up so the sun reflected dully on its dark barrel. It wasn't a very modern gun, but it fired large bullets without jamming, and that was the important thing. George snapped open the revolving chamber and began loading it. Meanwhile, Ken opened the trunk of the car and lifted a small steel gasoline can from its storage compartment. He carefully removed the cap from the can and replaced it with a nozzle. "Think they know we're here?" Lauren asked. "Don't they always," Ken said, not looking up. "I wonder where they are." Lauren stared at the boarded- up windows. She tangled a finger in her long blonde hair and twirled it slowly. "I wonder where he is." "I don't know about him, but Krone is probably watching us right now," Ken said. "Waiting for us, like last time." Lauren stopped twirling her hair at the mention of Krone's name. The chamber filled, George rotated it back into place and spun it. "Anybody for Russian Roulette?" he asked. "Just going in there is Russian Roulette," Ken said. George nodded and closed the suitcase. When the time came, if they made it that far, Ken would call on him to open it again and take out the stakes and the mallets and the garlic. If they made it that far. If Krone didn't stop them this time. They had a gun for Krone. "Let's do it." Ken's knuckles were white on the handle of the gas can, but he kept any tremor out of his voice. He started toward the warehouse and the others fell in behind him. As the broken asphalt crunched under his feet, he unconsciously began to hum a hymn, Adeste Fidelis, a relic from his Catholic childhood. He saw Lauren glance at him and smile, and he realized he was doing it again; but he didn't stop. After all, what could happen when one of God's songs was in the air? Soon the front door stood before them. It had once been shielded from the weather by a little awning, but this had collapsed into a jumbled heap of boards and nails and shingles. Like the windows, the door had planks nailed back and forth across it, but thanks to the vanished shelter, these boards had weathered the years better than most. Ken set down the gasoline can as George opened the suitcase again and handed him the crowbar; then he clambered 3 LONG BEFORE DAWN up onto the pile of debris and, perching himself precariously on a heap of shingles, set to work prying the boards loose. Below the two-by-fours was a layer of smaller boards; these were in almost perfect condition, the wood sturdy and the nail heads gleaming. Ken grunted and strained at them for a little while, then looked at George. The big man unsteadily scaled the collapsed porch and took the crowbar from Ken's hands. Ken returned to Lauren and the two of them stood close together, a last embrace before the battle started, waiting for George to finish. Lauren, her face against her husband's neck, murmured, "I love you, Ken." "I love you too," he said, nuzzling her hair. It smelled like strawberries. George ripped off the last board, paused a moment, and began to chuckle. He looked back at Lauren and Ken and then stepped aside so they could see the legend printed on the door in a circus marquee font. Harris Bros. Caskets. "They're coming." Krone whispered the words, knowing that his Master would hear. He had been watching the hunters in their preparations, and when they began approaching the warehouse, had gone to warn his Master and the lady. Krone couldn't see them; they were the same temperature as the rest of the room, and although he could see in the darkness, only patterns of hot and cold were visible to him. But he didn't need eyes to locate his Master; other, less sophisticated, feelings were enough to do that: A tingle on the skin, a tightening of the bowels. Even he, Krone, the Master's servant, was not immune to fear of the beast; he knew it better than anyone else. His words had received no reply, so he tried again. "Did you hear me, Master? I said—" "I heard you." The voice was soft but yawning, as if the words themselves could consume you, swallow you up like an open grave. "I've been expecting them." "Should I kill them?" Krone asked, making two large fists.