Two strong hands gripped her, shaking her violently.

“Sophie!” the voice yelled again.

The dense fog hovering over the doctor’s eyes slowly began to clear, and a face emerged. It was Emanuel.

“You were having a nightmare,” he said.

Sophie sat up, clawing at her tired eyes.

“Mars,” she said under her breath.

“Again? It’s happening more often, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “This is the third time this week. It’s just so . . .” Her voice trailed off as she rubbed her eyes again. “So vivid,” she finished.

“Explain it to me. Maybe I can help.”

“Don’t worry about it. Holly said the dreams are just nerves.”

Sophie watched him rub the deep wrinkles on his forehead. They made him look far older than he was.

“I know you better than she does. I know you in ways she never will,” he said with a grin.

She frowned. “Now’s not the time.”

“Sorry. Let me help you,” he pleaded. “Tell me, did you see the craft again?”

“Yes.”

“But—let me guess—you don’t want to talk about it?”

Sophie laid her head back down on the small pillow. She didn’t need to respond for Emanuel to know the answer to his question. He was right—he knew her better than anyone else.

“Go back to sleep,” she said. It was more of an order than a suggestion.

He shrugged and stood, stretching his muscular legs. “Suit yourself,” he replied, strolling out of her room and into the dark corridor.

Sophie couldn’t help but sigh. She hated pushing him away, but she had to keep him at a distance.

Darkness flooded the room as the lights dimmed. She closed her eyes and found the image of the blue craft entering her thoughts.

What was it, and why did she continue to see it in her dreams?

There were no answers, only questions, but something inside told her there was more to her dreams than nerves.

Fresh, dark blood was everywhere, speckled on the wall like macabre graffiti. It wasn’t like the blood Timothy had seen in movies; it didn’t look like ketchup or jam. It was a relish made from chunks of flesh and other pieces of gore that meant only one thing—something had died.

“What happened?” Emanuel roared.

Timothy looked up from the bodies of a dozen chickens sprawled out across the dirt. “I don’t know, I found them this way,” he said, staring down at the mess of feathers and sticky blood.

“What the hell . . . ?” Emanuel knelt to check the dead birds.

“What are we going to do? We needed their eggs!” Timothy said frantically. “We better call Dr. Winston and the others.”

“No! Not yet. Sophie will want answers, and I need to figure out what happened first.” He stared back down at the dead chickens. Their beaks had all been whittled down, cracked and broken as if they had tried to peck through the walls. Quickly he grabbed a pair of gloves from his back pocket and picked up one of the hens to examine it more closely.