“I’ll run to get the rest,” I said. “You’re too weak. We can’t risk you dragging that tank up and down with you.”

He started to shake his head, but I left him there anyways.

I scrambled back up the stairs, stepping over the sizzled corpse of the Host, and grabbed two more tanks. I made it back down okay.

Patrick had stacked the tanks on the gurney and was readying the thick nylon straps to hold them in place. I set the two down by his feet and ran back up. Every time I turned a corner or put my back to the dark hall, fear licked at the nape of my neck. Somehow I made it through two more trips, grabbing the refilled portable tank on my final leg. Since the gurney was overflowing, I decided to leave the last two tanks behind.

Patrick secured the load, cinching the straps to pin the pile of tanks to the mattress.

He leaned his weight into the gurney, starting it rolling toward the rear exit. “Let’s go.”

“Wait,” I said. “We need IV bags and needles.”

He looked at me, blinking, fighting for clarity.

“To feed you,” I said.

“Hurry, Chance,” he said. “Just … hurry.”

I sprinted back upstairs, my steps pounding down the dark corridor. I’d clocked the big refrigerator behind one of the nurses’ stations. When I arrived and tugged open the door, a puff of cool air greeted me. Thank God—the seal had held.

I had to shove aside an EKG cart so I could swing the door wide. The cart wobbled off up the hall on creaky wheels. Grabbing a giant organ-transplant bag, I eyed the IV bags inside the refrigerator. There were solutions with saline and dextrose, minerals and vitamins, but I had no time to figure out which I needed, so I swept every last one from the shelves into the bag. Then I dug through the drawers behind the station, looking for the equipment that Dr. Chatterjee had told me to get. Catheters, tubing, large-bore needles. I loaded them up, zipped the bag shut. I crouched to slide the strap over my shoulder, then rose unsteadily, using my legs so I wouldn’t throw out my back.

I wobbled a few steps, passing the front stairs, heading for the rear of the building. I sensed movement in the unlit landing by the stairwell.

The door creaked open.

A shadow filled the doorway.

I could see straight through its head.

I dumped the bag and did the first thing I could think of, which was to kick the Host right in the stomach.

He flew about halfway down the dark stairs, then seemed to stop, floating in midair, his arms spread to the sides.

It was impossible.

Something lofted him back onto his feet, and I saw that he hadn’t been floating at all.

He’d been propped up by the Hosts beneath him.