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She did not.
The dog—her dog—was hurt and she wasn’t going to leave him to be devoured by los muertos. No way. She’d already lost too much. And besides, she was mad. Really mad. It burned in the skin of her face and in the muscles of her hands. She wanted to hurt someone. The female rider, for sure, and anyone else who was with her. A shambler would do very nicely. Or a ravager.
Someone shouted for medics, and a moment later a group of men came up the street, half carrying, half dragging the two sentries who had been assigned to the rear gate. The guards were alive, but dazed and bloody from having been badly beaten when the riders entered the town. Gutsy saw Dr. Morton come running up the street, looking disheveled and out of breath.
“What happened?” he yelled. “Someone tell me what happened.” Morton spotted Gutsy and paused. “You—you’re Luisa Gomez’s daughter, right? Gracie or something?”
“Gabriella, but people call me Gutsy.”
Morton nodded. “Right, ’cause you’re a scavenger. Always taking risks, always going outside the walls.”
Gutsy said nothing.
“Do you know what’s going on around here tonight?” asked the doctor.
Before she could answer, one of the night guards came and grabbed the doctor’s sleeve. “We need you, Doc. Couple of our boys got hurt. Jimmy Quiñones is pretty bad.”
The doctor gave Gutsy a smile that was more like a wince. “Sorry!” he said, then ran off with the guard.
One of her neighbors, Mrs. Gonzalez, came hurrying over. She had a ball-peen hammer in her hand. “Gabriella, sweetheart,” she gasped, “hurry. Come with me. You’ll be safe at our house.”
Gutsy shook her head. “My dog’s hurt.”
“Dog?” said the woman. “That’s a . . . is that a coyote, or . . . ?”
“He’s my dog,” insisted Gutsy.
“Well,” said Mrs. Gonzalez dubiously, “whatever he is, he looks pretty bad. I’m sorry, sweetheart, but you need to leave him and come with us.” The woman tried to take her arm, but Gutsy shook her off.
“He’s my dog and I’ll take care of him,” she snarled. “Go home and hide and leave me alone.”
Mrs. Gonzalez flinched and stepped back. “You’re being stupid,” she said. “They’re inside.”
There were more gunshots and yelling, and some screams. The fight was invisible, though, too far down the exit road to be seen. Someone kept blowing the stupid whistle, as if it was even necessary to let anyone know there was trouble. People were running everywhere. A hand-cranked siren began wailing like an angry ghost, the cry rising and filling the air with earsplitting insistence.
Suddenly Spider and Alethea were there, appearing as if out of nowhere. The sight of her friends almost made Gutsy lose it. It was such a relief to see the faces of the two people on earth who got her, who understood what was going on with her. Their faces were clouded with concern as they knelt down on either side of Gutsy.
“What happened?” asked Alethea. She wore a bathrobe over pajamas and carried a baseball bat. The words You Only Hurt the Ones You Love were painted in rainbow script along its length. The handle was bound in leather and the heavy end had dozens of roundheaded screws drilled into it. She called the bat Rainbow Smite. Alethea joked about being “a lover, not a fighter,” but she was fierce with the bat. Very fierce.
She had her tiara, though, and despite how insane everything was, it made Gutsy feel like the world still made sense if—in the middle of a crisis—Alethea had paused long enough to put on her tiara. It was as if it was a statement that said, Don’t worry, there’s still time. Take a breath.
Gutsy took a breath.
Spider wore only Halloween-pattern pajama bottoms with tarantulas and bats on them, and, for no reason Gutsy ever discovered, big floppy rubber rain boots. His weapon of choice was a bo, a sturdy wooden staff. Despite his skinny arms, Spider could spin that staff into a blinding whirlwind of destructive force.
He studied Gutsy for a moment, frowning as he looked into her eyes. “What’s going on?”
“Not now,” she said urgently. “We have to get Sombra home. He’s hurt and I can’t leave him out here.”
“I got this,” said Alethea, straightening. She turned toward a burly adult man who was standing in the street, clutching a sledgehammer as if ready to take on the world. “You!” she cried, pointing at him with Rainbow Smite. The man almost snapped to attention as if the command had been given by an actual princess and not a teenage girl. He even looked surprised by his own response. “This is my friend’s dog. Pick him up.”
“I—”
“Now.”
He did. The burly man handed his sledgehammer to Spider, squatted down, and lifted Sombra as easily as if the coydog was a puppy.
Despite everything, Gutsy had to turn away to hide a smile. Alethea could make people—teens or adults—do almost anything she wanted.
