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Her fingers shook with the palsy of dread as she patted her leg. Her jeans felt damp, but when she held her fingers up to the starlight there was no blood on them. She was not infected.
Could she believe that? Could it even be true, with all of the other things that were falling apart? Was this the setup for another of the world’s cruel jokes?
She got to her feet and limped back into the fight.
Mr. Ford was still on his feet, and Alethea saw Mr. Urrea battling his way to his friend’s side. The two old writers grinned at each other like a couple of kids, as if this being the end was a joke that only they understood. These were not happy smiles, though. They were jack-o’-lantern grins, and it frightened Alethea. They shifted around, standing back to back, and their antique blades whistled and thudded.
Alethea moved around the edges of the fight, trying to stop the shamblers before more of them attacked. And then, just like that, the fight was over.
She whirled, looking for another enemy, but there was none left to fight, Not where her group stood weeping and bleeding and fighting for breath. Far off to the east and west and south there were sounds of fighting. And when she looked toward New Alamo, all she could see was a pillar of fire. Nothing close, though.
“Are we… safe?”
It was Mrs. Sweetwater who spoke. She leaned on her golf club, hunched over and clearly in pain.
Alethea almost laughed. She almost said no. Instead she raised a trembling hand and adjusted her tiara.
“We’re alive,” she said.
Then a massive explosion from town turned night into day for several seconds. Alethea saw that her group was on a slight incline—not high but enough to let her see a wide swath of the flat lands around the dying town. She could see for miles, and what she saw nearly tore the heart out of her. All she could see was war. Death and pain and loss and suffering. There was nothing else to see.
Ford and Urrea came and stood with Alethea, leaning on each other. They both looked as pale as the walking dead. Alethea could see how frail they were; something she’d known before but never really accepted.
“Oh my God,” said Urrea faintly. He was not commenting on the general carnage but was instead looking toward the southwest. Toward where the main army of the dead was still smashing up against the town. Between that and the spot where they stood was a mass of hurrying figures. Ravagers and…
Reapers. All of them with knives and scythes and other deadly blades.
“They’re coming for us,” said Ford. “They’re coming this way.”
The light from the explosion faded and darkness fell again, once more hiding the oncoming band of killers. They were less than a mile away. They would here in minutes.
Alethea looked around at her people, old and young. A few fighters left among the adults. Not enough for this, though. Not nearly enough. There was no chance at all.
Urrea placed his hand on her shoulder. “Get everyone out of here. You know the way to Site B, princess. Go.”
“What?”
He raised his weapon and laid it over his shoulder. “We’ll lead them another way. Ford and I will buy you some time.”
“As much time as we can,” Ford agreed. They were still smiling, but the smiles were like pictures hung crookedly.
“That’s crazy,” Alethea fired back. “We all need to—”
Ford held out his wrist and pulled back the scarf. The bite was deep, and there were already black lines of infection running jaggedly from the wound.
“Last chapter for me,” the old writer said, trying to make a joke of it.
“No,” pleaded Alethea, “we can find Mr. Flores or Doc Morton and get you—”
“There’s no time,” said Ford. “I can already feel something happening in here.” He touched his heart, and then his head. “And here.”
“Crazy old goat,” Urrea muttered.
Alethea grabbed Urrea’s arm. “Make him come with us.”
But he took her hand and gently—firmly—pulled it away. He tugged at the collar of his shirt and leaned down to show his shoulder. She saw the bite, and her knees wanted to buckle. Tears filled her eyes, broke, and fell as a sob was punched out of her.
“No, no, no, no, no… NO!” Her bat fell into the dirt, and she buried her face in her filthy hands.
