Chapters (41)
- Title Page
- Copyright Notice
- Dedication
- Acknowledgments
- Map of Seattle
- Contents
- Epigraph
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Epilogue
- Tor Books by Cherie Priest
- About the Author
- Copyright
“No, we’ll go this way,” Rector informed him as he took him by the wrist and dragged him in the opposite direction of what Zeke had clearly expected. “One block over the other way, then four blocks down. We’ll have time to announce ourselves, and join the fight if there’s a fight to join.” It dawned on him just then that this was why armies wore uniforms, so you could tell your side’s fellows from the other side’s.
They dashed to the left and found the edge of the nearest block, then hunkered down long enough to light a lantern outside spotting distance of the park; but when it was lit, they didn’t take time to catch their breath. They only gathered their strength enough to begin another dash, this time downhill—and only one street over from the mayhem that was spilling down that same hill, hoping to escape.
“Rector!” Zeke gasped. “Rector, do you hear that?”
Rector gasped back, “What?”
“I hear … I hear…”
And then Rector heard it, too. They weren’t the only two people who were wheezing their way along the hill. Something else was nearby, something rather close and very sudden. It charged up out of the fog and straight at them.
A rotter. An old one.
Zeke screamed outright, and Rector would’ve joined him if he’d had the time to do so—but he didn’t. Rector was out in front, and the rotter seized him first. He shoved it back, and it pushed forward, moaning and grunting as its jagged rows of broken teeth snapped for Rector’s face.
The dead thing struggled with strength it shouldn’t have had. A thing so skinny, so far decomposed … it shouldn’t wield a grip like that; it shouldn’t have been able to grasp, hold, and bite with such ferocity. It clung to Rector, pinning his arms and knocking him to the ground where they rolled together, the rotter clamping its jaws over and over, and Rector swinging his skull—his only free weapon—in an attempt to headbutt the thing away from him.
A second rotter loomed up out of the fog, revealed by the light of the dropped lantern. Rector tried to call out and warn Zeke, but bless the kid, he was already on it.