od in tall and perfect order on
the shelf.

In the darkness, Lewis Stillman carefully removed each volume, blowing
it free of dust. At last all three books were clean and solid in his
hands.

Well, you've done it. You've reached the books and now they belong to
you.

He smiled, thinking of the moment when he would be able to sit down at
the table with his treasure, and linger again and again over the
wonderous pages.

He found an empty carton at the rear of the store and placed the books
inside. Returning to the stairs, he shouldered the rifle and began his
descent to the lower floor.

So far, he told himself, my luck is still holding.

But as Lewis Stillman's foot touched the final stair, his luck ran out.

The entire lower floor was alive with them!

Rustling like a mass of great insects, gliding toward him, eyes gleaming
in the half-light, they converged upon the stairs. They had been waiting
for him.

Now, suddenly, the books no longer mattered. Now only his life mattered
and nothing else. He moved back against the hard wood of the stair-rail,
the carton of books sliding from his hands. They had stopped at the foot
of the stair; they were silent, looking up at him, the hate in their
eyes.

If you can reach the street, Stillman told himself, then you've still
got half a chance. That means you've got to get through them to the
door. All right then, _move_.

Lewis Stillman squeezed the trigger of the automatic and three shots
echoed through the silent store. Two of them fell under the bullets as
Stillman rushed into their midst.

He felt sharp nails claw at his shirt and trousers, heard the cloth
ripping away in their grasp. He kept firing the small automatic into
them, and three more dropped under the hail of bullets, shrieking in
pain and surprise. The others spilled back, screaming, from the door.

The gun was empty. He tossed it away, swinging the heavy Savage rifle
free from his shoulder as he reached the street. The night air, crisp
and cool in his lungs, gave him instant hope.

I can still make it, thought Stillman, as he leaped the curb and plunged
across the pavement. If those shots weren't heard, then I've still got
the edge. My legs are strong; I can outdistance them.

Luck, however, had failed him completely on this night. Near the
intersection of Hollywood Boulevard and Highland, a fresh pack of them
swarmed toward him over the street.

He dropped to one knee and fired into their rank