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The crazy had gotten the door open.

He was lurching into the diner, arms extended wide, looking for John. He was drooling. John glanced into the kitchen. The back door was closed, was probably locked. He dropped the keys into his pocket and gripped the tire iron with both hands. He was trapped. He would have to fight his way out.

Coming around the corner of the counter, he drew back like a batter stepping up to the plate. He had no choice; he swung, with all his might.

The crazy, arms still extended, took the blow full on the left side of his head. John almost smiled with satisfaction at the meaty smack as metal met bone. But the crazy didn't go down. He staggered, knocked off balance, but recovered quickly and came on again. John's mouth dropped open in surprise.

He'd hit the man hard enough to kill him…

He swung again, desperate, now, and this time the man did go down: he dropped to his knees, but it seemed to John that he had fallen not from physical pain but as a result of simple physics: force equals mass times acceleration, and he'd hammered this crazy motherfucker for all he was worth.

The two blows had split the scalp and revealed the skull underneath… and the brain within the skull! Blood so dark it appeared black ran down the side of the man's head. By all rights, he should've been down, and out.

He was struggling to rise, gripping the corner of a table. He made another inarticulate noise as he got one foot under himself and started to rise. John felt anger well in him, uncontrollable anger at what he felt to be a violation of all that was logical and sane in the world, and he lashed out again. He put everything he had into the swing, and followed through with teeth clenched.

The crazy's head snapped back- and then he went limp. His grip on the table was broken and he fell backward, toppling slowly. He landed heavily, lay unmoving. The butcher knife stood in his chest like a flag planted on the surface of the moon…

John staggered back against the counter, staring in amazement at the dead man. Never before in his life had he experienced anything even remotely as horrifying as this. He felt drained. His chest was heaving.

"Jesus Christ," he managed: "Jesus Christ…"

And then he saw them. There were half a dozen of them, out in the parking lot. Four men, a woman, and a kid. One of the men had been stabbed in the back with a pitchfork, the tips of the tines sprouting from his chest as he lurched along; one man appeared to have been bludgeoned to death, the left side of his face smashed in; another's face was slashed and streaked with blood, in which bits of shattered windshield glass glittered like diamonds; the fourth man had been strangled, the garrote still wound tight about his neck. The woman had been shot: there were three bullet holes above her ample chest. The front of her barmaid's dress was soaked scarlet. The kid, a boy, walked with his hands bound behind his back; his throat had been slit from ear to ear.

They were coming toward the diner, were staring up through the window at him. Diners, come to dine…

He wanted to scream, to cry out in fear and rage, but there was no one to hear. Backing toward the open kitchen door, he brandished the gore-encrusted tire iron. He shook his head by way of warning.

"Stay back," he called to them: "Stay the fuck away from me!"

But it was already too late: they were crowding the doorway, pulling the door open. John whirled and, stepping over the body of the dead waitress, ran for the back door. It was unlocked (Thank God!), and he threw it open and ran out into the fenced-in area he'd scouted earlier.

Chest shuddering, he licked his lips as he searched desperately for something that might be of use to him. The dumpster! He thrust the tire iron through his belt and went over to the dumpster and tried to push it toward the fence. It wouldn't budge. He looked down. The wheel locks were set: he kicked them loose, one at a time. Behind him, he could hear them coming…

He shoved at the dumpster and it trundled loudly over the gravel toward the fence. Head down, he concentrated on getting the dumpster into position. Behind him, he heard excited moans. They knew where he was, now, and they were coming out after him. When the dumpster encountered the fence, he stopped pushing and turned, sliding the tire iron from his belt.

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