One of the Skinners survived — by accident, almost by miracle.
William, blinded by rage and exhaustion, hadn't noticed that the body lying beneath the shattered door was merely unconscious.
The man came to about half an hour later. His head throbbed, and the world swayed as if he were standing on the deck of a sinking ship. The air reeked of blood, iron, and rain.
He staggered outside, barely suppressing the urge to vomit, gulping down the heavy, wet air. Rain drummed against the asphalt, fusing with the reflections of distant streetlights. The world had lost its colors — all that remained was a dull, gray certainty: his crew was dead. Every last one of them.
He was alone.
It took all his strength to stumble toward the phone booth. He nearly collapsed inside, fumbling a coin from his pocket. His trembling fingers struggled to feed it into the slot, and when the slick receiver nearly slipped from his wet hands, a curse escaped him. He dialed a number — familiar, dreaded.
