As we travel, Nightlight sleeps. The entire camp is soundless, save for our footsteps and the tropical wind rushing through the palms. Everything should be proceeding as planned. Before departing, Briggs radioed Miss Manners and the gray-shirts that the Reverend needed all hands on deck at the bunker to handle an unruly Bill. The remaining Nightlight staff replied that they were near the staff lodge and already on their way—confirming the Coral Road would be safe and clear for us to get ahead of them.

The Coral Road is empty, but…I can’t stop feeling these eyes on me.

“Where’s the Reverend?” Alan whispers timidly.

“Hell?” Vance replies.

“What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean, dumbass? Connor’s splattered in blood. So is Bill, and—”

“Will you chickens HUSH?” Marcos snarls, turning back. Instinctively, I raise my spear to Briggs while Marcos is distracted. As Vance urgently defends himself, Briggs, the hulking, former second-in-command of Nightlight staggers onward, unaware Marcos is distracted by the squabbling. We’re being extra cautious holding Briggs at spearpoint, but he’s cooperating willingly. Guilt and regret have crushed him into a ghost—a better human being, but a ghost nonetheless. Briggs and Bill shepherd our escape squad like two of the walking damned: vacant, shackled ghouls ferrying souls out of the underworld.

Until Alan spoke, no one who hadn’t been present for the bunker drama asked for details. What they did see was Karaoke Bill and me, covered in blood, the Reverend nowhere to be found, and Briggs lying for us on the radio. The sharper (or less naive) campers like Molly, Lacrishia, and Vance put the pieces together on their own, and the others kept quiet with the promise that everything would be explained on the boat.

Out of the next bend, the watchtower rises up, revealing the cul-de-sac courtyard of Pura Vida, each classroom lit with a single porch light. Not a soul—a ghost town. Hairs prickle on the back of my neck as I spot the chopped remains of Drew’s noose swaying in the breeze at the top of the tower. Briggs sucks in a brave breath.

“Jack,” Darcy orders, “clear us.”

“Copy that,” Jack replies before breaking from the amoeba and darting toward the watchtower at a sprint. Alan, Marcos, and I hiss at him to stay put, but Jack only takes orders from the Moms. The caravan pauses at the base of the tower and watches in awe as Jack, forgoing the shattered ladder, shimmies to the top like a koala mounts a tree. He reaches the bird’s nest in under a minute, and I hold my breath, praying Miss Manners and her horrible rifle are long gone.