The caravan of donkeys didn’t near the edge of the lake until New York Hill crowded the shore, pinching the flatland to a narrow strip. A quarter mile shy of the water the animals fought their reins, determined to head uphill despite Angelo’s reprimands. A hundred yards from the shore, Angelo’s donkey sat down and brayed, the harsh sound twice as loud amidst the threatening darkness.

Angelo swore in Italian and leapt off the animal’s back. Landing unevenly, he stumbled. Hundreds of hooves buried in oozing mud had left craters inches deep and now frozen. Chancho spotted a dark lump yards further ahead. “Mi amigo, I think your donkey spotted something the rest of us did not.”

Angelo stopped short of whipping the animal and squinted into the dark. “A herd of cattle? They would not bed down in de mud.”

“A sick one came down for a drink and got stuck,” Starr offered. “Probably half-rotten. Used to happen every now and then back home.”

Angelo stepped closer. “It sure does stink bad enough.”

“There’s more than one.” As Chancho’s eyes adjusted to the distance, dozens of dark mounds littered the way before them. “I’m afraid there’s many more.”

Chloe stated what the others had been loath to accept. “The plague. It affects animals too.”

“Santa Maria.” Angelo danced backwards, tripping on the rough surface. “The donkeys are right. Up de hill.” He clucked in his animal’s ear and the donkey stood. “Hup, hup.” Back in the saddle, he turned the animal and led the party up the hill, making as many switchbacks as they needed. “Spiacente ragazza,” he patted the donkey. “I should have known you always know better than ole Angel.”

Fifteen minutes later, they dismounted a hundred yards shy of the outermost homes on top of New York Hill. With no moon and no stars, even the large, two-story Craftsmans barely stood out against the night sky. Teasing the senses, the whole settlement seemed a mirage dancing in and out of vision.

The eerie sight bristled the hair on Chancho’s neck. “There’s not a single light, not a lamp. Nothing.” He led his donkey next to Angelo’s. “Shouldn’t there be electricity here?”

“Even for de miner there is always electricity in Thurber; gas too.”

“Maybe there’s a curfew due to the outbreak,” Chloe offered.

“Along with lights out?”

“Nah.” Angelo pinched a nostril and blew snot on the ground. “The rich would pay no attention even for de curfew. They would feel it did not apply. A night like this,” he wiped the back of his hand on his pants, “they would burn every lamp on high just to rub it in.”

“What do you think, mi amigo?”

“Let us a tie up de donkeys and take a closer look. I do not think anybody is home, and besides, I have always wanted to see de inside of one of these fancy flytraps.”

“You think that’s a good idea?” Starr stopped him. “Considering?”

“What? The plague? It sleeps outside as well as in. No reason I cannot be comfortable.”

Chancho couldn’t fault Angelo’s logic, but he also couldn’t shake the memory of Marcello bursting from the bedroom. “If anyone hears a thing, we fall back here without a word. Trust me, mis amigos, if there are sick here, it’s best we don’t disturb them.” With those words they followed Angelo’s lead.

Chloe worked her way over to Chancho and took his hand. “Maybe there was an evacuation?”

Chancho squeezed back. “Of the wealthy. I wondered the same thing.”

“I know it’s a lousy thing, but—”

“No.” He stopped her. “In this case it would be better than the alternative.”

“That they all died.”

Nodding his agreement, Chancho quietly worried their fate had been much worse than death. He brushed his hand across the grip of his pistol, and prayed it would be a mercy if the evening required he use it. “Are you still glad you came?” He held her hand to his chest.

“What? And miss out on a moonlight stroll through one of the most upscale neighborhoods in Texas with a dashing young man I fancy?”

“There’s no moon.”

“Details, Mr. Villarreal, really. I thought you were a big picture man.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist. “I rather fancy you myself. I should apologize, señorita, for taking so long to show you.”

“I don’t know if I would have been ready.”

Chancho held her closer, hoping to shield her from any unknown danger. “You seemed reasonably ready to me.”

She pinched him.

“Ay.” They reached the corner of a picket fence on the end of the main road and stopped to listen. “Speaking of details.” No barking dogs, no radios buzzing inside gas-warmed living rooms. “Nothing.”

“Are you still glad you came?” She turned it on him. “Not exactly stumping for the Pay to Prosper Act anymore, now are we?”

“I suppose we are here because we need to be.” Walking along the fence, every member of the party squinted in a different direction, scanning darkened windows for flickering light, searching shadows for movement, stretching their ears to encompass the entirety of the hill. “I’m glad we are together.”

“Why Chancho, you’re not worried about me, are you?”

“It’s just that…” A page of wind-fluttered newspaper caught in the fence beside them.

“Yes?” she elbowed him and leaned close.

“If I step on a toad and scream like a little girl, you won’t laugh, will you?”

She pushed him. “I make no such promises.”

“You love birds done chittering back there? Or should we find a swing on one of these porches?” Starr jibed.

“I love swings.” Chloe replied with honey in her voice before turning to Chancho. “Just don’t step on any toads. If you scream, I might scream. And that might send Starr running into the woods crying.”

“I heard that.”

“Play nice, you two.”

Angelo shushed them. “How am I supposed to know if I have heard anyone other than you?”

“Lo siento, mi amigo. You are right, of course. Let us split up and listen more closely. Starr, why don’t you stay with Angelo while Chloe and I take the other side of the street.”

“Stay within sight.” Angelo slapped Chancho’s butt. “A good night for running grappa is a bad night for running.” The little Italian embraced him suddenly. “You like? I made that one up myself.”

“It’s a good one, mi amigo. We’ll stay close.” After a deep breath he and Chloe slipped across the dirt street and onto a brick-paved sidewalk afore the row of northern-most homes. Picket fences, brick sidewalks. Some of the homes seemed so new he could smell the cedar siding. He had heard of entire towns being built in places like Hollywood simply to stage a film. He imagined such a place would feel like this.

Side by side, the couple crept forward, flicking their eyes from surface to surface, straining to see the darkness itself. But nothing on either side of them seemed real. Out of the scrub oak, somehow an upscale neighborhood sprouted, just to be abandoned before the paint could peel?

Without event they reached the end of the stretch of homes and reconvened at a gazebo built on an overlook. The view seized Chancho with terror, like stumbling into a den of rattlers.

“That down there is Thurber, Texas—de part beyond de fence,” Angelo said.

If the absence of lights had been a surprise before, the presence of them proved doubly as much now. The dark flatlands a few hundred feet below them twinkled with sporadic flickering lights—flames, not electric. They were not alone after all. Whatever was at play in Thurber, outsiders would certainly complicate matters. Chancho only hoped the results would save life rather than destroy it.

They quickly backed away from the overlook, feeling the need to hide from sight despite the suffocating blanket of darkness keeping the most nocturnal of beasts at bay. Chloe spoke in a hushed voice. “This is good, right? Some of the people are still alive, still well enough to care for the others.”

“Like I cared for my brother?” Angelo spit and shook his head. “There was nothing I could do for him.”

Chancho scratched his scalp, leaving his sombrero hanging by its strap. “All we know is we’ve found Thurber and there are people here, just like there should be. How many and in what condition… we will have to wait till morning.”

“Chancho’s right,” Starr added, “and so was Angelo. It looks like one of these fancy homes is our best bet for spending the night. If no one’s supposed to be up here, then out of sight is better than the wide open.”

“It is about time I sleep in the bed of a rich man. I am finding me one with goose down. Besides, I always stab better on a full night’s sleep.” Angelo snorted. “You know, in case I find me that fork-tongued bastard Vezzoni wandering about in the morning.”

Chancho feared the fork-tongued bastard Vezzoni could be wondering around as they spoke. “It’s agreed, mis amigos. No sleeping on the ground tonight, but which one?” He indicated the row of apparently abandoned homes.

After a short argument, they ended up in front of a brick bungalow that looked non-threatening enough, and hopefully as empty as all the rest. “Really, gentlemen,” Chloe scolded, “and you say women are indecisive. Trespassing tends to be an indifferent sort of thing.”

“I don’t care where we trespass as long those being trespassed against aren’t around to notice—infected or not.” Starr pushed past the others.

“Muey bueno. All together then.” As a huddle they stepped onto the cement porch. Chancho noticed a small hive of mud daubers clinging to the porch rail as he ran his hand along it. The weather had been too cold to form a new hive for at least two weeks. It felt like a good sign.

Stopped in front of the door, Chloe released his hand while unsheathing a knife from her boot. “I get my own room, right?” She whispered.

He nodded while drawing his .38, keeping it hidden beneath his serape. After drawing his own weapon, Starr tried the knob and found it unlocked. Without even a creak the door fell open. Had there been a legion of the infected waiting quietly inside, little good would their sense of sight done them. Without artificial light nor star nor moon, the band of four was at the whim of their less developed senses.

The fetid swamp odor Chancho had noted about the stone house filled his mind with horrors from the morning. Shoving the images aside, he stepped nimbly into the entry. Chloe, Angelo and Starr fanned out beside him, leaving the door open in a desperate attempt to usher scraps of atmospheric glow inside.

For an extended moment each of them stood completely still, holding their breath. A creak echoed from deep within the house—perhaps from the shift in air pressure or added weight on the floor joists. Then total silence. Blessed yet threatening silence. Walls formed in Chancho’s peripheral vision. Focusing directly on an object caused its retreat. But by allowing the fringes of his sight to form a broad spatial sense, he gradually felt the interior of the home phase into existence around him.

There was only one direction in which to move; forward. Four abreast, they inched through the living room, bumping quietly into sofa and chair. The furniture remained intact and undisturbed, exactly how Chancho imagined a family of four would have left it on the day the news reached them. Midway through the room, a doorway appeared to their right—a study or sitting room.

They stopped, temporarily undecided on whether to remain shoulder to shoulder at the risk of leaving uncharted territory behind them, or…

The front door whisked shut with a slam, taking with it a glimmer of light. Chancho spun on his heels, aiming his gun at the belly of blackness.

“Just de wind. There must be a window open somewhere.” Angelo whispered.

“In January?”

“Was most likely October when they left.” The Italian nudged the senator with his elbow. “Be a good lad and tell us what you find in de study.”

Starr grunted as he stepped cautiously toward the yawning doorway—a black mouth within the darkness. He crouched at the opening, shifting his head to the side for a listen. Finally he slid deeper within and disappeared. Chancho counted to ten before hailing him. “Mi amigo, still just the four of us?” No response.

Suddenly, a shadow emerged from the opening.

“Amigo?” Chancho lurched.

Starr finally answered, “Nothing but some books and a desk. We need to find a lamp or some candles.”

“Holy frijoles, you scared me.” Chancho took a deep breath after realizing he’d been holding it.

“What? You expected someone else?”

“Someone more mature than a twelve-year-old?” Chloe butted in. “No, not really.”

“No, no.” Chancho’s tongue tasted sour. “Just something about the…”

“What?”

“Nada. Never mind. Let’s split up and search the rest of the house.” Chancho started toward what he imagined was the kitchen. “Only the dead could remain this quiet.”

“Comforting.” Chloe fell in behind him.

Angelo and Starr crept toward a second opening in the wall to the right, most likely a hallway to the bedrooms.

Bumping along the counter, Chancho caught his serape on an open drawer. Inspecting it with steadily creeping hands, he found a battery powered lamp lying amongst an assortment of screwdrivers and small hand tools. “I think I found a light.”

“What are you waiting for?” Chloe bumped into him from behind.

Her presence compounded Chancho’s lack of orientation. The odors of methane and Chloe’s peach blossom shampoo oscillated in his nostrils until his head spun. He tried the switch. Nothing.

After slapping the contraption in his palm, he tried it again. This time a dim, orange beam burst from its end, both expanding the room around them and encasing them in finite walls. The light flickered before brightening and growing steady as dust motes swirled in a dozen eddies all around them.

Afraid to see too much after seeing so little, Chancho inched his gaze around the room. White cupboards, floral draperies, a kitchen table. And an ashtray. His heart leapt.

Chloe had seen the same thing. “The table.”

Chancho focused on what his mind was telling him. “The dust patterns. The ashtray’s been moved.”

“Recently.”

Chancho moved toward the table. “Assuming the infected don’t smoke.”

“Vezzoni’s men.”

After hovering the back of his hand over the tray, Chancho stooped to inspect the cigar butt resting in it. “It’s cold.”

“That’s good.”

“What’s good?” Starr joined them, Angelo at his heels.

“We saw de light from de hallway. Nothing yonder but a pair a fancy beds and a fancy indoor—bastard!” Angelo exclaimed. The other three froze. He pointed at the table. “Vezzoni has been here.” He lifted the cigar butt to his nose for a whiff. “I will kill ‘em.”

“Could it have been—”

“Fancy Italian cigars. Is Vezzoni, no doubt.”

“Okay, so the Company’s been back since the evacuation,” Starr shrugged. “They’ve got a vested interest in their property.”

Angelo stamped, sending reverberations cascading through the house. “What about de people? The minors? What is de Company’s interest in them?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Compadres.” Chancho switched the battery lamp off and on again. “We’ll get to the bottom of this at first light. Until then,” he motioned toward the bedrooms, “let’s get some rest.”

Chloe put her hand on Angelo’s shoulder. “Whatever Vezzoni’s been up to, we’ll find out.”

Angel sucked his teeth and cracked his neck. “No hard feelings.” He and Starr exchanged nods before leading the way back into the living room.

Chloe continued, “Trust me. If the Company’s responsible for any of this, there’s nobody better to make them pay than these two.” She winked at Chancho before draping her arm around Angelo. “You might not realize, but you’re in the presence of the Motorcycle Mexican and the hero of Austin’s Phoenix Day.”

Angelo stopped short and looked Starr in the eyes. “You would not be yanking Angel’s legs like teats on a cow? And I thought both of you were just fancy wigs from the government.”

Starr tugged at his scalp. “Sorry, I don’t even wear a hat.”

“Well squeeze my lemons.” Angelo shook his head. “Both of you are like folk heroes around these parts.” He wiped his expression clean. “Not that I follow such things. Besides,” he lowered his gaze, “Phebe’s recommendation was all I needed.”

They were silent for a moment until Chancho led the way into the bedrooms with the battery lamp illuminating what they’d seen with only their fingers before. Several minutes later, they’d sorted themselves out and settled down for the night.

Chloe opted for the bedroom to the right while Starr and Angelo took the larger room on the left. Chancho insisted on sleeping in the living room, claiming his snoring needed more space to spread out lest the windows rattle.

Without electricity for the pump, the indoor plumbing failed to function. But after seeing the cattle scattered along the edge of Big Lake like fish washed ashore, they happily settled for a swig of water from Angelo’s canteen and a soft place to sleep.

Chancho lay motionless on the sofa until he no longer heard movement from the others. Something irritated the fringes of his thought. Maybe it was the odor that permeated the house, or how all the doors had been wide open with all the furniture in its place. He’d checked all the windows except the ones in the study—every one closed. When his thoughts could no longer be held back, he slipped from his resting spot and headed to the study, lamp in hand.