Trish grabbed her by the shoulders. “Calm down. You know better what to do than any of us.”

Sadina walked past them and took a look for herself. Isaac felt like his feet had been stapled to the warped floor of the hallway.

Sadina stepped back and faced them, her poor black eye even puffier than before. “They’re all chained together—just like at the bridge. Probably fifty or sixty of them! Half are walking, climbing, stumbling, the other half are being dragged along.”

“And Roxy’s out there?” Isaac asked.

“Yeah, but she’s got a good lead on them. I don’t even know if she’s noticed them yet but she’s going as fast as she can.”

Isaac turned his attention to Orange, who had her eyes closed, taking deep breaths.

“Okay, guys, I’m sorry,” she said. “I just had myself a little panic attack is all. We can do this. We have to hope people survived over there, and we need to get to them. They might be hurt or there might be Cranks in their ship, too. Although it has a Grief Walker so I don’t think it had room.”

“Alright,” Sadina said. “Let’s do it. My mom’s over there, right?” Somehow she managed to keep her own voice under control, despite the terrifying possibility that her mom was dead. Or . . . worse.

“We obviously have the advantage,” Isaac added. “If they’re all chained together and stumbling over each other, then let’s run around them.” He had a hard time believing he was standing there, speaking those words, living in this world. It was like he floated above them, watching strangers.

“Then let’s go.” Orange patted some of the stuffed pockets of her suit. “They better not mess with us.”

She darted out of the ship, and once again, Isaac and his friends followed.

“They’re back,” Old Man Frypan said. “Those bastards are back, straight out of my younger days.”

Jackie was standing with him, arm in arm, supporting his weight—the crash, not to mention the last few weeks of his life, had taken a heavy toll on the man. The scene before them, as they stood right on the threshold of the ripped opening of the Berg, was a nightmare in the making. Roxy—Minho’s mom, grandma, whoever she was—had almost made it across the gap between ships, and Minho had run to greet her, half-carrying her as they stumbled their way across the remaining clatter of fallen trees.

But behind them. Behind them was the nightmare.

Cranks, the same ones at the bridge by the looks of it. Chained together like slaves of ancient Rome, walking, straggling, dragging their way closer. Cranks. How often had she been told stories late at night about these mythical monsters of old? The only thing stalling her fear was how slowly they approached, hampered by the chains, having to move as one entity.