The hallway of the house beyond the Waste dead flowers on the sill a broken picture on the floor a coat of dust as thick as paint on everything and she has never felt so alone

it buries her that sadness swallows her whole

the only sound a voice

her voice echoing

through

an empty house —Where are you?— she goes looking for a pair of silver eyes but the rooms are all empty and then

she sees it the body in the hall the bullet hole a singed circle in its throat she crouches as his eyes drift open wide as moons holds

its gaze

as the house shudders

shatters

into—

—blood

everywhere

splashed like paint

over the ground

up the walls

the bodies

strewn

like shadows

their fire

all burned out

nothing now

but shells

in gray and green

and letters stamped

on bloody sleeves

F

T

F.

Kate pulled free.

She was back at the counter, gasping for air. The harsh white light blurred her vision, and blood dripped from her nose, and she could almost hear the shard throwing out fresh cracks, like the sound of splitting ice inside her skull.

It took her an instant to realize she wasn’t alone.

An older woman was at her side, one hand tight on her sleeve and a wet wad of paper towels in the other. Her lips were moving, but Kate’s good ear was ringing and the words came through broken and studded with static.

“I’m fine,” she said, painfully aware of the sunglasses sitting on the sink and the splinter of silver in her eye.

The white noise died just as the woman put a hand on Kate’s cheek. “Let me see, darling. I used to be a nurse—”

“No,” she gasped, jerking her head away.

Contagious. That was the word Malcolm had used. Kate was already sick—the last thing she needed was to infect anyone else, but when she tried to pull free, the woman caught her face in both hands and angled her chin up, tutting as if Kate were some disobedient child.

And then the woman stilled, her eyes going wide, and Kate’s chest lurched, because she’d obviously seen the silver.

But all she said was, “You’ve got a pair of eyes on you,” and pressed the damp towels to Kate’s nose, as if that was all there was to it.

“Thank you,” murmured Kate, trying to hide the tremor in her voice, the surprise, the relief. But the moment the woman was gone, she slumped against the counter, hands shaking.

Well, thought Kate grimly.

At least she wasn’t contagious.

NOW LEAVING PROSPERITY, announced the sign.

There was no guard tower, no armed checkpoint—no penalty for trying to get out—just an open gate. And then she was in the buffer zone, the mile-long stretch of neutral land between territories.

She came to the four-way stop, the same one she’d passed through before, and was hit by another moment of déjà vu. The base of her skull prickled as she pulled forward, taking the road toward Verity.

The signal on the radio failed.

The road ahead was empty.

Turn around, said a voice in her head. Turn around while you still can. But it was already being drowned out by the thought of her iron spikes, of her gun, of her bare hands sinking into—

Dammit, she thought, gripping the wheel. Keeping that voice out, it was like trying to keep your eyes open on the road at night, fatigue wearing you down a little more with every yawn, the slippery slope between a blink and something deadly.

She slowed as the Verity border came into sight.

The barricade was down and a soldier emerged from the patrol building as Kate adjusted her sunglasses and slowed to a stop. She shifted the car into neutral but didn’t turn the engine off, letting her fingers rest on the gearshift.

The guard wasn’t that old, maybe in his early twenties, a little on the squat side. A patch on his uniform marked him as a Prosperity citizen—the surrounding territories of Temperance, Fortune, and Prosperity took turns manning the Verity border. He had an assault rifle slung on a strap, but at the sight of Kate, he swung the weapon back over his shoulder. Oh, the perks of being perpetually underestimated.

Kate rolled the window down. “Hi there.”

“I’m sorry, miss. You’ve got to turn around.”

She opted for naive innocence, raising her eyebrows behind her glasses. “Why?”

The guard looked at her like she was missing a vital piece. “The Verity border’s been closed for months.”

“I thought it was open again.”

He shook his head apologetically.

“Huh,” she said, pretending to squint into the sun as she scanned the crossing for other signs of life. “Well, that’s a drag. How long have you been at this post”—she scanned his gear for a name tag—“Benson?”

“Two years.”

“And who did you piss off to get landed here?”

He chuckled, leaning his elbow on the hood. “Every now and then, someone tries to cross. I don’t know what makes them do it, if they’ve got friends egging them on or a death wish or they think the stories are just stories—I don’t know, and I don’t care. Protocol is protocol. It’s for your own good, miss—”