The Taking

tattooed on both fists.
        As the dogs continued to circle and sniff her, Molly realized that Russell was not alone in his distrust. Others in the bar, even people she knew well, who had a moment ago greeted her by name or with a wave, watched her not with the previous political calculation, but with unconcealed suspicion.
        Suddenly she understood their change of attitude. They were as familiar with those alien-invasion movies as she and Neil were, and the creepshow currently playing in the theaters of their minds was one of those they-walk-among-us-passing-for-human tales, perhaps Invasion of the Body Snatchers or John Carpenter's The Thing.
        The singular behavior of the dogs suggested that something about Molly must be different. Even though the nine members of this furry entourage wagged their tails and licked her hands, and seemed to be charmed by her, most if not all of the people in the tavern were no doubt wondering if the dogs' actions ought to be interpreted as a warning that something not of this earth now walked among them in disguise.
        She could too easily imagine what their reaction would have been if all of the dogs-or even just one mean-tempered specimen-had greeted her with growls, hackles raised, ears flattened to their skulls. Such a display of hostility would have received but one interpretation, and Molly would have found herself in the position of an accused witch in seventeenth-century Salem.
        In at least two places in the large room, rifles and shotguns leaned against the walls, arsenals within easy reach.
        Many of these would-be defenders of the planet surely were packing handguns, as Molly was. Among them would be a few, wound tight by dread and frustrated by their powerlessness, who would be relieved, even beguiled, to have a chance to shoot something, someone, anyone.
        In this fever swamp of paranoia, if the shooting started, it might not stop until every shooter had himself been shot.
        Molly turned her attention toward the back of the room, where the children were gathered. They looked scared. From the moment that Molly had seen them, they had struck her as terribly vulnerable, and now more than ever.
        "Go," she said to the dogs, "shoo, go."
        Their reaction to her command proved as peculiar as their unanimous attraction to her. Instantly compliant, as if all nine of them had been trained by her, they retreated to the places they had been when she had entered.
        This remarkable exhibition of obedience only sharpened the suspicion of the sixty people gathered in the tavern. But for the grumble of the rain, the room had fallen silent. Every stare made the same circuit: from Molly to the retreating dogs, and back to Molly again.
        Neil broke the spell when he said to Russell Tewkes, "This is one strange damn night, weirdness piled on weirdness. I could use a drink. You doing business? You have any beer nuts?"
        Russell blinked and shook his head, as though he had been in a trance of suspicion. "I'm not selling the stuff tonight. I'm giving it away. What'll you have?"
        "Thank you, Russ. Got Coors in a bottle?"
        "I only sell draft and bottled, no damn cans. Aluminum causes Alzheimer's."
        Neil said, "What do you want, Molly?"
        She didn't want anything that might blur her perceptions and cloud her judgment. Surely survival depended on sobriety.
        Meeting Neil's eyes, however, she knew that he wanted her to drink something, not because she needed it but because most of the people in the tavern probably thought that under the circumstances she ought to need a drink-if she was merely human like them.
        Survival would also depend on flexibility.
        "Hit me with a Corona," she said.
        While Molly had to study people and brood about them to arrive at a useful understanding of their natures, much in the rigorously analytic fashion that she built the cast of players in her novels, Neil formed an instinctive understanding of anyone he met within moments of the first introduction. His gut reactions were at least as reliable as her intellectual analysis of character.
        She accepted the Corona and tipped it to her lips with an acute awareness of being the center of attention. She intended to take a small sip, but surprised herself by chugging a third of the beer.
        When she lowered the bottle, the level of tension in the tavern dropped