Chapter 46

“ARE YOU DEAD?”

Chong heard the voice coming from somewhere beyond the darkness in which he floated. A girl’s voice.

Nix? No, it was a harder voice.

Lilah? Definitely not. Lilah’s voice was always a smoky whisper.

“Yo!” said the voice. “You in there, boy?” This time the voice was accompanied by a sharp poke in his shoulder.

He said, “Ow.”

“Okay, then y’all’s not dead.”

She had a thick accent and pronounced it dayud.

Chong licked his lips. “Delighted to hear it,” he said. There was a cool cloth across his eyes, and he had no desire to remove it. If he did, then he would have to face the reality of where he was, and he was not quite ready for that. He felt absolutely terrible. Weakness was the worst part, and it seemed to go all the way down to his bones. He wanted to sleep. Not here; at home. The best thing in the world would be to be curled up in his bed on the second floor of his family’s A-frame house. Maybe Mom would come and tuck the blankets in around him and kiss him on the head in that way she always did, even when he was too big to be tucked in. Moms are moms, they did that sort of thing. It would be nice, too. Being tucked in by his mom would chase all the monsters away. A little kiss to make the pain go away too; to help him drift off to sleep.

That would be real nice.

But that was a different world. Mom probably thought that he was dead by now. Her skinny, bookish son lost out in the Rot and Ruin. Would she be sitting on the edge of his empty bed right now, crying, her heart broken? Would she be praying that her son wasn’t a zom shambling forever through the decaying wasteland?

“Hey,” said the girl, poking him a second time.

“Please stop doing that.”

The cloth was whipped away, and Chong reluctantly opened his eyes.

Riot sat beside him. She had cleaned the blood from her face.

“You asked if I was dead,” he said. His voice was thick. “Should I be dead? Am I dying?”

“Well,” said the girl, “you got shot, boy, so put that in the pot and see if it’s soup.”

“Ah,” he said, bracing himself for the return of his memories. Brother Andrew, the archer. Carter and Sarah.

The black-tipped arrow.

“Riot . . . ?” he said slowly. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Well,” she said, “look at you being sharp as a new blade of grass.”