Ruskin felt a chill run up his spine. He had not considered that the Arrival malfunction was a problem anywhere but Garrett Island. All these Arrivals, in one place, thinking as one. But it didn’t matter where the Arrivals were, they still could all think as one. The network was global.

“Tell me,” Ruskin said.

“Okay, so, in Duluth, an Arrival ran down a crossing guard and chased a pack of kids—luckily none of them were killed—right into a school. It couldn’t make it through the door, and then the police showed up and shot it like it was a wild animal or something. And then, in New York, don’t ask me how this is even possible, but one got up onto the High Line, that walkway that used to be a rail line, and tried to mow people down. In Paris, one ran up onto the sidewalk on the Champs-Élysées. In Las Vegas, at the Bellagio or Vellagio or whatever it’s called, one got right into the casino, hitting people while they were sitting there playing the slots. And in Scottsdale, four—”

“Enough,” Ruskin said. “When did all this start happening?”

“It hasn’t even been an hour. Looks like ransomware, maybe, but you said something about a virus?”

Ruskin hesitated. “Well, what the hell else could it be? Delivered into the network by some hackers.” He cleared his throat. “Keep looking for a way in and let me know the minute you make any progress. You’ve got this number?”

“Yes, sir. What . . . what happened to Ms. Carver?”

Ruskin figured he could find out by watching CNN and ended the call.

“There you are!”

Ruskin turned and saw Sandra Montrose marching toward him.

He put the phone into his pocket and said, “This is the men’s room.”

When she got to within an inch of his face, she said, “You seriously think I give a shit?”

Twenty-Two

Pamela had made several attempts to break into the Victoria’s Secret stockroom. The door and its surrounding frame were destroyed, so now the Arrival was hacking away at the surrounding drywall, trying to create an opening large enough that would allow it to completely enter the room and get at Archie and Rory, like that famous shark eating its way through the hull of the Orca.

The two boys had taken a defensive position behind a set of metal shelves loaded with boxed merchandise. They had tried, once more, to open the door at the back of the room that led, presumably, to a service corridor that would, in turn, lead outside. But the door was locked, and they had no key.

“If we could get to the checkout counter,” Archie said, “and check the drawers, the key might be in there.”

“Yeah, well, good luck with that.”

There was another crash as the car rammed the opening again. Chunks of wood, drywall, and plaster shot into the room.