EW has an exclusive excerpt from the novel, out Aug. 1.
Centuries later, you lifted a latch.
Then you fitted a key, turned a knob.
Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company
Now you could open a door with a phone or a fingerprint or a voice command.
The ways of entry change.
But you still have to kick off the door.
Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company
For the past few years Undertown has been busy harvesting information.
Eighty million accounts from Anthem and seventy million from Target.
Fifty-six million from Home Depot.
Seventy-six million from JP Morgan Chase.
Ashley Madison, AOL, British Airways, Living Social, Adobe.
UPS and Ebay and Blizzard and Dominoes.
Amassing information for a cyberwar.
They only worried about money, as though money were the only thing worth stealing.
But Undertown wanted usernames and passcodes, the more subtle but severely damaging information.
This is what everyone should be worried about.
Not their accounts, but their identity.
Snowden leaks the NSA files.
Hackers leak the Sony emails.
DNA has been replaced by streams of data integrated into databases.
Just like thatyou can be erased, possessed.
For now Portland is the target.
Portland is the focus group.
Portland is the door.
He thumbs open Google maps to call up the directions for his next delivery.
His trailer is full of Budweiser that will never be drunk.
The screen of his phone streams with red code that finds a reflection in his eyes.
He drops the phone and its screen spiderwebs with fissures.
His right hand falls to his custom-made, silver-skulled gearshift.
His grill cleaves a Prius in two.
A Harley gets eaten up beneath his tires.
Sparks light up the night.
Their screaming faces are lit by the wash of his headlights.
But something happens when Stephen logs in.
The screen streams red.
Everyone opens their door with a bowl of candy and a smile that doesnt last.
There are no stars over Portland.
The moths are out, battering the overhead fluorescents at the gas island.
Probably from Lake Oswego, downtown to hit the bars.
The drivera pouty-faced kid with a cigarette dangling the corner of his mouthkills the engine and the stereo dies.
the attendant asks and the driver says, Yeah, with super.
Smoke and beer in his breath.
He fumbles with his wallet, hands over a black AmEx.
The line shudders with fuel and the numbers start to twirl.
Then the stereo starts up again, blasting so loudly, it hurts.
His ears feel ready to burst and bleed.
All of them are staring with annoyance at the white Jeep.
You mind turning that down?
the attendant says and the skeleton says, Actually, I do.
He blows a cloud of smoke and cranks the knob higher.
He has a tromping gait, stooping forward, his arms dangling at his sides.
Hes a heavy guy, his big body crushed into a rabbit costume splashed with what looks like blood.
What do you think?
Psycho Killer Easter Bunny?
Hey, fattieIm pretty sure I know where you hid all the chocolate eggs!
The man in the rabbit costume stops and slowly swivels his head toward them.
The ears make his shadow appear horned.
He starts toward them and the skeletons in the Jeep giggle nervously.
Oh shit, this guy is messed up, they say.
Roll up the windows, Todd.
Todd, the driver, fumbles with the keys and they clatter to the floor.
His eyes appear red-laced.
What must be fake blood matts his costume and speckles his blank face.
What the hell happened to you, bro?
Get off on the wrong holiday?
You kill Santa Claus or what?
More giggles from the backseat.
The music thumps like an angry heartbeat between them.
He walks to the rear of the Jeep, reaching for the nozzle.
Put up the windows, Toddput up the windows!
Todd ducks down for the keys, fumbling around, hooking the ring with his finger.
He tries mashing them into the ignition, but its too late.
Gas splatters the ground, then the rear of the vehicle.
He holds out his arm as if firing a pistol, splashing their faces.
They shield their eyes with their hands and sputter, Oh shit, shit, shit!
The gas ignites with the thump of a dropped crate, of misplaced air.
It goes blue first, like pooling water, and then brightens to a blinding orange.
The boys are screaming, their skin melting off them.
And then the pumps explode, one after the other, hurling sheets of metal.
He sits up, and then stands unsteadily, before marching away.
All throughout Portland, the wind blows and the trees seethe, their leaves torched with color.
Pumpkins shudder with candlelight.
And screens glow with streaming red code.
People look at their phones and then tear off their masks to reveal something scarier beneath.
People checking scores, stocks, the weather, email, text messages, social media.
Hold on a sec, they say, let me take a photo of this.
Hold on a sec, they say, I want to show you this funny video.
Hold on a sec, they say, I gotta send this text.
And when they look up again, their eyes burn as if pocketed with embers.
Trick-or-treaters roam the streets hungry for more than suckers and candy bars.
A window shatters, a body flung from it.
A car smashes through a fence and into a backyard party lit with strings of jack-o-lantern lights.
The digital veins of the city course with the contagion.
It does not hail control.
No ground crew comes to meet it.
A fire burns in the terminal and the flames shimmer across the fuselage.
The tarmac is empty when its wheels screech and it rolls slowly to a stop.
The door opens and a man appears in it.
A man named Cloven who takes a deep breath of the smoke-scented air as if it were purifying.
The fall climax is a time of reaping harvest, of accounting.
The sun and the night end their tug-of-war as the long death of winter emerges the victor.
Tonight, darkness wins.
