I swallow. My pulse climbs. I spend a beat trying to convince myself that I can just stay down here on the ground, but deep down I know that makes me even more likely to draw attention and get recognized, so I clamber to my feet. I keep my head down, hoping my hair might hide my face.

But when the mayor’s voice rings out, my head snaps up.

“As one of the few remaining bastions of humanity,” she says, and hate instantly floods my veins at the reminder of her lies about London and Singapore, “we can no longer tolerate those who would harm our good citizens, who would drain our precious resources. Especially after the tragic loss of our helicopter and any supplies it might have been able to gather.”

Her voice is strong and clear and marbled with a grim sort of certainty. It draws my gaze upward against my will. I fight the urge to look as long as I can, but it takes everything I’ve got, and as a result I don’t process her words for a moment.

Then I understand; they lost the chopper. The night it dropped us off, it never made it back. Either the pilots didn’t have enough experience to make it through the storm or Beings got them. They never brought any resources back to the island.

“I’ve long delayed enacting true martial law,” she continues. “I required clear proof to convict criminals, kept the judicial process intact. I wanted to preserve our humanity—preserve the rights our country fought for—but the cost has become too great.”

I dare to allow myself a quick glimpse at my surroundings. I’m fenced in by a mob. Hundreds of islanders in ponchos and rain boots, standing in the water that’s flooded the street, staring forward at … shit, shit.

Valkyrie Bridge.

This is an exile ceremony.

The sky is overcast with a strange, eerie yellow tint. Several of the coconut palms next to the bridge are downed, and leaves and felled branches litter the road around us. I can hear thunder nearby, rolling in from the sea as well as from across the sound—but it’s overshadowed by birdsong. Every bird in the world has been locked in an echo chamber with us, from what I can tell. I spot two little gray and white terns trying to huddle beneath a hulking pelican atop one of the downed palms, and a whole flock of shrieking seagulls circle overhead.

As a native Floridian, I know exactly why the birds are here. We’re in the eye of the hurricane. The only safe place for miles.