Plague

eyes, with me!” Drake said. “Two columns, two armies: blues with me, reds back to town and kill. Kill!”
    “What exactly do you think you’re doing?” Brianna demanded.
    “Me?” Drake laughed loudly. “I’m going on an epic killing spree.”
    “You’ll have to go through me,” Brianna said.
    “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Drake said.
    They walked out of the rain. Astrid and Orc and Little Pete. The cloud did not follow them. No new cloud appeared. The cloud remained, no longer expanding, but still pouring rain on the street and the ruined house.
    Little Pete coughed directly against the side of Orc’s face. It was getting worse, the cough, slowly but steadily worse.
    Maybe it would kill him.
    Go ahead. Shoot him. Kill Little Pete.
    Astrid told herself she hadn’t meant it. It was just a tactic. After all, if someone was using a threat you had to devalue the importance of the threat, pretend it didn’t matter.
    Lance’s face exploding. Some of it had hit her.
    Turk moaning in pain, writhing on the wet carpet.
    It had to stop. It had to end. One death to save dozens, maybe hundreds of kids?
    A simple act of murder . . .
    Astrid saw herself choking Nerezza. She felt again the way her fingers dug into the soft neck, fingertips finding the spaces between tendon and artery.
    Astrid had never felt anything like that red-misted rage before in her life. She had hated before—she had hated Drake. She had feared before—many, many times. But she would never have believed herself capable of that murderous rage.
    The true revelation was the joy she’d felt at that moment. The sheer, vicious, uncomplicated joy of feeling the blood pounding to get past arteries blocked by Astrid’s own hands. Feeling the spasms in Nerezza’s windpipe.
    Astrid let loose a whimper. It had to end.
    “You okay?” Orc asked.
    Would she ever be herself again? Or had Astrid, the old Astrid, died, to be replaced by this new creature, this angry, frightened witch?
    Not for the first time she realized that this had been Sam’s life since the coming of the FAYZ. How much rage and fear had he endured? How much bitter shame for his failures? How much guilt ate at his soul as it now ate at hers?
    She wished he were here now. Maybe she would be able to ask him how he lived with it.
    No, she told herself, it’s not Sam you need. A priest. You need to confess and do penance and be forgiven. But how could she be forgiven when even now she was watching Orc as he labored uphill, seeing Petey’s lolling head, and asking herself over and over again if she had meant it.
    Go ahead. Shoot him.
    God hears prayers, even from those who have not repented, she told herself. She wanted to pray. But when she tried she couldn’t see the face of a patient Christ as she had in the past. She could see memories of crucifixes, paintings, statues. But the God she had believed in was not there anymore.
    Was she losing her faith?
    Had she lost it already?
    A simple act of murder . . .
    Leslie-Ann knew about the quarantine. But she also knew she couldn’t stand being thirsty and hungry any longer and her two brothers couldn’t stand it, either.
    The one good thing about being Albert’s maid was that Albert made sure she had enough to eat. Albert always had food and water. He wouldn’t let her starve.
    So Leslie-Ann made her way from the house she shared with her siblings to Albert’s much fancier house.
    She noticed a strange thing over toward the west: a cloud. Leslie-Ann frowned, wondering why that seemed so strange.
    But she had no time to wonder: the FAYZ was full of weird stuff. If you’d seen Sam shoot light from his hands—and she had—you stopped being amazed by strange things.
    Albert’s front door was open. That in its way seemed weirder than the cloud. Albert never left his door unlocked. Never. Let alone open.
    Leslie-Ann approached cautiously. She felt for the hilt of the knife she carried. She was nine years old, and not exactly big or scary. But once she had waved the knife at a kid who wanted to steal her cantaloupe and he had run away.
    “Albert?” she called out.
    She pushed the door all the way open. She drew her knife and held it out in front of her.
    “Albert?”
    She thought she heard something coming from the living room. Her foot slipped on the Spanish tile. She looked down: a red smear.
    Blood. It was blood.
    She turned and ran back to the door. Ran outside, waving the knife around her.
    She looked around,