Tarbabies

I called the police, but I don't think they're coming. They've got their hands full with the Manhattan quarantine, so they can't waste their time on a nothing little town like Otterkill. That means it's up to me and the neighbors, and there are fewer of us every day. Fewer of us, and more of them. Every person we lose is one more monster to deal with. The Spiller family, the folks from the Retirement Center, even the Mathises' Rottweiler are now stalking the streets, waiting for someone to get too close. A single touch is all it takes.

That thing on the porch won't go away. I called the police, but I don't think they're coming. They've got their hands full with the Manhattan quarantine, so they can't waste their time on a nothing little town like Otterkill.

The Friendly Haven Assisted Living Center is supposed to be the last stop - a quiet, comfortable place to die. But death is not what the monsters outside are offering. The tarbabies will get in eventually. They always do. Keeping those shambling bags of slime from oozing through the countless cracks and seams infesting this place would require more vigilance than we can muster. There are no heroes at Friendly Haven. For what we have to do, fear may be our last, best hope.