Here on the concrete island that was once part of the beautiful Bay Bridge, the excitement is palpable. It throbs from every direction in the crowd – and it is a crowd now – as people mill around on the broken connection between San Francisco and the East Bay.

Everyone is helping set something up. Shirtless gang members show off their tattooed muscles as they climb to the highest points on the suspension bridge. The different gang factions race to fasten an enormous set of speakers and spotlights. The winner of the race claims some victory over the others for a prize that Dee and Dum have made worthwhile.

An impromptu stage is being built while people practice their talent show performances all around it. Crates have been stacked and are being nailed together for a fast and sloppy set of stage stairs.

Men in gray camouflage walk past me with their rifles. They wear large headphones around their necks and night vision goggles on their heads. I have headphones around my neck as well, but not the goggles. And instead of a rifle, I carry a pair of knives. There are plenty of guns, but the bullets are reserved for the experts.

A couple of them wear elaborate tentlike camouflage with bits of random stuff attached to it that makes me think of swamp monsters.

‘What are they wearing?’ I ask.

‘Ghillie suits,’ says Dee-Dum, walking by, as if that explains everything.

‘Right, of course.’ I nod as if I have a clue what that means.

I look around to see if I can be useful and find that everybody has their task and is busy doing it. Dee is handling the details of the show while Dum is organizing the audience, which is practicing the escape drill. The Colonel and the other council member who I’m starting to think of as the logistics lady weave through the throng, directing projects and keeping people on task.

Doc is handling the makeshift med station, which people avoid unless they’ve really hurt themselves. I admit, even I’m a little impressed with Doc’s dedication to people, even if I’ll always think he’s a monster for the things he did.

On the broken edge of the bridge where the rebar sticks out into the air, my sister sits with her legs dangling over the edge. Two of her scorpion-tailed pets lie curled up beside her while the third flies in loops in front of her. Maybe it’s catching fish. They are the only ones with space around them, as everybody gives them a wide berth.

I feel sick about having her here when I know she’ll be in danger. But as hard as I tried, both Mom and Paige refused to leave me. It twists my insides to have them be part of the fight, but on the other hand, I’ve learned that when you separate from people you love, there’s no guarantee you’ll ever see them again.

Raffe’s face pops into my head like it’s done a thousand times today. In this memory, he has a teasing look in his eyes as he laughs at my outfit when we were at the beach house. I shove the memory back. I doubt he’ll have a teasing expression when he slaughters my people.

My mom is nearby with a group of sheet-draped cult members. They all have amnesty marks on their shaved heads.

My mother tells me they are committed to making up for their sin of betraying me, but I wish they weren’t here at all. Still, if they want to show their commitment to the cause, sticking with my mother is a good way to show it. It keeps them out of the way, and I’m pretty sure my mom is making them pay their penance.

It looks like the only group that could use my help is the stage crew. I pick up a hammer and get on my knees to help build the stage.

The guy next to me gives me a rueful smile and hands me some nails. So much for the glory of leadership.

I don’t know what all those power-hungry people like Uriel are thinking. As far as I can tell, a leader ends up doing all the worrying and still needs to pitch in for the regular work.

I hammer, trying to settle my mind and keep from freaking out.

The sun is beginning to set, adding a golden glow to the water. Wisps of mist begin creeping over the bay. It should be a peaceful scene, only my blood feels like it’s freezing by the second.

My hands feel cold and clumsy, and I keep expecting to see vapor from my breath. It feels like I don’t have enough blood in my body, and I can feel my face turning pale.

I’m scared.

Until now, I really believed that we could pull this off. It sounded good in my head. But now that the sun is setting and things are coming together, I’m freaked out by all these people who believed me when I said this was a good idea. Why would anybody listen to me anyway? Don’t they know I can’t plan worth two pennies?

There are far more people here than there should be, and they continue to swell the ranks as ships continue to ferry them to our broken bridge. We don’t need them all, just enough to make the angels believe that coming here instead of the Golden Gate Bridge is worth their time. But we put the call out, and more and more people are arriving. It never occurred to us to put a limit on the size of the audience, because we thought it would be a miracle if we had three people who showed.

They know the angels are coming. They know this is our last stand. They know we will most likely be massacred.

And yet they keep coming. In droves.

Not just the able-bodied – the injured, the children, the old, the sick – they’re all here, crowded onto our little island of broken concrete and steel. There are too many of them.

This is a death trap. I can feel it in my bones. The noise, the lights, a talent show for chrissake, at the apocalyptic End of Days. What was I thinking?

Despite the crowded conditions, the audience maintains a respectful distance from the curtains and dividers that have been set up as a makeshift dressing area beside the stage.

Dee thunks onto the stage and bounces on it. ‘Good job, guys. I think it’ll hold for a few hours. Good enough.’ He cups his hands over his mouth and calls out to the crowd. ‘The show starts in ten, people!’

It’s a little odd that he doesn’t yell to the dressing area but rather to the crowd at large. But I guess he’s right – everyone here is performing tonight.

I work my way up to the makeshift stage, feeling the panic. The last time I was on a stage, the angels went berserk and decided they were going to kill everyone and feel righteous about it.

This time, I’m in front of an equally charged crowd of humans. But the emotion they’re charged with is fear and barely contained panic, not bloodlust like the angels.

In front of me is a standing-room-only crowd with hardly enough room to maneuver. The only thing that limits the number of people is the dimensions of the concrete island we chose.