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him more by staying silent, giving him a little quiet time to remember data from some obscure journal article that would justify a retreat in the name of science.  As it happened, he looked back at us once more, then walked slowly toward Lucas.
    The two men stood about ten yards from the front door of the hospital, only a few feet apart, staring at one another.  Winston said something I couldn't make out.  Then Lucas smiled, and I saw his mouth from a single word:  Harpy .
    I knew from a college course in Greek mythology that a Harpy was a voracious monster with the head and trunk of a woman and the tail, wings and talons of a bird.  "Get out of there!" I yelled to Winston.
    Winston took a step back.  The bird advanced on him.  He turned to run, but its two wings — each fashioned of a man and a woman — closed around him.  He fell to the ground with the bird on him.  I heard his muffled screams and saw his fingers scraping the frozen earth as he struggled, in vain, to crawl away.
    Rice fumbled for his radio.  "Nail that fucker," he sputtered into it.
    "Still no shot," a voice answered.
    "Nothing clear and clean," another voice responded.
    "No go," a third barked.
    Winston's screams died out in ten, fifteen seconds that passed like an hour, and Lucas and the others stood up, striking the same strange pose as they had before.  Winston lay in a fetal position, motionless.  The two knives dripped blood — Winston's blood, I was sure — down the necks of the two women hostages.
    Lucas’ face was blank, but his eyes were wild.  They locked on mine.  "My life!" he screamed.  "Give me my life!"  Trickles of blood ran from the corners of his mouth, down his chin.  His face went blank again.  He and the four others slowly backed up toward the hospital, the doors opened for them, and they were gone.

Chapter 3
     
    Rice exploded toward Winston like a missile on tiny legs and was the first to reach him, just ahead of Hancock and me.  He crouched down and rolled Winston onto his back, then shot immediately to his feet again.  We all stood there, transfixed with horror.  Twenty or more stab wounds to Winston's neck, chest and stomach oozed blood.  One eye was punctured, the other wide open, staring at the sky.  A hunk of his lower lip was missing.  Blood streamed down his chin and neck and fed a crooked rivulet running on the pavement.
    Two paramedics — one female and one male — arrived, but stood a respectful distance behind Rice.
    Hancock made the sign of the cross and started whispering a prayer.  Just as she did, a pink bubble formed at Winston's nostril, then disappeared.  We watched it happen two more times.  Then nothing.
    "My God, he was breathing," Rice said.  He shook his head, no doubt thinking the same thing I was — that Winston was most of the way on his journey out of this world and better off finishing the trip.  "We have to try," he said quietly.  He knelt down and listened at Winston's nose for breathing.  Apparently hearing none, he gently tilted Winston's head back, then grabbed his chin and pulled his lower jaw down to open his mouth and start resuscitation.  As soon as he did, blood poured from the corners of Winston's mouth.  The rivulet on the pavement swelled to a puddle.  Rice's hands started to tremble.  "His tongue's gone," he said.
    I saw another pink bubble advance and recede.  I was certain Hancock and Rice saw it, too, but none of us mentioned it.
    "Get a stretcher," Rice shouted up at the paramedics.
    The male paramedic ran toward the ambulance.
    "Go help him," Rice ordered the woman.
    She looked confused.  "It's right near the door, not buried under anything," she said.
    "Go!" Rice barked.
    She turned and jogged away.
    Rice moved his hand, which I now noticed was too big for his body — a mitt of a hand — and covered Winston's nose and mouth, sealing his fate.  Hancock and I exchanged glances, but didn't try to stop him.  He kept his hand there until the