"What are you doing here?" I asked Shawn in a panic.

"Breakfast!" Shawn said, glancing from person to person on the porch. "Your mom's making me breakfast. It's my morning off. She didn't tell you?"

My husband looked hurt and confused as he tried to make sense of Bryce Tripp sitting shirtless on the porch swing. I could tell he was struggling to process everything he'd just overheard Lindsay say.

Bryce stood and held up his hands defensively. "We're all just le-le—" he stuttered. But he couldn't finish his sentence.

"What the hell is going on here?" Shawn repeated, now shooting me a mystified look.

He stormed up the porch.

He slipped his gun from its holster, then stared at Bryce as he tried to say something. But once again Bryce failed to get the words out, his jaw quivering.

"He's infected!" Shawn screamed like a distraught child. "You're all obviously at risk!" He turned to me, disgusted. "Especially you! You loose bitch!"

Ian rushed out to the porch.

"Shawn," he said. "Let's just calm down a bit. You're upset. I understand that. But let's just calm down."

"Calm down? What the hell, Ian? I'm doing my job. This overrides any clearance you got! These two are no doubt a 'contagion threat' now!" Shawn wagged his gun between me and Bryce. "That means it's up to our discretion to expire them or arrest them. Period! And this idiot is obviously well on his way to stage two!" He raised his gun and pointed it straight at Bryce. "What were you thinking, Ian? Keeping them at the house? I should have done this a long time ago."

I leaped onto my feet and put a hand gingerly on Shawn's shoulder.

"Shawn," I said.

He whipped around, facing me. Tears were starting to well in his eyes.

"Screw you, Ashley," he whispered.

"Shawn." I didn't know what else to say.

Finally he gave me a heartbreaking expression of pure hurt.

Then he spun back around, and with a terrifying, primitive scream, he fired his gun at Bryce.

Ian lunged forward, drawing his own gun now.

But he was too late.

Bryce collapsed backward onto the porch swing, sending the chains bouncing and jangling as he rolled to the ground. He clutched at his stomach, writhing in pain. Blood spilled between his fingers. For a moment he tried to pull himself up with his arms, smearing the porch boards with blood, but then he collapsed backward again. . .

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