All our attempts to reach Sanjana by phone, by net, have come up empty. We can’t tell if it’s because the networks are still crammed, or if it’s because she’s too injured to reply, or if it’s because she’s not even there, and the records are wrong. Everything, including the hastily erected trauma centers to deal with crash victims, is in chaos—and we can’t afford to wait for her to reply. Without more information about how to destroy the rift, we’re flying blind. I’ve sent her a package of information that’ll download to her account if she gets a connection—coordinates for the center we’re heading to in the hopes of finding her, schematics for my homemade whisper shields, and small details that can only have come from Tarver, as a sign she’s dealing with allies. I pray she gets it, pray she trusts it. Pray she’s even still alive.
I keep scanning my companions each time I get a little prickle of the hairs on the back of my neck, but the shields seem to be working. Then again, would I even know if it happened, unless I was looking directly into their eyes? Not for the first time, I wish I had Sofia’s insight. She’d have some body language shortcut to tell instantly if one of our group was about to turn.
But she looks just as scared as I feel.
We stick to the smaller streets, forced to take long detours around sections of the upper city that have caved in and crushed the mid-city below. At first we see others only in the distance, too far away to tell if they’re survivors or husks. But as the smell of burning chemicals grows stronger, as the ash in the air thickens and our path becomes more and more littered with debris, more dead bodies sprawled where they fell, it becomes obvious: the only people other than us still moving around this close to the crash aren’t people at all anymore.
“That’s the fifth one we’ve seen taking this exact path,” Sofia whispers, breaking a long silence as we take cover against the side of a ruined bank headquarters and watch a shuffling husk move across the street. Even the sirens are quiet now. The only noises are the occasional, far distant rumble of some part of the city caving in and crumbling into the space below.
“They’re sweeping the city,” Jubilee says in a low voice. “This pattern, I recognize it.”
She’s looking at Tarver, who’s watching, grim-faced, and it takes me a long moment to figure out why. “Lilac learned it from me,” he says quietly. “Standard search grid.”
“She’s looking for us,” I murmur, as the husk—a middle-aged man, balding and clad in a worn business suit, someone you’d never look at twice—vanishes around the corner.
“Hopefully she won’t be able to see us with the shields,” Sofia says, straightening out of her crouch. “We’ve got to move quietly. One or two, we can deal with. But if we run into a group of them…” She swallows but doesn’t finish the sentence.
She doesn’t have to. It’s all too easy to imagine what a big enough group of these shambling, empty-eyed things could do to us. Soldiers who feel no pain, and no remorse at causing pain.
Up the street is a trio of police hovers settled on the pavement in a blockade formation, just in front of a line of temporary barriers. The crash perimeter. In theory, no one but rescue personnel is allowed through—the sign propped against one of the cars states, in big block letters, NO ENTRY BEYOND THIS POINT, and another warns, STRUCTURAL INSTABILITY. Despite the emptiness of the city, it’s still a shock to see this setup abandoned. There ought to be police officers and city officials barring the way.
Instead there’s no one.
We cross the perimeter one by one, swinging our legs over the cement barriers. Though we’re still too far away to see the wreck, my eyes pick out a dizzying emptiness in the distance where there ought to be skyscrapers. With a city that stretches across almost an entire planet, there’s no recognizable skyline—and yet my memory knows there should be something there, that it’s like the world’s been wiped clean just beyond the horizon.
A metallic clang shatters the quiet, making me jump so violently that I bang into one of the barriers, stifling an oath. Both soldiers have their weapons out, eyes scanning the alleyway where the sound came from. They move together without even seeming to communicate a plan—one glance, a nod, and then Jubilee’s circling around wide to the mouth of the alley, shoulders pressing back against the brick, as Tarver crouches low, using the cover of the parked hovercars to remain unseen as he takes the other side. The rest of us move to follow, and as Tarver and Jubilee move on down the alley, we take up positions by its mouth.
Another, quieter clang, alerts us all to the source of the sound—there’s someone inside one of the dumpsters at the end of the alley. Tarver tilts his head at Jubilee, who silently steps around behind it as he shifts his grip on his gun to free one hand. I glance over my shoulder, neck prickling, to see a figure a block away pause—turn—and start moving toward us. Swallowing the urge to call out alarm, I reach out to touch Sofia’s elbow so she’ll follow my line of sight. Flynn catches the movement, and after he casts a quick, fearful glance back at me, we all ease into the mouth of the alley, hoping that noise hasn’t drawn more attention. Tarver’s shield will protect him and Jubilee, and Sofia and I stay close to Flynn and his.
Tarver’s gripping the edge of the dumpster lid, Jubilee creeping closer so she can train her weapon on whoever’s inside as he gets ready to haul it open. Just as Tarver’s muscles start to tense, Sofia’s sharp whisper cuts through the tense silence.