“Mom?” Alice whispered as she came quietly in. “How are you feeling? How are your hand and the cuts?”

  Her mother was in bed, the covers pulled high, only a small lantern lit on the dresser, the flame turned low.

  “I have some pain pills,” said Alice, putting the plate and cup on the night table. “But you need to eat something first.”

  Her mother moved and groaned a little. It made Alice sad that she was in so much pain. As she set the tray on the night table, her mom reached out and touched her wrist.

  “You okay?” Alice asked gently.

  The touching fingers curled around her wrist. Mama felt cold, and Alice glanced at the window to see if she’d accidentally left it open. The days were hot, but the nights were often frigid. The curtains stirred in the breeze.

  “Hold on,” she said, “let me close the window before you catch your death.”

  The circling fingers tightened.

  They locked around Alice’s wrist in a powerful, unbreakable grip.

  “Ow! Mom, don’t, you’re hurting me—”

  Her voice cut off as her mother sat up in bed. The covers fell away, and Alice saw that the sleeve of her mother’s left arm—the one with all the cuts—was torn to rags and soaked with blood. But in the lantern light the blood looked too dark. Nearly black.

  The truth rose up above her like a vast wave: Mom had been hurt at the wagonwright’s place when it was overrun by ravagers and shamblers. The monsters had been beaten back, slaughtered. Their blood was splashed everywhere. On the walls. On the splintered doors. Everywhere.

  And that’s where her mother had been scratched. But how much more than a drop of los muertos blood did it really take?

  “Oh my God,” Alice breathed.

  The grab turned into a pull as her mother opened her dead eyes and stretched her dead mouth wide and lunged forward with awful, snapping teeth.

  71

  AS GUTSY AND ALETHEA WALKED quickly through town, they saw people running from house to house, yelling for friends and neighbors to start packing. Riders on horses galloped up and down the streets, spreading the news. Most people jumped right to it, running to gather belongings and loved ones; but some just stood there, watching everything unfold around them as if what was going on didn’t matter to them. Was it some kind of shock, Gutsy wondered, or had those people plain given up?

  The two girls hurried on.

  The big tower crane above Alice’s house creaked as it swung slowly around.

  “Why are they still bothering to do that if we’re all bugging out of here?” Alethea asked.

  Gutsy shook her head. “If there are ravager spies, they’d get suspicious if we suddenly stopped reinforcing the walls. Those guys up there will be the last to leave, and they’ll block off the tunnel on the way out.”

  Alethea grunted. “Okay, that’s pretty smart.”

  As they approached the corner near the Chung house, Alethea slowed. “Look,” she said “I’ll hang back a bit. You know, in case you two need to get all kissy-face.”

  Gutsy flashed her a smile and hurried up the block. The house was neat and tidy, with a manicured lawn and lovely flower beds in which something bright and fragrant was always blooming. A pair of big live oaks stood vigil on either side of the walkway, and there were bird feeders hung from a dozen limbs.

  Gutsy was embarrassed to realize that she really did stink to high heaven, but there wasn’t time to do anything about it now. She needed to see Alice. She needed a tiny bit of normal, a small piece of undamaged ground to stand on. Even if for only five minutes.

  She took a deep breath and knocked.

  Which is when she heard Alice Chung scream.

  72

  “ALICE? ALICE!” GUTSY YELLED AS fear shot through her. There were more screams, but no actual answers. Gutsy pounded on the door.

  “Mama… no!”

  Gutsy stepped back, braced herself, and then kicked at the door with the flat of her foot. It shuddered, but the strong lock held.

  “Alethea!” she bellowed, but Alethea was already running down the street, her bat ready.

  “Los muertos?” demanded Alethea. “Wild men?”

  “I don’t know. Alice is in trouble. Help me.”

  “Move out of the way,” Alethea said, shoving Gutsy to one side as she lashed out with her own kick. And still the door held. She kicked again, and again.

  Gutsy snatched up a rocking chair and hurled it through the window, smashing the glass and tearing the curtains off their rods. She used the blunt side of the machete blade to knock the last jagged fragments out of the frame, and Alethea laced her fingers so Gutsy could step up and jump inside. Gutsy immediately turned the lock on the door and opened it for her friend. The living room was weirdly neat and pristine except for the broken glass. The two girls ran down the hall to the largest bedroom, near the kitchen. The door was open, and there were cries and moans and thumps of a kind Gutsy knew too well.

  She paused for an awful moment in the doorway, staring at the horrific scene.

  The room was in shambles, with the mattress overturned and bloody sheets cast on the floor. The bedside table had been knocked over, taking the sturdy lantern with it. The flame was still lit, though, and cast everything in the room in a shadowy yellow glow.

  Alice, holding a broken chair as a shield, cowered in a corner. Pawing and clawing at the chair was her mother.

  What had been her mother.

  Mrs. Chung wore a torn nightgown. Her black hair hung in sweaty strands, and she growled like some feral thing.

  “No!” cried Gutsy, and the growl stopped as the dead woman slowly turned toward the two girls in the doorway. The face—which had looked so much like Alice’s—hung slack and rubbery; her dark eyes were dull and faded to a dusty gray. Mrs. Chung opened her mouth and uttered a moan of endless, aching hunger as her twisted, broken fingers reached for Gutsy and Alethea.

  Into that tableau, Alice screamed out three words. A demand, a plea, filled with such raw emotion that it punched Gutsy in the heart.

  “Don’t hurt her!”

  Those words were like a chain that jerked Gutsy backward in time to her own bedroom two weeks ago. To waking into horror as Mama reached for her to kill her. It had been too big to deal with, too broken to fix, too wrong to ever understand. Now Alice was going through the same nightmare.

  Mrs. Chung staggered forward, snarling with need. Gutsy raised her machete.

  “Noooo!” Alice flung the chair away and came up off the floor, driving forward with the intensity of the unhinged. Not at the monster in the room but at Gutsy. She tried to wrench the machete away even as the creature pawed Gutsy’s shirt and hair.

  Suddenly Alethea grabbed Mrs. Chung by the arm, swung her violently around, and sent her flying toward the bed. The dead woman struck the footboard and crashed over onto her face. Then Alethea spun and tore Alice away from Gutsy.

  “Sorry about this,” she said, then released her grip and punched Alice in the stomach with all of the strength she owned. The punch lifted Alice onto her toes, drove every bit of breath out of her lungs, and dropped her. Alice collapsed into a fetal ball and turned red and then purple.

  Gutsy whirled as Mrs. Chung climbed to her feet and came at her again. The machete was in Gutsy’s hand. One stroke and the fight would be won. But what would witnessing that strike do to Alice? Could she bear that? Silencing Mama had nearly broken Gutsy, and that had been with a spike, not a brutal machete.

  So Gutsy dropped her machete and stepped into the dead woman’s charge, parrying the reaching arms hard enough to spin Mrs. Chung off balance and then kicking the back of her knees. The sudden bend made the woman sag and fall, and Gutsy took the weight and spun her back. Mrs. Chung crashed down onto the floor. Gutsy jumped on top of her and pressed her face into the area rug.

  Alethea, too experienced to stand and gawp, snatched up a pillow and pulled it over Mrs. Chung’s head, with the pillow against her face and the back of the pillowcase pulled down behind her head. It was a common technique in New Alamo, something everyone learned. While Gutsy held her down, Alethea took the two corners of the case, pulled them back, and tied a tight knot at the base of the woman’s skull.

  Then she yanked a second pillow off the bed, tore the case off, spun the cloth into a rope, and handed it to Gutsy, who bound Mrs. Chung’s hands behind her back. Gutsy cut the remainder off and similarly bound her ankles. When that was done, Alethea sat down with a thud against the dresser while Gutsy crawled over to Alice.

  Mrs. Chung thrashed and moaned, but was otherwise helpless.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly, brushing hair from Alice’s face.

  Alice was breathing, but in gasps and coughs. Her face was filled with pain, and her eyes and nose were streaming. Gutsy reached for her, needing to hold her, to try and comfort her.

  Alice resisted her pull. Fought her. Shoved her back. She spat ugly words and screamed for her mother. But Gutsy gathered her up anyway. Endured the words that stuck like knives and held Alice with all her strength.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered as Alice’s struggles slowly disintegrated into awful sobs. “I’m sorry.”

  73

  GUNFIRE ERUPTED TO SHATTER THE moment.

  Alethea and Gutsy turned to each other.

  “It’s starting,” said Alethea in a hollow voice.

  “Can’t be,” Gutsy countered. “Even running full tilt, I don’t think the wild men could have gotten here this fast. Something else is going on.”

  “Stay here,” ordered Alethea as she shot to her feet, snatched up her bat, and ran out into the hall. Alice and Gutsy stared at the bedroom window but could not see anything.

  “No more, no more, no more,” said Alice in a small, cracked voice.

  Gutsy threw a despairing look at the shrouded, thrashing Mrs. Chung, then pulled Alice up, led her into the hall, and closed the door.

  From outside they heard Alethea yelling, “Gutsy—you better get out here.”

  Gutsy did not want to leave, but what choice did she have? “Look,” she said to Alice, “I need to go see what’s happening. Come with me.”

  “I can’t,” cried Alice, horrified. “Mom needs me.”

  It made no sense, but sense did not matter.

  “Okay, okay,” said Gutsy. “Stay here, though. Go into the kitchen. Get something to protect yourself. Don’t go back into your mom’s room. You hear me? Don’t do it. I’ll be right back.”

  Outside there were more screams, and the sound of running feet. Gunshots cracked continuously. Gutsy kissed Alice and ran out of the house.

  * * *

  Karen Peak raced along the wall, gun in hand. One of her senior guards, Primo, saw her from above and waved her up. She climbed a ladder.

  “What’s going on up… ?” she began, but then looked over into the fields beyond and her words fell away. Everyone had been worried about what might be coming at them from the east.

  But this…

  She stood and stared into the east, looking at what everyone on all the walls was already seeing. The pale light of a billion stars shone down on a sea of figures moving across the fields. Shamblers, driven by ravagers.

  She looked down at the newly rebuilt walls, at rows of sharpened wooden spikes that had been angled against attack, at trenches filled with flammable materials, and fortified sniper posts. The preparations had seemed so smart, so strong.

  Now they seemed foolish. To stop a few hundred ravagers, yes. To stall an attack by a thousand, or even two thousand, shamblers, yes. Maybe even to defeat packs of wild men. But here, under the light of the cold stars… she did not see a few hundred, or even a few thousand.

  She saw an ocean of the living dead. Tens of thousands.

  Maybe more.

  Karen felt her body turn numb, and the hand that held her pistol sank to her side. Her fingers went slack, and the Glock fell unheeded to the walkway, where it lay totally useless in the face of what was coming.

  This was the Night Army. Come to devour them all.

  * * *

  As soon as Gutsy stepped into the street, she knew that things were really bad. She could smell smoke, and saw dark clouds of it obscuring much of the sky. People were running everywhere, some carrying their hastily packed bundles. Others ran in the opposite direction, heading home to grab a weapon, a suitcase, or a loved one. There was no sign of Alethea. Gutsy ducked as someone fired a shotgun, but in all the confusion, she couldn’t see who fired, or at what.

  Alethea came running toward her, ducked low in case there was another shot. She pulled Gutsy behind a low stone wall in the neighbor’s front yard.

  “What’s happening?” Gutsy demanded.

  “What’s happing is everyone’s losing their darn minds, that’s what’s happening. Jimmy Maynard is shooting at everything that moves. And I saw Dave Sanchez and his two older sons go running away from the wall. Ollie Sanchez had a big bottle of something, and he’s totally drunk. They were all laughing.” Alethea shook her head.

  “Can you blame them?”

  Alethea’s eyes were cold. “Yes, I can. You’re not losing it. I’m not. And Spider…” She stopped as if realizing that Spider wasn’t with them. “Crap. He’s back at the Cuddlys. Hey, are you all right with Alice for a few minutes? I need to go get him. If this is going to be as bad as it looks, we should all be together.”

  “Go,” said Gutsy, giving her a little push. “I’ll be here. I need to see to Mrs. Chung.”

  “See to her?” Alethea said, glancing in the direction of the house. “You’re going to silence her in front of Alice?”

  “What’s the alternative? Leave Mrs. Chung like that?”

  “Alice is strung out, Guts. She’ll never forgive you. It won’t matter to her mother, but it will destroy Alice if she sees you do that.”

  “She has to understand how the world works,” said Gutsy, her tone pleading.

  But Alethea shook her head. “What Alice needs right now is love.” She gave Gutsy a brief, fierce hug, and then she was gone.

  A scream tore the air from the other end of the block, and Gutsy started in that direction to see what was happening.

  She never got there.

  A sound—weird and loud—made her look up. There, far above her, was the boom of the tower crane, and from it dangled a crushed Ford pickup truck. The ponderous weight swung wildly on the end of a steel cable, but instead of angling toward the wall, the truck was only a dozen feet above Alice’s house. Gutsy saw three people working the lines and pulleys to operate the crane. They were young, not much older than her, and she recognized two of them—the boy in the cowboy hat and the girl with the red ponytail and baseball cap.

  They were shouting as they fought to control the swinging boom. Shadowy figures climbed up the scaffolding, and Gutsy could see that they were ravagers.

  “Hey!” she cried. “Watch out!”

  The two seemed unable to hear her over the sounds of fighting, and then there was a mechanical groan of pain, and suddenly the truck was falling. The cables holding it whipped back like scalded snakes, and five thousand pounds of mangled steel smashed down onto the back of the Chung house. Smashing through the roof, exploding the cinder-block walls outward, kicking up a plume of dust and debris.

  “Nooooooooooo!”

  Gutsy ran into Alice’s house but skidded to a stop. The truck—a dark blue F-150—had landed squarely on the kitchen roof and smashed it down, blocking the entrance from the hall. Gutsy whirled and ran outside and around to the side yard. The back door was crushed out of shape, and both windows were smashed. A fire flickered inside, and Gutsy began screaming Alice’s name.

  “Help…”

  The voice came from inside the kitchen. Faint but it was there. Alive.

  “Alice, are you hurt?”

  “I… I can’t move…” came the weak reply. “My legs…”

  It galvanized Gutsy, who grabbed a piece of broken board and used it to knock away the jagged teeth of glass still in the left-hand window; then she grabbed the sill and, with a grunt, pulled herself up and into the destroyed kitchen. The whole front of the truck had punched down with such force that the bumper shattered the dining room table. There were deep cracks in all the walls, and a lantern had been smashed, spilling oil in fiery tendrils along the floor like the claws of some vast dragon.

  “Gutsy,” cried Alice, but it took Gutsy a moment to find her in that all that dust and smoke. But there she was, pinned against the stove with a yard-high mound of debris humped across her legs. Her face was scratched and bleeding, and there was a look of wild panic in her eyes.

  “I can’t feel my legs.”

  74

  ALETHEA RAN TOWARD THE CUDDLYS’ orphanage, zigzagging through the streets, cutting down alleys, hopping backyard fences, and trying to avoid people. There was more panic now than when the shamblers and ravagers first attacked the town. More than the tunnel fight. It was as if people had reached the limit of how much fear they could take.

  Or maybe they’d seen the size of the army about to smash into New Alamo.

  She wished those two old soldiers would get their butts back here.

  She wished that Sergeant Holly would come back with a convoy of trucks filled with guns. Or a fleet that was somehow big enough to take everyone far away from here.

  She wished that time would roll itself back just two weeks. To when the worst trouble was getting caught reading by candlelight by Mrs. Cuddly. Kitchen duty had seemed like a dire punishment then. Now she would trade all of this for thirty years of kitchen duty. Heck, she’d clean the orphanage bathrooms with a toothbrush and be happy about it.

  Time, stubborn and mean-spirited, kept moving forward.

  She reached home and ran inside.

  But no one was there. Not the Cuddlys, not any of the kids. Not Spider.