My mom rushes to our old classroom for her stockpile of rotten eggs. Not surprisingly, they’re still there. I guess no one wanted to clear out that mess. She hands out cartons of them just in case hellions come. People gather around her to take them.

‘They’re coming back!’ someone yells.

On the edge of the grove, shadows lurch toward us.

Everyone who is mobile stampedes toward the nearest building. A few stand by the injured, pointing guns or lifting shovels or knives as they get ready to defend their loved ones.

It’s the locust victims who were dubbed the resurrected by Uriel. Their shriveled bodies shuffle toward us in a strange, zombielike fashion. It’s as if they’re so convinced that they’re dead and resurrected that they play the part. It’s as if being treated like monsters convinced them that they’re supposed to behave like monsters.

But before they get close enough to begin a fight, my sister circles overhead with her locusts. There are only three of them, but if there’s one thing the locust victims fear, it’s the locusts.

As soon as the resurrected see them, they scatter back into the grove across the street and disappear, no longer shuffling like zombies.

The Resistance people stare at the fleeing attackers, then at Paige and her pets as they fly low overhead. Some of the people give up on their injured and take cover, apparently more afraid of the locusts than of the resurrected.

The rest, though, stand firm and point their guns at Paige.

One of them is the guy who was in the council room with Obi the last time I was here. The one who lassoed Paige like an angry villager chasing after Frankenstein’s monster. I think Obi called him Martin.

‘She’s here to help.’ I put my arms out to try to calm everyone. ‘It’s all right. She’s on our side. Look, she scared the attackers.’

No one lowers their gun, but no one shoots either. That probably has more to do with not wanting to attract angels with the noise than believing anything I said.

‘Martin,’ I say. ‘Remember what Obi said? That my sister could be humanity’s hope.’ I point to Paige. ‘That’s her. You remember her?’

‘Yeah, I remember her,’ says Martin. His gun is firmly aimed at Paige. There are two others near him who look familiar. They were part of the group that held Paige down with ropes when they caught her. ‘I remember she has a taste for humans.’

‘She’s on our side,’ I say. ‘She came out into the open to protect you. Obi believes in her. You heard him.’

Everyone watches Martin to see what he’ll do. If he shoots, they’ll all shoot.

He maintains his aim on Paige as if fantasizing about shooting her.

‘Hey!’ he yells to Paige. ‘The gangs who hit us went that way.’ He swings his rifle to point north up El Camino Real. ‘I shot several of them. They should be easy pickin’s for you and your pets.’

He lowers his rifle and slings it over his torn shirt. ‘Never let it be said that we didn’t feed our honored guests.’

There’s a moment when everyone watches Martin. Then one by one, the Resistance people lower their guns.

Paige looks down at me from the sky as her locusts circle low above us like vultures. She looks both eager and confused, like she’s not sure what she’s supposed to do.

She’s looking to me for answers, but I don’t know what to do either.

‘Yes!’ says my mother as she runs toward Paige, waving her arms in the direction that Martin pointed. ‘Go, baby girl. It’s lunchtime!’

That’s all the permission they need. The locusts fly north along the road with my sister.

‘Be careful,’ I call out.

I’m horrified. Relieved. Scared. Confused.

Nothing is as it’s supposed to be.

51

I keep expecting Obi to show up and take charge, but I still don’t see him. Not knowing what else to do, I continue to help carry the wounded while looking for Obi.

The injured sometimes scream and are sometimes too silent as we carry them into the main building. I have no idea if there’s even a doctor there, but we carry injured people in as though there were a full hospital in there.

We act as if this Spanish-style high school building is full of doctors and equipment. We tell the patients they’ll be okay, that the doctor will be with them soon. I suspect that some of them die while they wait, but I don’t stop to confirm as we lay down the wounded and head out for more.

There’s a rhythm to it, this task of carrying the injured. It gives us all something to do, something that feels organized and proper. I shut my brain off and just move like a robot, one wounded after another.

Surprisingly, everyone else behaves as though there’s order as well. Some bring water to people who need it, others gather crying children and reassure them, while others put out the fire still lingering in one of the buildings. There are people who stand guard with their rifles pointed at the sky, protecting the rest of us.

Everyone steps into a role to help without being told what to do.

That sense of organization falls apart, though, as soon as we find Obi.

He’s in bad shape. His breathing is shallow, and his hands are freezing. He has a wound in his chest that has soaked his entire shirt in blood.

I rush over and press my hands to his wound. ‘We got you, Obi. You’re going to be just fine.’ He doesn’t look at all like he’s going to be fine. His eyes tell me that he knows I’m lying.

He coughs and struggles to breathe.

He’s been lying here, watching the whole drama unfold with my sister, and patiently waiting for us to find him while we carried the other wounded.

‘Help them,’ he says, staring into my eyes.

‘I’m doing my best, Obi.’ I can’t press hard enough to stop his bleeding.

‘You know the angels better than anyone.’ He takes a labored breath. ‘You know their strengths, their weaknesses. You know how to kill them.’

‘We’ll talk later.’ No matter how hard I press, the blood seeps between my fingers and out of the sides of my hands. ‘Rest now.’

‘Get your sister to help with her monsters.’ He closes his eyes and opens them again sluggishly. ‘She listens to you.’ Breath. ‘People will follow you.’ Breath. ‘Lead them.’

I shake my head. ‘I can’t. My family needs me—’

‘We’re your family too.’ His breathing slows. His eyelids droop. ‘We need you.’ He puffs out his words between breaths. ‘Humanity. Needs. You.’ His words are barely a whisper now. ‘Don’t let them die.’ Breath. ‘Please . . .’ Breath. ‘Please don’t let them die . . .’