When a three-mile-long humanoid alien crashes into Earth in western Nebraska, the local small-town sheriff’s job becomes far more complicated—and dangerous—especially when a series of brutal murders occurs.

BEFORE Under the moonlight, the pool of blood shone black. David squatted and peered into the yard-wide void rent into the dirt and scrub brush. It seemed deep, like he could fall in and tumble through the earth, spit out in China, Australia. Wherever the hell is as far away from Nebraska as a man can get. “Sheriff. Which way you figure she went?” David stood on a knee that stiffened when the weather turned frigid, a reminder of a torn meniscus suffered during a high school football game a decade and change earlier. His muscular build made itself known even under his thick, brown coat, which had the words “Sheriff ’s Department” stenciled in yellow across the back. He stood an inch shy of six feet, though the black Stetson on his head made him seem taller. He wore blue jeans, as he always did. The wind lashed at him, needles against his face. Just his goddamned luck that someone would do this on a night so cold. He clicked on his flashlight, and the pool of blood burned to life. To the side, Gentry Luwendyke stood with his arms crossed against a sheepskin coat. A puff of exhalation issued from below his unruly mustache, then was whisked away by the punishing February wind. David carved slow arcs with the flashlight. Some ten yards away, the light caught a smear of red. “This way, it looks like,” David said. David led the way from one spatter to the next, each splash of blood smaller than the last, moving in a mostly straight line toward the dark rim of trees along the field’s western edge. Frost clung to the grass and prairie sage, which crunched like broken glass beneath their boots. By the time they reached a copse of cedars and Russian olives, the trail had diminished to single drops. A rage was building in David’s stomach, combusting until he felt its heat beneath his coat; he was sweating, despite the cold. Someone did this. Someone would have to pay. He clenched the flashlight. No. Not now, he told himself. He could be angry later. Now he needed to focus on the task at hand. Where had she gone? “There.” David saw her first, lying on her side amid a clearing. She seemed dead, till her chest rose and deflated, and a ghostly plume floated from her nostrils. He leaned over her, careful not to step in the blood running across the ground. David set the flashlight in the grass facing her and pulled off his gloves. “Sons of bitches,” Gentry hissed. “Rifle shot. Hit her here,” David said, tracing his hands along the soft fur of the cow’s abdomen. Into her intestines. Lord knows what organs it hit; she was fading fast. “Sons of bitches,” Gentry repeated, louder. Suddenly the heifer snorted and spasmed. Her legs thrashed to find a footing. David fell backward and scrambled away as she pounded her hooves, almost righting herself. Then she stumbled and collapsed. They inched back closer. “She don’t need to suffer no more,” Gentry said. “She doesn’t,” David agreed. “I’ll do it. My cow.” Gentry’s eyes were on the Glock nine-millimeter pistol holstered on David’s right hip. David clicked open the leather strap and drew the weapon, cold as hell in his hand. “No. I can’t have anyone else using my firearm. Regulations.” He stepped over the cow’s head. She was breathing hard, a froth of mucus and blood bubbling from her nose and mouth. Her obsidian eyes pleaded with him, uncomprehending of the pain inside her, the chaos of the world, the horror of life and the even greater horror of whatever lies beyond it. David had no answers. He rested the barrel against her temple and fired.