They flew in silence after that, through the night. Below them lay a blanket of darkness: no vehicle headlights on the roads, no twinkling cities in the distance. Above, stars shone brightly, brighter than Peyton had ever seen on any deployment before.

She couldn’t help thinking back to Desmond’s riddle about the absence of space junk. What did it mean?

Beside her, Hannah stirred. Peyton leaned over. The young EIS agent had a fever. Was it from the gunshot wound? Peyton ran a hand over her lymph nodes. Swollen.

Hannah let out a cough, then another. Peyton pulled her shirt up, revealing a small, faint rash on her abdomen.

She’s infected. Peyton’s heart sank. She closed her eyes, felt them well up with tears, but she refused to let the tears break through.

A hand on her shoulder. Desmond staring at her, his eyes saying, I will fix this. She was usually the one who fixed things like this. But she needed help now.

From the pilot’s seat, Avery spoke over the comm.

“Coming up on something.”

Beyond the helicopter’s windshield, Peyton saw a sprawling city dotted with several large bonfires. At first the fires confused her; these people wouldn’t waste wood on bonfires. Firewood was too precious in this place. They weren’t connected to the grid, had no electricity—they needed firewood to cook.

But a moment later, she understood. They were burning bodies. As they flew closer, she could see people piling them on the pyres by the dozens. No—hundreds. She felt sick.

In the swaths of darkness between the blazes, small lights glowed, their bearers moving about like fireflies swarming the arid ground. They were dry-cell battery torches, solar lanterns, and kerosene lamps, each giving off a slightly different hue—shades of white and yellow.

The helicopter hovered above the scene.

“You sure about this?” Avery asked.

“What’s our fuel status?” Desmond replied, before Peyton could respond.

“Our fuel status is we’re out.”

Out the side window, Peyton saw crowds starting to gather, pointing up at the helicopter. Some held rifles.

“Find the main road and follow it north,” she said. “There’s an airstrip where it forks. The guards will be there. They’ll keep us safe.”

The helicopter banked, flew low over the dirt road, and found the airstrip, where a low-rise building glowed from the power of a generator. Peyton counted that as a good sign.

The moment they touched down, two dozen figures emerged from the building and ran toward them, rifles held at the ready.

Avery drew her sidearm.

Desmond saw it. “Let’s stay cool here. I’d say we’re outnumbered.”

The men surrounded the helicopter, shouting as they closed in. Peyton scrutinized them, expected to see Kenyan army uniforms. She didn’t. They were civilians. Dressed in dirty clothes.