“Retreat!” The world snapped back into focus as Malik shouted the command at him, over and over. “Retreat!” Ory’s feet were somehow already obeying before he’d even understood the words, running as they carried Imanuel together toward the open doors. Behind, he could hear the blunt punch of arrow shafts through flesh as Ahmadi killed the Reds that followed, one after another.
“I can’t stop the bleeding!” Ory yelled to Malik. His fingers scrambled at Imanuel’s neck. He could feel Imanuel feebly trying to guide him with his own hands, to show him where to push to stop the blood from pouring out of him. He’s so calm, Ory thought hysterically as he tried to choke the hot, syrupy liquid without cutting off Imanuel’s air. How can he be so calm?
Most of the walls were on fire then, cracking in the sweltering heat. Rocks split against the floor around their feet as the Reds hurled them. Ory wanted to cover his head, but there was no way. He just kept running as fast as he could without dropping Imanuel, praying that nothing would land on them.
“Ory . . .” Imanuel coughed. “The book—”
“I still have it,” Ory yelled, to make sure Imanuel could hear him. “I have it, don’t worry!”
He did have it, just barely, pinched between his biceps and rib as he tried to keep it there and support Imanuel’s slackening weight. If Ory dropped him, the Reds would be on them before they could pick him up again. If he dropped the book, they’d lose it forever. Malik would never let them stop for it.
As if he could read Ory’s mind, Imanuel’s hands grew tighter around his wrist. “If you can’t—carry both,” he managed to choke out. “Take. Book.”
The One Who Gathers
TWO MONTHS AFTER DR. ZADEH WAS KILLED, SOMEONE IN New Orleans forgot that the electrical grid had been destroyed in the initial, panicked riots, and the power in the city suddenly came back—although the system wasn’t quite the same as before. This time, instead of a generator in a factory, the wires just met and shot off in a tangle into the sky, to retrieve energy from passing storms, so no one had to service them. Inconsistent, but at least functional. Apparently far more than most cities had. According to the old man the amnesiac rescued from the abandoned bus station he’d chosen to die in, both San Diego and Oklahoma City now hopped—portions of the cities from single buildings, roads, neighborhoods, to entire zip codes rose between inches and several stories into the air at random times, then settled again. It was probably someone’s terror of earthquakes that brought it about. The old man had left California after his son slipped during a hop and fell to his death. If only the shadowless could have forgotten that seismic movement existed, instead of that cities couldn’t jump in defense.
“Are you the leader here?” the old man asked him, lifting his bald, leathered head from the pillow. He coughed weakly.
“Of New Orleans, or of this facility?”
“You should think about the hurricanes,” the old man continued, ignoring the question. “Something should be done about the hurricanes before the season hits. Don’t wait until one is already here.”
The amnesiac watched him shiver through his fever as he slept in one of the many empty beds, trying to imagine all the fantastical iterations a hurricane could evolve into, all the twisted interpretations of human desire to stop a deadly storm that there were, both possible and impossible. The old man’s breath was fluttering, uneven.
“Is he going to die?” Buddy asked.
The amnesiac turned and looked at the young shadowless in the doorway from his place beside the old man. “I think so,” he said. “Probably before morning. He’s very weak.”
Buddy pushed an unruly shock of hair off his forehead. The amnesiac had found him a month ago—it was more dangerous now, but he still tried to continue Dr. Zadeh’s work, when he could. “Such a shame.” He sighed. “Still has his shadow and everything.”
“You’re doing well, though.”
“Yeah,” Buddy said. But it wasn’t really an answer—just a noncommittal sound one would make to fill their turn in a conversation they weren’t really listening to. He was still staring longingly at the thin, dark copy of the old man’s bony arm where it lay, draped over the sheet.
It had been a long time since they’d had another shadow in the assisted-living facility besides the amnesiac’s own. Everyone but him had either died or lost theirs. It was strange, to share all the blank space on the walls with the old man’s withered silhouette.
“Such a shame,” Buddy murmured again absently.
“Buddy,” the amnesiac said. “Buddy.”
“Yeah?”
“Where are the others?”
For a moment, the amnesiac thought he was going to say, What others? But Buddy finally blinked, pulling himself out of his trance. “The rain. Marie said from the clouds that she thinks a storm isn’t far off. She said we can’t wait any longer. We have to go into the storage basement now.”