“No, uh—” Ory tried to collect himself. “I’m here looking for my wife.”
Malik studied him for a moment, conflicted over what to do with him if he wasn’t a recruit for whatever this war was. “I don’t know if I can help with that,” he finally said. He pushed the helmet on Ory anyway. “But she’s definitely not here. This is the front lines,” he continued, gesturing with his chin at the path the rock had just sailed through in the air above their heads. “You know Logan Circle?”
“Yeah,” Ory said. “P Street?”
“P and Thirteenth.” Malik nodded. “The Iowa—old luxury condominiums. It’s impossible to find anyone anymore, but if you’re going to try, you should start there. The General might be able to help, in exchange for some help from you.”
It wasn’t much, but it was a lead. The first one Ory had. “Shadowed people are in the Iowa?”
“Almost forty. It’s our headquarters.”
There was a momentary break in the flying rocks. Malik jammed two fingers under his lip and whistled sharply. A few seconds later, a thud scattered concrete dust behind them, and a tan, black-haired woman in similar tattered fatigues was now crouched there. Her shadow hunkered down with her, eagle-nosed, thin. Ory stared openmouthed. It was like a real army. An army of people who remembered.
“Ahmadi, this is Li; Li, this is Naz Ahmadi,” Malik said. “Li’s a newcomer from Arlington. I’m taking him to meet the General. Hold the line ’til I get back.”
“Brother.” Ahmadi nodded to Ory. Her grip on his hand was tight—so tight Ory knew she was as happy to see another shadowed person as he was—but she was polite enough to ignore his gaping stare at meeting not one, but two other shadowed humans until he’d shut his mouth and shook her hand back. When they let go, she rattled off a snippet of directions to Malik in a faint, musical accent. “Take Tenth back. A bunch of Reds just scrambled out on G.”
“Thanks,” he said, and saluted Ahmadi. She saluted back and then crouched down to spot for another break in the stone volley. Malik edged next to Ory and pointed. “When Ahmadi says go, run for that corner and turn left. Don’t stop until you get there.” Ory felt him rap on the shell of his helmet. “Head down. Got it?”
“Got it,” Ory said. He almost saluted also, but caught himself in time.
“Go!” Ahmadi cried.
Malik bolted forward like a cannon. They ran straight for the safety of the turn onto Tenth Street as fast as they could. Every rock that cracked against the makeshift blockade caused Ory to jerk his hands to his helmet. “Make sure they can see your shadow when we walk up!” Malik shouted as they ran. Ory risked a glance behind just as they rounded the corner, to see if he could catch sight of whoever Malik and Ahmadi were fighting. It was a blur at such speed, and the details were lost. All he could make out before they were down Tenth Street and gone was a giant, hulking concrete building in the drizzle—completely painted crimson.
THE WAR. THE RED KING. THE GENERAL. ORY TRIED TO MAKE sense of any of those three names as he crept through the icy streets after Malik, but none of them sounded like things that had come from the old world at all.
Was it excitement he felt at finding shadowed humans again, or fear of them? Which was better—Arlington, with nothing left but ghosts, or Washington, D.C., with plenty of survivors, all of whom wanted to kill one another? Ghosts never wanted enough, and people always wanted too much.
But here he was, among people again, and memories and wants. These people of the Iowa wanted something. He wanted something, too. Maybe the General would agree to some kind of deal.
“So this war,” Ory started, but Malik hissed.
“No talking,” he ordered at a whisper. They kept moving. “Need to hear. Reds sometimes try to sneak up on you.”
“Sorry,” Ory whispered back. He watched each side street as they passed as well. Sometimes a dim shape would dart away, vague in the cold fog, but they looked no different than the shadowless he’d seen in Arlington that hid from every sound.
“Don’t worry,” Malik replied softly. “We’re close now. The General will explain everything.” He glanced at Ory one more time. “Do you have a different-colored shirt with you?”
THE IOWA LOOKED MORE LIKE A DERELICT FORTRESS THAN luxury condominiums now.
Ory followed Malik as he was ushered through the front doors past a skeleton guard crew. “Wait here,” Malik had said, and left him just inside the entrance, under the watchful eye of two other soldiers who were mending a torn coat.