“We’ll take our time this round. Learn from our mistakes.”

They came again and again over the next few days, taking a finger, taking a chunk out of a thigh. They didn’t know yet what they were looking for—blood or flesh or maybe bone. They hadn’t yet heard the marrow theory.

They were pale, filthy, eyes all wild. This was the Plague, then. We examined the way they examined us, looking for what was buried inside or missing altogether.

They didn’t feed us. Every morning someone would hold a ladle of metallic water up to our lips, and every afternoon they’d hose us down clean. Clean enough. We spent hours in the dark of weakness, of grief, knowing Uncle Tim wasn’t going to bust down the doors and two-step over their rifle-riddled bodies. We were losing too much blood. We were losing too much hope.

And then one day, the doors did open, and a man slid in, a hood pulled over his head. He drew his knife, and we winced, knowing what came next. Except we didn’t know. He cut the ropes and lifted us down. He wrapped quick strips of fabric over our open parts. He pulled back the hood and whispered for us to follow. And we did. We’ve followed Miig ever since.

CHAPTER 16

A HOUSE IN THE WOODS

Rose

THE HOUSE WAS HUGE, OR AT LEAST IT LOOKED THAT way to eyes that had only seen the inside of a tent or the darkness of a cave for so many years. It was spread out like a cluster of mushrooms on a tree, low and full, the roof covered in leaves. In this new weather the walls were coated in green and brown, moss and vines and even ferns in the gutters. That’s probably what had kept it safe—the forest working to reclaim it. From a helicopter, it would have looked like another hill, just another blank spot teeming with flora and bugs. But under the heavy eaves, the mold-dotted windows flickered with lights: candles lit on the inside. Lit candles meant someone was home to light them.

“We need to get out of here now.” Derrick was already turning back into the bush.

“No, we need to check it out. Maybe we can overpower whoever is there. We have a gun.” Rose rubbed her hand along the barrel of the rifle, looking at his wound, now oozing through the fabric of his pants. “We can’t go on like this. You won’t make it.”

“Are you crazy? I’m hardly any help right now.” His face twisted from his hurt pride as much as his hurt leg. He couldn’t stand being vulnerable, let alone being a danger to anyone else, least of all Rose.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t need help.” She was serious, but she still said it with a smile, giving him the gift of her confidence behind humor.

The crickets out here were loud, like they’d made the overgrown front yard into a band shell and the entire orchestra was tuning up. Fireflies as big as butterflies flickered across the expanse like cameras flashing.