Ory scrambled for his wallet photo. “She’s about five-five, dark skin, brown afro, green eyes. Her name is Max, she has a scar over her right eyebrow—” It was too much to hope for. Did the man know the faces of most of the women hiding around here?
“I very well might,” the man said as if he’d read Ory’s mind. “I’m a finder, you see.” When he realized Ory hadn’t heard the term before, he shrugged and stuck his hand out. “Give it here.”
Ory passed him the photo. “Her name is Max,” he said again.
The man took one look and then nodded. “Oh, I have seen a woman like that,” he said.
Ory snatched the photo back and stared into Max’s face. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“When?”
“Maybe one, two days ago.” He pondered. “She was alone.”
“Did you talk to her? Was she all right?”
“I don’t talk to shadowless,” he said. “Professional policy.”
Ory felt dizzy. “Which way did she go? Can you show me?” He held the photo out again, his hand trembling. “Are you sure it was her?”
The man looked a second time and nodded. “It was her,” he said. “Max.” The name came slowly, as if he was trying it out.
“I’m begging you.” Ory felt himself drop to his knees before he even realized he was doing it. “Show me where she went.”
Mahnaz Ahmadi
BY THE TIME THEY REACHED WASHINGTON, D.C., ROJAN WAS feverish, the color of sweating white cheese. The wound in her thigh stank like rotten meat. The most horrible part about it was that Naz was so hungry sometimes it almost smelled good to her. They hadn’t eaten in weeks, and were starving; Naz’s sports bra had become so loose under her shirt it was almost more like a short tank top, and Rojan’s trousers would have fallen right off if she hadn’t been lying down on the makeshift pallet Naz had cobbled together so she could drag her to the city, where they hoped to find better shelter than the woods. But they found when they made it to D.C. that there was no food there either. The shops had all been picked clean long ago. There were just dead bodies, empty buildings, and shadowless. Rojan’s wound festered further, blooming like some horrible raw steak flower across her leg.
That was what they were doing the morning they saw their first shadowed survivors since Wright. Starving and dying.
She and Rojan were crouched in the hovel they’d made their home, listening to the sounds. All the streets downtown were close together—and there was so much activity. Screams echoed throughout the nights. Strange rain during the day that somehow soaked only every other street, and to Naz’s terror and bafflement, followed movement, as if tracking her. Footsteps for which she could never pinpoint the origin. By this point, she’d lost count of how many she’d killed. It was far greater than six. But now Naz was always afraid that the next time they ran into someone—shadowed or shadowless—she’d be too weak to fight them off, even with the bow. That the next time it happened, it would be the end.
When Naz first heard the footsteps, she thought that day had come.
She dropped to the ground inside their shelter, pressing her stomach against the dusty wood floor. Rojan opened one eye weakly to look at her. As quietly as Naz could, she slid an arrow out of her quiver and nocked it. She poked her head over the half wall of their shelter to steal a glance, and almost choked. Not one or two, but an entire horde of shadowless was prowling outside.
“Shadowless?” Rojan whispered. Her voice was like dry leaves scraping together.
“Yeah,” Naz nodded.
“How many?”
Naz looked down. Too many. Far too many. They were scrambling back and forth around the street, as if searching the perimeter of the sisters’ ruins. Can they smell us? Naz wondered. Dust from the crumbled buildings billowed down the street, hazy in the air, swirling as bodies without shadows dashed through it, creating currents. Two of them were barely more than toddlers, she realized with a shudder. Huge heads teetering on tiny little bodies, arms and faces hairless with youth.
“It’s okay,” Rojan said. It’s okay if you run.
“I’m not leaving you,” Naz whispered fiercely. A shadowless darted closer, snarling.
“Please.” Rojan closed her eyes again. “I want you to.”
Naz looked back out at the street. She knew she should go. If she had been the one dying on the ground, she’d want Rojan to save herself, too. Naz would want Rojan to save herself so badly that she’d probably try to kill herself to free her sister. She had no doubt that if Rojan was strong enough to crawl around to find something sharp, she probably would do just that.
Instead, Naz raised her bow and let loose the first arrow.