 . . . .
 . . .
if the sound of a thousand angry bees echoed through the valley. A buzzing that first began quietly in the distance slowly intensified as it was joined by others. “Chainsaws!” Franklin whispered to me. “A fucking lot of them.” “Let’s hope they have more of those than guns,” I said as I looked down the face of the wall at the ground, fifteen feet below. The rumble of engines followed. Then it seemed as if the darkness came alive. Hundreds of lights suddenly appeared. At first I thought they were automobile headlights, but I noticed that almost none were in pairs, they were singles. “Motorcycles?” I asked Franklin. “I don’t think so,” he replied, “they don’t sound right.”
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