Mouse and the radio boy both looked at each other, and then the godboy was scrambling for his gun, and Mouse grabbed for Pook’s rifle. He couldn’t get it off Pook’s shoulder. Bullets rained down, chipping concrete as the other boy opened fire. Mouse got Pook’s rifle up and took aim as the other gun blazed away. He pulled the trigger once.

A red stain opened on the boy’s chest. Blood spattered the wall behind him. The kid just sat down, looking surprised, and suddenly everything was quiet, except for the squawk of the radio asking for bearings.

For a long time, Mouse stared at the boy he’d shot. Blood ran from him. His eyes were staring at Mouse, but Mouse couldn’t tell if he was dead or not. He was breathing, Mouse thought, and then he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. He didn’t think he could shoot the boy again.

Mouse started to shake. He was alive. Pook was dead. The other three were dead. And he was alive. Fates. He was alive. He stood up, trembling. Amped with adrenaline. He ran his hands over himself, amazed, trying to find a bullet anywhere on him.

It was just like the Army of God boys said. They were immune to bullets. Blessed. Bullets were supposed to just bounce off them, because their general blessed them. They had amulets to keep them safe. Mouse could see the ones these boys wore, little aluminum disks marked by their priests to ward off bullets. But they were all dead and he was alive.

Mouse went over to the window. From high up, the fighting down below looked like little ants, dancing around without any purpose.

The radio squawked. “Where you want the next one?”

Mouse looked down on the fighting in the streets. He should run. This was his chance. He could run.

But he was deep inside the Drowned Cities—war lines on top of war lines, in every direction. And he was already branded UPF. If he tried to run, UPF would grab him; if he went into Army of God territory, or ran up against Freedom Militia, they’d shoot him on sight. He wasn’t just another war maggot, now. He was a soldier boy. Branded, named, and reborn.

“Where you want the next one?” the radio asked again.

He stared down at the fighting. Ocho was down there.

You want to know a secret? You’re already dead. Stop worrying about it.

Ghost picked up the radio and clicked it on. “Move it back a hundred yards.”

“What?”

“Go back a hundred yards. You’re way off.”

The 999 boomed.

Army of God soldiers started running like ants as a shell dropped behind their lines.

Ghost watched the war maggots run and scatter, and felt a rush of excitement as he walked the 999 down the street, chasing them.