by Ilsa J. Bick
As she turned to follow Wolf and Penny, she spotted her green canvas medic pack resting on the floor near the door where it had been blown in that first explosion. She gave it exactly a millisecond’s thought, then bulleted across the room, snagged the pack in a one-handed grab, and wheeled back to blast up the stairs. Peeling right, she saw Wolf kick open the bathroom door, whip aside a shower curtain, and cram Penny into the tub.
Downstairs, Alex heard another smash of metal against wood, more shots. And voices. It took every ounce of willpower not to scurry after Wolf and Penny. Just a few more seconds. She felt Wolf moving up behind her, and then his hand on her arm as he tried to pull her out of his way. But his shot would have to be dead-on, and there wouldn’t be time for another.
She looked at him. “I have something better than the rifle,” she said, and then she was pulling the flare gun from the small of her back. She read in his face and smelled in his scent the shock of recognition, and understood: Wolf knew this gun.
Below, she heard the door burst open. Peering around the corner, she spied three of those weird Changed, in camo-whites and armed with what she thought were Mac-10s, fanning out in the great room. In the center of her head, she felt the muted thump: go-go push-push. Then she heard murmurs—voices—and spotted four old men moving in from the kitchen to meet them.
Okay, Dad. Crouching, poking the pistol between the banister rails, steadying the flare gun in both hands, she picked her spot. Just like the target range.
She pulled the trigger.
74
“Chris!” someone shouted. “Chris, wait, let me—”
But Chris didn’t stop to look, didn’t stop to think, didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, wouldn’t. Roaring, he brought the skillet around like a batter, so hard and with so much force he felt his shoulders try to pop from their sockets. The Changed boy was still gawping up at Chris when the skillet connected—and the sound, already so deep in Chris’s memory and his nightmares, became real again: a solid slam, the clunk of an ax biting into a tree trunk. Of a hammer cratering bone and brain. Of the flat of a cast-iron skillet smashing skull.
The boy’s head whipped to the side. Over the clamor in his head, Chris heard the sharp crackle as the neck snapped.
Panting, blood painting his cheeks, Chris stood over the body as a voice boomed: Go on, boy, hit him again, hit him, go on … “Go on,” he said in a voice not his own. “Go on, boy, hit him bloody, make him pay, you know you w-want … you kn-know …”
Then his knees buckled as the ground opened and Chris swooned into the dark and—
“Chris.” A voice in his ear, and then a shake. “Wake up. Open your eyes.”
“Nooo.” He was on the snow again, under the tiger-trap, in a pool of blood, and slowly dying, freezing to death. Everything hurt. He tried turning from the voice, but a hand hooked his chin. “I can’t,” he said. “It’s too hard; it hurts too much to see.”
“Stop this,” the voice said. “Open your eyes.”
“Why?” he asked, even as his lids creaked open. Of course, it was Jess, with her Medusa hair and black-mirror eyes: Chris in the right, Chris in the left. Or Simon and Simon, depending on how you looked at it. “Why is this up to me? What do you want? What good does it do me to see anything? I can’t change what’s already happened. I couldn’t help Alex. I didn’t help Lena. Peter wouldn’t let me because he never told me.”
“You refused to see.”
“Fine.” Another bolt of pain grabbed his throat. “Leave me alone,” he wheezed, thinly. “Please, Jess, why can’t you let me alone? Why won’t you let me die?”
“Someone will die. Someone must. Without blood, there is no forgiveness.”
“You’re dead. This is the Land of the Dead, and I’m having a dream, but I don’t understand. I want to know what this means.”
“Tell me your dream, and I will tell you the truth.”
“And what is that?” A weak laugh dribbled out of his mouth with a trickle of blood. “What’s truth?”
“What lives here”—she drew her fingers, cool and dry, over his forehead—“is not the same as what resides here.” She placed a hand over his heart, and he cried out because her touch was electric, bright and awful. “Let go of the hammer, Chris. Forgive yourself. Forgive Peter.”
“Why does that matter?” He licked blood from his lips. “I already said I understand.”
“And that is why”—another electric finger to his chest, prodding a scream—“this hurts so much. The truth of the heart is the more fearsome to bear, because from love springs grief. Truth is in your mouth, on your tongue, in your blood. Let go of your anger, Chris. Let Peter, as you remember him, speak to you.”
“He can’t,” Chris said. “He’s dead.”
“Call him back.” Jess pressed a palm over his eyes, and now he was truly in the dark again. “Quickly, Chris. In your blindness and from grief, call in love and do it now before it’s too late, before Peter is lost, before the light goes—”
“—out?”
“No, I think he’s coming around. Chris?” A tap on his cheek. “Chris, wake up.”
Chris faded back, aware first of the sharp nibs of broken plates under his legs, and then the wall against his back, and finally a hand cupping the back of his head.
“Chris.” Jayden patted his cheek again. “Are you all right? Is this the only one? Where’s everyone else? Where’s—”
“Hannah.” His eyes snapped open. Everything rushed back, like water into an empty glass. “Isaac,” he wheezed again, clutching Jayden’s arm. “Barn.”
“What?” Jayden shot a glance at Connor, who was also crouched alongside. “What are you talking about? What about the barn?”
“Guns.” Shots carried, especially now that there was nothing—no cars, no planes, no machinery—to mask them. How long had he been out? “Didn’t you hear?”
“We heard gunfire,” Connor said. “But we were north. We couldn’t tell where it was coming from. As we got closer, I actually thought it was coming from the east.”
East. There was something important about that. “No. Hannah and Isaac are in the barn, and there were Changed headed that way.”
“What?” Connor was genuinely skeptical. “They can’t find us. They’ve never found us.”
“No? Then what do you call that?” Chris said, jerking his head toward the dead giant with the misshapen skull lying in a puddle of kerosene and water dyed purple with blood. Gripping Jayden’s forearms for balance, he struggled to his feet. “I counted ten. I broke out the window in my room. I know Isaac heard me and saw them. But we have to go. I heard shots, but if there aren’t any now …”
“All right.” Jayden’s skin was glassy with dread, but his mouth set as he ripped off his parka. “Take this. I’m smaller than you, but …”
“This works.” The cuffs of Jayden’s parka ended well above his wrists, and his shoulders felt like he’d slipped on a straitjacket. He jockeyed the zipper and managed to yank it halfway. “This is fine.”
“Okay.” Jayden looked doubtful. “You’re pretty messed up. Can you fight?”
“Yes.” Swiping up a cloth napkin, Chris smeared blood from his forehead, then wrapped his bleeding palm. “But I need a gun.” When Jayden hesitated, Chris snapped, “Damn it, Jayden, let me help.”
“All right, all right. Outside, in my scabbard, I’ve got a spare rifle.” Jayden jerked his head toward the door. “Come on.”
“How do you want to do this?” Chris asked as they banged out of the kitchen and down the back steps. Three horses, one loaded with four bulky game bags, had been hastily tethered to the wrought iron railing. The kitchen faced east, and the sun was well behind them now. Overhead, thin clouds scudded across blue sky on a northerly breeze. To his right, all Chris saw of the farm’s southern end was the mica gleam of the frozen pond. There was also a strange whooshing, like wind gushing through a tunnel, but he couldn’t tell from which direction the sound came.
“I�
��m open to suggestion. It’s not like we’ve had to fight these things the way you have.” Jayden yanked a well-used, scoped Remington 798 from its scabbard. “Loaded. Didn’t fire it once today. Here.” He dipped a hand into a saddlebag and came out with a handful of bullets. “No one’s shooting now, but—”
“Shh.” Frowning, Chris cocked his head, then darted a look around. The whooshing was still there, but he could’ve sworn there was a tinkling sound that reminded him of the fight with the Changed boy. Glass. “Did you hear that? It sounded like something—”
“Breaking.” Jayden nodded. “Yeah. I did.” He craned to look back at the house. “Are you sure no one else is—”
“Hey. Jayden?” Connor had drifted to the house’s southeast corner. “I think you … I think you guys better come here.”
Jayden shot Chris a look, and then they were both running toward the younger boy. “What is it?” Jayden’s voice was so tight, it cracked. “Is Han—”
Now that Chris was closer, he could see what he hadn’t before, both because of his angle and the wind. If they’d gone out the front, or Jayden and Connor had returned even a little more to the west, they’d all have seen—and smelled it—right away. The mystery of why they’d both heard shattering glass was obvious, too.
The barn was on fire.
75
There was a very loud kerack, followed by an intensely bright burst of red muzzle flash, a pillow of acrid gray smoke as the flare streaked out of the pistol. The fusee smashed into the pile of pine and propane canisters with a kebang.
And nothing really amazing happened. No explosions or fireballs. An orange-yellow rose blossomed. But that was it, for a split second, enough time for Alex to think, Shi—
Then there was a pop, a gasping hoosh as if some giant had just been sucker punched. The propane ignited with a roar. The blast, an intense neon orange, ballooned; pine logs exploded in a shower of yellow sparks. Below, the three Changed and the four men stopped dead, then turned as if mesmerized by the fire, the flames washing their features of definition, their shadows like dancing spiders on the opposite wall. Alex heard a high howl, felt the sudden rush of cold air being sucked into the now-surging fire, and thought, Oh jeez—
“Go!” she screamed, just as a massive gout of orange flame jetted from the mouth of the hearth. The sound of the bathroom window breaking was lost in a massive explosion, like the concussion of a cannon. The chimney ruptured. A streaming pillar of fire blew out, instantly igniting the three Changed in white and the old men into shrieking, writhing human torches. There was a stuttering sparkle of bullets as their weapons and ammunition exploded. Chunks of stone and masonry flew in a shower of shrapnel. The air churned hot and bright. Flares swam up the walls and spilled over the floor. A blast of hot wind whipped her hair and she thought she might be screaming. She felt Wolf seize her by the scruff of the neck, and then he was hauling her down the hall and into the bathroom.
One end of a flimsy plastic shower curtain was tied to the shower head, while the tongue fluttered from the gaping window over which he’d draped his parka. Already out, Penny was braced on her hands, feet planted wide, inching over the shingles like a pregnant fiddler crab.
“I’m okay,” Alex said, breathlessly. Her eardrums felt broken. “You go. Help her down. I’m right behind you.” Now that she was up here, she wasn’t sure, all of a sudden, whether this was such a hot idea. The ground still looked really far away, and this northwest patch of the porch was glittery with ice crystals. Slip and I’ll break my neck. Standing in the tub, she watched Wolf spider down to Penny, then coax her to the edge of the porch. At her back, she could feel the heat build; heard a high, eerie howl over the locomotive churn of the fire. Above the sink, a mirrored medicine chest suddenly gave way with a watery kersplash into the porcelain basin. Beneath her feet, the tub shifted and shivered, and she realized then that the house was coming down.
Get out, get out of the house! Hooking the medic pack onto both shoulders, she grabbed onto the shower curtain and levered herself over the sill. Glass teeth bit her rump through Wolf’s parka, but then she was out, right hand still fisted around the shower curtain, the heel of the left jammed onto shingles. Now that she was on the porch, she could feel the jitter and sway. Something was bellowing, roaring like a blast furnace. Craning over her left shoulder, she caught a glimpse of an orange-yellow sword of flame knifing from the chimney into the sky. To her right, flames curled through the shattered picture window to lick at the roof. For a horrible second, she was frozen in place, hypnotized by the dance and sputter. Any moment now, the house would collapse and she’d still be here, clinging to the shower curtain only to be yanked back like a yo-yo and buried under a fiery avalanche.
Another tinkling smash. Let go of the curtain. An orange geyser spumed from a bedroom window. Alex, let go. On the porch, she saw Wolf and Penny nearly at the edge, but jouncing as the house shook. Let go, Alex. Move! Her mind knew what to do, but her body was locked, paralyzed. Come on, go, let go, let—
There was another belching eruption, a guttering ker-POW. She saw Penny suddenly bounce, Wolf’s hand flash for a grab. Something very big, a chunk of blackened cast iron, cannoned from the side of the house to shoot straight into the trees. An evergreen disintegrated into splinters. Beneath her, the house was tilting, the walls beginning to collapse, the porch crumbling. A second later, an enormous shock wave gushed up the stairs. A gigantic fist of heat smacked her shoulders and blew her out of the window. The torn shower curtain fluttering in her fist, she flew in a dizzying tumble, banging over the shingles, pinballing out of control. Screaming, she caught a glimpse of bright sky, black shingles, orange flames, and then lost all that as she smashed into Wolf—
And hurtled from the roof.
76
Chris, Jayden, and Connor raced over the snow. Belching like a coal-fired train, the barn exhaled great chuffs of gray and black smoke. As they neared, Chris heard the bellows of cows and shrieks of horses. The sheep were bawling, high and shrill, over the pop and crackle of the fire. All the snow piled on the roof and layered on the sills had melted, and he could hear the fire complain in hissing sizzles as orange tongues licked from shattered windows on the barn’s north face. The hex signs were blistering, the colorful paint flaring blood-red with firelight.
“Which end are the lambing pens?” he shouted at Jayden.
“W-west!” Jayden panted. “Why?”
“Look at the windows!” Chris sucked air, then shouted, punching out the words through pants: “They’re … they’re all broken on the north and … and west! Safest way to get in …”
“East!” Connor’s face glistened with sweat. “The cows … and horses …”
But Hannah and Isaac were with the lambs. Which was exactly where the fire must’ve started. All he knew about fire was what they’d practiced in school: get down where the good air was, keep your eyes on the kid in front of you, and crawl like hell. Fighting a fire was a whole other problem. This wouldn’t spread because of the snow and cold, but it might be a while before the fire ran out of fuel.
“Look!” Jayden shouted, and pointed. But this time, he sounded joyous. “Look, look!”
The east door popped open, releasing a roiling pillar of black smoke. A second later, cows surged through, with a clot of bawling sheep on their heels. Two figures lurched out next, one broader, man-sized: Isaac, one hand wrapped around Hannah’s upper arm. Hannah had something clutched in her arms, and as Chris dodged around milling animals, he saw that it was a still-glistening, newborn lamb, its skin streaked with soot and ash.
“You have to get the lambs, we need to get the lambs!” She was trying to shout, but her voice was a strangled croak. Her face was smudgy, and there was soot around her mouth.
“Are they still in the pens?” Jayden asked. A horse’s braying shriek cut the air. “Where’s Rob?”
“With the horses. They’re still …”
“I’m on it.” Having unwound his scarf, Con
nor balled the wool and dunked the garment into the cattle trough. “There are only three to get out.”
“You have to get to the lambs,” Hannah insisted.
“Do the best I can.” Connor said, but Chris read the look he gave Jayden. Connor knotted his dripping scarf over his nose and mouth. “Give me your scarf, Hannah. I can use it for a horse.”
“Yes.” Dazed, Hannah tugged sooty wool from her neck. “But the lambs—”
“What about the Changed?” Chris asked.
She turned him a distracted look. “Dead. They came in so fast.” She dragged a quivering hand over her streaming eyes. “If you hadn’t warned us … I still don’t understand how they found—” Her eyes flicked past Jayden and Chris, and widened. “Isaac … Isaac!”
Chris whirled just in time to see Isaac, who’d staggered to the far end of the corral, begin to sag. “I’m all right,” the old man gasped as Chris and Jayden sprinted to his side. Isaac’s lips were purple. He pressed a hand to his chest. “Just need to …” Isaac hacked out a foamy gobbet of thick mucus and black spit. “Have to get the … the horses … the lambs …”
“We’ll take care of that. What we have to do is get you out of the cold and the smoke,” Hannah said. Still cradling the lamb, she nevertheless looked calmer, as if taking care of Isaac gave her something else to focus on.
“The … the lambs …,” Isaac spat again as Jayden and Chris got him to his feet. “Should go … go in the house until … until we can …”
There was another shriek that could have been a faraway scream of a hawk but sounded much more like a horse, in trouble. But the direction was all wrong, not coming from the barn.
“You hear that?” Jayden asked.
“Yeah.” Frowning, Chris scanned the farm. From this angle, he couldn’t see Jayden and Connor’s horses behind the house. Over his shoulder, he saw Rob appear with two horses. A few seconds later, Connor melted from the smoke with the third. “Jayden, you said you thought you heard shots coming from the east.”
