The population of Millesville was down about half its original size. Well over four hundred people had up and left. The death count was quickly nearing one hundred. The healthy town of twelve hundred was down to just over seven hundred.

Jon left the police station irritated. The Federal Government had finally gotten involved. They didn’t know anything about the case and thought Jon’s people had done a poor job dealing with the murderer. But that was the problem. There didn’t seem to be a murderer to deal with. It was more like the victims up and decided to fall apart for no good reason.

Jon walked quickly, eager to get away from the constant arguing and noise the station had become. In the five days since the Feds had arrived there’d been another sixteen murders and they weren’t any closer to solving the case. Jon was going to investigate the most recent murder, estimated to have taken place at no later than seven that morning. This case was unusual.

Jon knocked on the door to the house he approached and it was answered by an older woman. Jon smiled.

"Good morning, Mrs. Gisby," he said politely.

The woman didn’t smile back, "I was expecting your people hours ago," she said pointedly.

Jon sighed, "Well, you know the Federal types, they have to fill out a hundred forms about everything before they actually do anything." He shook his head in exasperation then returned his attention to the present. "I apologize for the delay, Mrs. Gisby, but could I talk with Hanna, please?"

The woman nodded and opened the door to let him in, "Hanna’s in the playroom," she explained, "She doesn’t understand what’s happened, Jon, please don’t upset her."

Jon nodded, "I’ll try not to." He promised before she pointed him back to the playroom.

This case was unusual because this case had a survivor. Hanna Gisby’s parents had both been murdered sometime between 6:15 and 7:00 this morning while Hanna was eating breakfast in the kitchen. The Feds had pursued a routine questioning of the three year old but they claimed she hadn’t seen or heard anything unusual. They also claimed that her testimony couldn’t be used since she was so young.

Jon didn’t believe any of it. He didn’t think they’d given her much of a chance to share what she knew. He planned to get the whole story of what she saw and heard out of the little girl. He hoped to learn why she had been spared out of the ninety-four already dead.

He paused at the door as he heard humming. A different voice, but a familiar tune. He frowned, pushing the door open a crack wider and peering in silently.

Hanna Gibsy was an adorable three year old with dark, shoulder length hair. She was sitting on the floor, playing with a couple of dolls and humming. Then she started to sing, her childish voice slightly off-tune.

Jon listened as if hypnotized, recognizing the morbid lyrics of Banan’s song. But where had Hanna learned it?

Hanna began humming again. Jon stood frozen for a little longer before he managed to pull himself out of it. He knocked lightly on the door before entering. Hanna looked up, startled out of her song. She smiled a little when she saw Jon.

"Hello, Mr. Jon," she said.

Jon forced a smile in return, "Hello, Hanna. Was that you I heard singing just now? You have a very lovely voice."

Hanna blushed slightly and giggled, "It’s an easy song. Want me to teach you?"

"Not right now, thank you," Jon said politely, "But, I was wondering, who did you hear that song from?"

"From the boy," Hanna replied, toying with the hair on her doll’s head.

Jon felt a cold pit settle into his stomach again. "What boy?"

"The boy with the dark hair and eyes," Hanna answered, "He didn’t say his name."

Jon had to make a point to swallow before he could ask his next question, "Hanna, when did you see the boy?"

"This morning," Hanna replied lightly, "He said that part was most important and I should remember it.

"The riddle," Jon said, recalling his conversation with Banan a few days before. "He called it the riddle," he muttered to himself. Louder, he said, "Hanna, this is very important. When did you see him?"

"This morning," the little girl repeated, "He said—"

"That it was very important," Jon interrupted, "I know, you told me. Thank you. But when this morning did you see him?"

"During breakfast," Hanna said, "Before all those people came to my house."

Jon felt his heart racing in his chest. Did this really mean what he thought it meant? But why hadn’t Hanna been killed? There was still so much he didn’t know. Could the boy really be the murderer? None of the murders had started until he showed up. But it seemed impossible. Maybe he was being stalked by something, after all.

"Did... did the boy say anything else?" Jon asked, his voice catching slightly, "Did he say or do anything else?"

Hanna shook her head. "He just wanted to play with me," she said innocently, "To teach me his song."

"Nothing else?" Jon pressed, "Are you sure he didn’t do anything else?"

"Like what?" Hanna asked in confusion.

Jon shook his head, "Never mind. Thank you for talking with me, Hanna, I have to go."

"You don’t want to play with me, first?" Hanna asked, pouting slightly.

Jon forced another smile, "I’m sorry, Hanna, but I really have to go. I’ll come back and play with you later."

"Do you promise?" The little girl asked.

"Yes, of course," Jon said.

"Okay," Hanna replied reluctantly, "Bye."

"Bye," Jon said, "I’ll see you later, okay?"

Jon slammed out of the house without even looking for Mrs. Gisby to tell her he was leaving. He hurried down to his house but found the door locked and cursed to realize he had left his keys at the station.

Running, now, Jon reached the station. He almost turned back then, loathe to go back into that noisy place again, but he moved forward nonetheless. This was more important than bickering men and women. Jon followed the hall around to the main offices and froze.

He hadn’t noticed immediately, but everything was silent. Dead silent. Now he could see why. The entire room, with all its open office cubicles and desks, was silent, but occupied. Occupied by dozens of dead bodies.

It was worse than before and Jon didn’t even have time to go for a toilet before he was sick all over the floor. There was blood everywhere and Jon was convinced that he was the only living being in the building.

He was struggling for breath and every time he looked at all those bodies his vision swam. Jon took a few forced breaths and hurried back to his desk, trying to look at as few of the bodies as possible.

A man had fallen across his desk. His body blocked the way to Jon’s drawers. Reluctantly, he pushed it aside and was startled to feel that it was still a little warm. It couldn’t have been half an hour since the man died. Maybe as little as ten minutes passed.

Jon grabbed his keys as well as his gun and left the station grimly. He had to find Banan. He knew the boy was involved somehow, without a doubt. He had been at the Gisby house at the time of murder, but whether he was an accomplice or another victim wasn’t clear. Jon feared the former, though.

The streets were empty, but since the Feds arrived in town that had become normal. The early December clouds were thick overhead and a slow snow was beginning to fall. Jon didn’t go towards his house, for some reason he didn’t think Banan would be there. He went towards the river.

The banks were iced over and only the middle of the river wasn’t yet frozen, the water still flowing in an attempt to hold back the winter ice a little longer. Jon looked around anxiously but didn’t see anyone. A find dusting of snow was beginning to cover the ground and his feet left prints.

"Are you looking for me?"

The cold in the pit of Jon’s stomach solidified at the sound of the voice and the urge to retch rose up in Jon again. He forced it down and his knuckles tightened on his gun. Slowly, he turned around.