Streams of the living force themselves south along the bridges strung from roof to roof. Even from here I can see how they push and shove, trying to make it to the Palisade wall so they can cross into the Dark City where Catcher and I stand.

Except the bridges aren’t meant for so much weight—for such panic. They sway, some of them snapping, and spill their occupants into the rolling sea of dead below.

And that’s what it’s like in the streets: an ocean of dead. Bodies tumble over and around each other. In some places they pile against the buildings, trying to push their way toward the people they sense inside. Others group under the bridges, their arms raised, waiting for the living to rain down.

The worst part is the tidal wave of dead surging toward the Palisade wall—slowly and inevitably. Recruiters line the top of the thick wall, shooting at any body that tries to cross over, be it living or dead. The Unconsecrated shove against it, their moans a roar of desperation.

Suffusing everything are the screams of the people. Shouts for mercy as the Recruiters fire bolt after bolt into the crowd swarming the wall, trying to find any weakness to make it across. More Recruiters join the fray, their faces pinched in concentration.

Catcher tugs my hand, trying to pull me from the edge of the roof. No place is safe in this city—anywhere on the island—at this point. The Unconsecrated can’t climb the wall, but their numbers are piling against it so deep that they just crawl over one another. Like a rushing river hitting an obstacle, soon they’ll crest the top and flood into the Dark City, if they don’t push the wall down first.

We may be out of harm’s way now, but that won’t last long.

Yet I can’t take my eyes off the chaos of the Neverlands. Fires consume the bridges, eating along old ropes leaping from building to building, tearing through box-shaped structures and blowing out the few windows left. Flames pepper and snap as they find old tinder.

I look behind us down the length of the Dark City and it’s like a mirror of the Neverlands: bridges stuffed with people pushing toward the docks, which are already swollen and overwhelmed. Boats dot the river, some of them half empty and others capsizing under the barrage of too many trying to climb aboard. People dive into the half-frozen water, swimming desperately toward anything that floats.

My stomach tightens and acid eats up my throat as I realize just how dire the situation is. The main bridges to the mainland in the north are already drowning in Unconsecrated, panicked escapees folding under the onslaught. The water underneath churns with the dead, the bodies so numerous they can almost walk on top of one another before sinking.

“We have to find my sister,” I finally say, the thought of her kick-starting my mind away from the horror of what’s going on, giving me a goal—something to focus on so that I’m not pulled under in the tide of panic.