“Just outside of Philadelphia International in a wildlife refuge. Federal worker happened to catch it on his phone. He counted more than a thousand.”

“A thousand what?” the general demanded.

“People sir. They just appeared in lights from the storm. We’re already getting reports from the other agencies. They’re returning, sir. All over the world.”

“Kate!”

She looked over to see Roxy waving. “Kate, come quick! It’s your mom!”

Her stomach lurching, she hurried around the general to see Roxy now standing before her mother, who had remained near the cage, looking out beyond the edge of the barricade.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Mom,” Stella said, reaching down to take her mother’s hand.

“What’s wrong?” Kate asked. “Mom’s, what’s—”

She stopped, holding her breath. Her mother was as unmoving as a statue, her eyes, usually a sparkling blue, had rolled back into her head, revealing nothing but white.

“My God,” Kate said softly. “General!”

She broke away, seeing soldiers running out of the tents where the others had been quarantined. She knew without asking that the girl, the doctor, the immigrant, and Ryan all now stood erect, their eyes a horrible white.

“General!”

“Get them in the air!” General Wolve shouted. “And keep guns on those people! Get ready!”

“General, please listen—”

He shot Kate a furious glance. “Back away, Senator. You won’t want to see this.”

“General, don’t—”

He snatched a phone brought to him by a subordinate.

“When those jets are in position, fire when ready,” he directed.

TWENTY-TWO

The fear was old and buried, yet returned with the smell of trapped air, a taste of metal, the curving of the walls with layers of carvings beginning at the ceiling and scrawling across the floor. A hum rose from deep within.

William watched as the passageway lengthened like a spinal cord, adjusting and uncoiling. Though his earliest memories had been stolen, it still felt disturbingly familiar: the lights throbbing within the walls, the greenish tint of the air as if he were underwater, his lungs absent of air and unable to reach the surface.

He thought of Nanna, a little girl at five years old. Of Jane. Of Lily and her sister. Of Ryan and Juan and all of them, ripped from their lives and forced down murky throats into whatever waited within the dark.

He wished for the immigrant’s weapon, to see it all burn.

Find the girl and get her out.

When it at last stopped reshaping itself, he crept down the passage, his right hand close to his hip to quickly reach for the pistol. An opaque light shone from beyond, blurred by the ever-present fog. His entire body clenched as he passed through the clearing mists.