Georgie steadied her breath.

The shape crawling across the floor wasn’t an it—the movement was wrong for an animal, too deliberate, too painfully slow. A dragging of limbs that had forgotten how to be limbs. A body reduced to memory.

Her torch trembled in her hand.

“Samson?” she whispered.

A faint groan answered her.
Jean was conscious, curled against the far wall, one arm shielding Josie.

“Georgie—don’t come down,” Samson rasped. “She—she isn’t attacking. She’s afraid. Just like—”

The sound of a knee grinding against the floorboards cut her off.

Georgie focused the torch.

And then she saw her properly.

A young woman.
Or rather—what remained of one....

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