“I'm not infected,” I answer him, my voice firm and strong. He doesn't look convinced. “Don't you think I would know if I was infected? Don't you think the Infected can feel death eating at their veins?”

He thinks about what I've said and then seems to accept it. “Would you tell me if you were?” he asks, turning to look at me.

I am about to tell him that of course I would but I can't. “Not until close to the end,” I say.

Because I can't bear the thought of breaking his heart before I have to.

He opens his mouth to protest but then closes it and looks around at the clothing splayed across the floor. The thumping of the Unconsecrated pulses against the floor beneath us and his face falls into a hard tight expression of terror and purpose.

“Never mind about them,” he tells me and I don't know whether he means the Unconsecrated or the others out on the platforms. “Help me tear these sheets and clothes and knot them. Braid them if it's not sturdy enough. We'll use them as rope.” I nod and take my place by a pile of clothing. I rip the sheets, tying them in sturdy knots. The first dress I pick up is the green one I wore so many weeks ago and I must tamp down thoughts of the woman who wore this dress as I pull it apart, the fabric protesting as it tears.

Travis goes back to the porch and begins pulling the thick ropes that dangle uselessly to the ground. They used to be part of a bridge and he kicks out the wooden slats with his good leg as he coils the rope into a rough heap.

“Will it reach them?” I call out.

“We'll make it reach, somehow or another,” he answers, not looking up from his task, his fingers a blur as he knots the various pieces of rope into one.

I feel the floor shudder beneath me and I know that Argos feels it too because he growls low in his throat, his tail tucked between his legs. He comes and leans against me, his warm body positioned between me and the trapdoor. Like water filling a bucket the Unconsecrated flow into the space beneath us. I wonder how much time we have before they force their way up through the trapdoor and these thoughts make me even more diligent about my task.

When I have ripped apart every dress and knotted the strips together I rise from the floor and stretch, wincing at the pain in my legs, and join Travis on the porch. I ask him what more I can do and he grunts.

I stand there watching him, twisting my hands together and feeling useless. A wind blows around us, sweeping through the attic, pulling paper from the floor out to float toward the Unconsecrated below.

I try to catch them, to save them, but the paper crumbles in my hand, turning to dust. One page lands on my foot and I carefully pick it up. The edges are rough, as if it was torn from a larger page. Across the top The New York Times is written in large letters. Below that, in equally large letters, it says: INFECTION SWEEPS THROUGH CENTRAL STATES: CITIZENS