"Get inside," hissed Irene. "Go." The status of her house as an inn for displaced survivors could be discussed later, when the danger had passed. She held the front door open and motioned for everyone to be as quiet as possible. She glared at Hunter. The sound of a shotgun blast would draw the gross, rotting piles of mucus and festering flesh [i]right[/i] to her door, and it was not an attractive thought. [i]Do not shoot that thing,[/i] she mouthed.