Father Brent and I woke Trixie on the way to hospital check-out, and I got a sis-hug that about squeezed the air out of me.

Two of us (Trixie and I) had growling stomachs, so Father Brent gave a lift in a tiny car he called a "bug." The old vehicle did resemble a beetle in overall outline, and amid rust spots the flaked paint blossomed in formerly-garish floral patterns. The "bug" was an art car, long past its glory days.

Father Brent grunted as he wedged himself behind the steering wheel. The car leaned left after he was in. "It's a bug-bug-bugger to keep running, that's for sure. Spare parts are getting expensive."

"What do you do for a living, Father Brent?" I said. Then I wondered if that was impertinent. "I mean, if you want to share."

He fired up the engine, which sounded like an electric fan with a rattle. Weirdly, the engine noise came from behind me as I pretzeled in the rear seat, knees up to my chin. "I got no secrets from you kids! I make web pages for people. Once in a great while, somebody from my former life will ask me to officiate at a wedding or something. Not often."

"That's cool," I said.

The car had a stick shift. Brent teased the machine into gear, and we rolled out into light traffic. "It's lazy, really. Thanks to my new lease on life, though, I might be branching out into something more interesting. Devil-slayer, maybe."

"Oh!" Trixie said. She sat in front, lucky thing. "Wow."

"Well, I really enjoyed what happened at Gillespie's. And, think about it, it might be a valuable service for a while, as newly-infected people get spooked. Reminds me, Rik, I got something for you. Trixie, open up that glove box."

She fished out a pair of gloves and handed them back to me. Metal spikes protruded from the knuckle areas of the fingerless leather affairs. "Huh?" I said.

Brent said, "You need something, Rik. You ain't no natural-born warrior."

I frowned against my bouncing knees. He spoke true. I hate fighting. What I am is a songwriter, or at least I want to be.

"Where did you get the bad boy gloves, Father Brent?" Trixie said.

"It's a hobby. You saw my sword rack. As a priest I didn't own many possessions, so I went a little wild after my first few paychecks doing web development. Where'm I going?"

"Just drop us off at Speedystop." Our local source for overpriced snacks, open twenty-four hours a day.

"All right. But we should talk soon. About Kezzias. About maybe going on the offensive. You free tonight?"

I heaved a sigh. "I might have work. I forget what day it is, with all that's going on. But, yeah, I'm free until eight-ish, for sure." Looking back on it, it was really cute how nearly normal I thought things were.

A couple more corners, and Father Brent's "bug" pulled into the tiny Speedystop parking lot. I had to wait until Trixie and Brent got out before I could move, but as I slithered free of the little car, a breezeless chill prickled my skin. The sense of darkness nearby set my eyes roving.

"What's that?" I whispered. A moment later, I spotted it. It resembled a heat wave distortion at first, but moving across the asphalt. As my perception tuned in, though, a protruding belly on scrawny legs shuffled toward the Speedystop door. The creature possessed a sunken chest, skinny arms, bird neck, and a lumpy head. Perhaps a step closer to human than the various blechths or whatever Kezzias represented, this new apparition was still a cruel parody of Homo sapiens. A sort of poncho, full of pockets and made of a wiry, stiff fabric, hung from its narrow shoulders.

"What? Where?" Trixie said.

"Shh! Not so loud. Act natural." My eyes darted from the dubious Father Brent, to Trixie's wrinkled brow, to the subhuman monstrosity entering the Speedystop. It seemed to squint at me, and I wrenched my head around to track a car driving by.

Trixie drawled from the side of her mouth. "So natural."

"It went in," I said.

"What went in?" Brent said.

"Something new. Almost human and really hard to see." An idea seized me, and I clutched at Brent's sleeve. "Come on, let's see where it goes."

"You can see, maybe." Trixie grumbled.

"Sure, Rik," Father Brent said, but instead of following me straightaway, he opened the front hood of the "bug" and withdrew a black-wrapped parcel a foot and a half long, but only a few inches wide. He stuffed in under his belt at the small of his back. As he walked, he moved well, hardly waddling at all.

"What's a devil doing at a Speedystop?" Trixie fell into step with me.

"Got me, there. Maybe they eat microwave burritos." I stepped into the fluorescent lighting and mass-produced merchandise of the Speedystop. It smelled like nacho cheese. The creature had vanished. A glum young man behind the cash register gave me a bored glance, then returned to tapping at his phone. I had four door choices. Men's, ladies', employees only, or the glass door to the walk-in refrigerator.

I picked the refrigerator. If I hesitated, the cashier would no doubt come to life and raise a fuss, so I strode over to it with Trixie and Father Brent right behind me, past the windshield wiper fluid and motor oil. Inside, a cold wave of beer-soaked air enveloped me.

Here, too, I saw no sign of our quarry. Racks of milk, juice, pop, and other sugary inventions surrounded me. Instinct guided my feet. I followed the direction that seemed most unsettling, and it led me to a blank patch of wall. I splayed my hands against its surface.

It looked like sheet metal with insulation underneath, but it felt like stone. And malevolent eyes watched me. I could feel them boring into the top of my head. I snapped my head up. Nothing.

"I still don't see anything, bro," Trixie said. "Oh, except they have mint flavored coffee coolers, now. Whoa. They want an arm and leg for 'em."

"Trust me," I said, and closed my eyes. Concentrating on what my eyes could not see, I felt the world around me along all the axes I knew. Spiritual, material, and the sort of super-material domain of Kezzias and his kin. Like squinting through fog, I soaked in a hazy impression of an arched stone doorway. Perched atop it, a gargoyle like a demonic dog leered at me, black eyes agleam with avid hunger and searing hate.

I didn't allow myself time for any logical thoughts to wedge themselves in to trip me up. I leapt straight up. I grabbed living stone and felt it move under my fingers. It toppled from its archway pedestal and I hurtled it straight down into the ground. It hit with a sound like a brick cracking on concrete. For a heartbeat, unreality wavered. Trixie and Father Brent inhaled sharply and their eyes widened.

"Whoa," Brent blurted. "Get your protection on, Rik. Remember?"

I found his suggestion opaque at first, but I clued in fast when the stony dog-monster twisted its body into a "U" and sunk its teeth into my shin. It growled like a rock tumbler.

"Gah!" Pain shot up my leg. I aimed a kick at the creature, but my shoe just bounced off. It was like slugging a sack of iron filings. Belatedly, the thought came: rightness. Slipping under the waves of pain, I sought my meditative state.

Meanwhile, Trixie's hands pressed together and she began to emanate a blue-white radiance, like a crystalline winter sky. Father Brent unwrapped his car-boot bundle. In the blink of an eye, two daggers with curly blade guards leapt into his meaty hands.

My eyes stayed open as I flushed rightness through my body. A rosy tint leaked out where the gargoyle sank its teeth into my leg. A moment later, it let go, snarling mouth trailing black vapor. It snapped at me again, in a series of chomps, almost too fast for the eye to follow. I felt these bites, but not as pain. They seemed like moments of pressure on the outside of sheet metal armor.

Father Brent crouched low and jabbed at the demon dog with his ninja blades. They penetrated. Not easily, I could tell, but the tips of the daggers sank at least an inch into the gray-black body, and slid sideways. Gray powder puffed from the openings, and the doglike monster howled like a supersonic jet.

Its "fight" turned to "flight." Wailing, it ran at the stony door it had perched atop. I aimed a second kick at it as it fled, and this blow seemed to have more impact. I think I lifted its butt end, and it skidded, out of control, against the arch.

Trixie was so bright she cast shadows, and where her beams fell on the gargoyle, it fizzed and leaked vapor. Father Brent lumbered after the devil dog, but it pushed through the door and scampered away into the blackness beyond.

We gathered under the arch. Trixie's light showed a downward-trending spiral ramp, encased in stone walls. The merest flicker of shadow traced the fleeing creature until it disappeared around the spiral.

Father Brent got a few words out between pants. "What have we, here?"

"It looks old," Trixie said. She tapped me on the shoulder. "You all right, bro? Or is it back to the hospital with you?"

"I'm good," I said. "Father Brent's idea worked. If I concentrate, I get really tough skin."

Trixie's light faded, by and by. "Nice. And nice daggers, Father Brent. Way to think ahead."

"Thanks," he said. "Self-defense has been on my mind. For some reason."

A voice boomed behind us, like the beat of a bass drum covered in rocks. "You!"

As one, we turned. Trixie's and my eyes flew wide.

Father Brent lifted his upper lip in a sneer. "Kezzias."