Besides the soldiers and the Grace dragging itself along with us, the only things we see all morning are abandoned cars and empty buildings. The world is only two years gone, so everything is almost exactly how it used to be: clusters of stickers clinging to bus shelters, weeds springing up between cracks in the sidewalk, trees outgrowing their dirt squares in the concrete. A corpse hangs from a flagpole, and massive letters on the building behind it scream REPENT, SINNER.

That’s the way it works now. Everybody is dying, and it’s just a matter of what kills you. Whether it’s Angels or the Flood or heatstroke or good old sepsis.

For most of humanity, it was the Flood. Theo’s mom was martyred on Judgment Day, and he grieved her in the only way he was allowed: by learning everything. How the virus burned through billions, missionaries like his mom carrying it to every major city in the world. How it either kills you when a new set of ribs grow through your lungs or how an unlucky few survive long enough to find salvation as a Grace. How the death squads infect themselves with a taste of the Flood at their initiation ritual, walking the fine line between taking a step closer to God and succumbing to the sickness…

How Seraph is a balance of the Flood’s need to devour and its need to survive—ravenous enough to turn me into a monster, patient enough to do it right. Because Sister Kipling made the Flood powerful, and she made Seraph perfect.

She made me perfect.

The Grace rumbles, shaking like a horse twitching away flies. I come up to its hunched-over chest, maybe. When its mouth is closed, I can see remnants of the person—people—it used to be. Human teeth between serrated fangs. The remains of a button nose.

Brother Hutch catches me staring. I avert my eyes, but it’s not enough. He slows down to match my stride. In front of us, two soldiers peer at a map, murmuring about previous ambushes and new paths through the city.

Acheson has been devouring Angels lately.

“Isn’t it amazing?” Brother Hutch croons, spreading his fingers toward the Grace. “This new life they’ve been given? How merciful of our Lord to allow them to be born again, to become warriors in our fight for His plan. Just like you.”

Just like me. This is what I was chosen for. For the virus to turn me into a monster that will lead the Angels to Heaven.

That will wipe humanity from the earth once and for all, just like God demanded.

A little after noon, the youngest of the squad calls for a rest. We’re on a wide street lined with restaurants and hipster offices sporting strange logos. Some were abandoned long before Judgment Day, thanks to skyrocketing inflation, rent prices, and everything, really. Water-conservation flyers and open calls for protest peel off brick walls, next to eviction notices and Going Out of Business signs. I haven’t seen any bodies or Angel propaganda for a few blocks. This must be a new path.