“I came from a place called the Remnant Nation. We know all about this Godhead, stationed up in Alaska. You could say they’re our . . . our sworn enemies. I’ve been taught from the first memory to my last that we should hate them. They represent the Flare and everything that comes with it—they want to accept it, embrace it, manipulate it, make it work for us and not against us. My people only see the evil in the Flare, devoted to eradicating every last speck of virus from the world. You’re talking about two religions here, both in a race to the end. And one won’t rest until the other’s gone.”

Dominic sighed and whispered under his breath, “I was really hoping for a happier story than that.”

Old Man Frypan pointed down at Timon. “So you two are mortal enemies? Is that what you’re telling me? After all the crap that’s hit this world?”

Minho shook his head. “I didn’t say that, sir. I didn’t say anything like that. I happen to think for myself and I have reasons for being out here. Those reasons are my own and not to share.”

“Trust me,” Roxy added, patting Minho on the arm as if proud of him. “He’s as good as they come, and if you gotta choose a side, I’d choose his. Not that . . .”—she waved at Letti on the ground, gave her a disgusted look, then waved at Timon—“not the ones with guns who run around threatening people.”

Isaac couldn’t have agreed more.

Old Man Frypan was about to respond but then stopped, his mouth halfway open, the words frozen on his lips. He looked around him as if a fly had buzzed in and was driving him crazy.

“What’s that noise?” he asked.

As if a lever had been pulled, Isaac now heard it, too.

A thrumming sound. Deep, vibrating the air, coming from all directions at once and growing in volume. It was like the land beneath their feet had turned into a giant piece of metal and someone had struck it like a gong. Isaac could feel the trembling in his feet, in his ears, in his bones. He and the others were like children looking for a lost pet, slowly spinning to look in all directions for the source, stumbling into each other, asking the same questions.

What the hell was that noise?

In a matter of seconds, without any one individual pointing it out, they all naturally turned toward the east, from where it had become obvious the noise was coming. Shadows blotched the dusky, overcast sky, but these were no clouds. At least a dozen dark shapes hovered above the horizon as if by magic, flying toward the bridge from the distant mountains. Although they appeared small at first, almost unmoving, they were growing in size and obviously flying in low.