The meat moved slowly.

The Mask strode the misted woods. Crackling possibility fogged in from the coast, the mass of cloudy Weird having not yet fully rolled in. Even ten miles south of the fire, Bob’s body still detected distant sirens. Were it not for the frustration inherent in meat-movement and meat-space, the Mask would have vibrated with excitement. Instead, It merely walked, one foot in front of the other, determined to advance Its plan.

With the growing inferno and discord, It felt certain in profiting from Its brief sojourn into the meat and material. Even if the Lock and her mortal coterie managed to dispatch Its host, the psycho-emotional, spiritual, and communal fallout from Its acts all but guaranteed a new glut of resources. Even if It failed, now, It needed only to wait for another opportunity.

The same could not be said for Its prey.

It saw Its destination minutes before reaching it. Bright beams splashed across emerald grass, sourced from roof-mounted (what?—floodlights, Bob knew). The Lock had spent time fortifying. As the necessary reaction to said action, the Mask took time to examine the fortifications.

Its quarry had replaced the structure’s broken windows. Boards and beams reinforced the new glass, implying a lack of strength. Two men patrolled the perimeter, one black with a flashlight and shotgun, the other white with a flashlight and pistol. Their paths didn’t cross frequently. They walked to different angles of the building and squinted from different sightlines into the dark. They spent more time separated than together.

A (hedge maze, Bob knew) filled most of the back yard. The tall vegetation composing the walls threw shadows across the walkways. When either patrolman reached it, they leaned around the corners and ducked inside, checking. In the half hour the Mask spent watching, their hedge maze investigations lasted two minutes on average. Only once did the pair enter the maze together.

Retreating from the treeline, the Mask changed direction and resumed walking.