“Chris,” Lena said. “You couldn’t have know.”

“Only because I chose not to.” Chris’s lips twisted as if the words had curdled on his tongue. “That makes me just as guilty. But Peter’s gone now, and I do know. Someone’s got to be responsible, Lena. Someone has to try and make this right. The only way to do that is tear it all down. The way Rule runs, I’m the only one left who can.”

His jaw set in a new, hard line she had never seen before and would not have thought possible. This steeliness would have looked at home on Peter, who saw the world in black and white. Chris was different, though. He was, she thought, the closest thing she had to a friend. But she didn’t recognize this stranger taking shape before her eyes, the way his skin had drawn so tight she could see his skull, or the fury that nipped her nose like pepper. This was not the boy with a good heart who had risked so much to find her little brother .

“Chris.” Her tongue was so dry she felt as if she was talking around a mouthful of dust. “Chris, you’re talking about war.”

“Yeah,” Chris said. “I guess I am.”

49

After they left the snow cave, the day only got worse. The snow was too deep for the horses. Weller’s roan had studs, but the sorrel didn’t, and it was a small horse besides. Nathan cut up a shirt to wrap around both horses’ fetlocks and cannons, but it came down to walking. With only two sets of snowshoes, one person had to ride the roan, which Chris thought ought to be her. From the look on his face, Lena knew Nathan wasn’t wild about that. “We already lost one horse,” he said.

“That wasn’t my fault,” she said.

The look Nathan wore suggested he thought otherwise, but then he nodded. “Okay. I was going to lead it to break trail anyway.”

“I’ll lead,” Chris said.

“You know, I can be in charge of my own stupid reins,” Lena said, but the roan seemed to be no happier to have her on its back than the horse Nathan had been forced to shoot. Chris finally snatched at the horse’s bridle, but Lena had barely boosted onto the saddle when the roan began to buck. “Cut it out,” Lena said, and gave the reins a vicious twist. “Quit it.”

“Stop yanking the reins,” Nathan said. “Give it its mouth.” “I know how to handle a stupid horse,” Lena shot back.

“Yeah, I saw how good you did the last time,” Nathan returned, and then sighed and flapped a hand. “Fine. Suit yourself. I’m not going to argue. Let’s just go before we lose more daylight.”

Fuming, Lena watched Nathan flounder back to his gelding with their packs. Chris said, “Don’t let him get to you.”

“The horse wasn’t my fault,” Lena said, although even she knew she hadn’t handled the animal well. The roan had quieted a little, but stood blowing and quivering. She could feel the roan’s hide trying to flinch away from her legs, as if she were a noisome fly it just couldn’t get rid of. Maybe it sensed she was sick. Could horses know something like that? God, she hoped this passed soon and everyone could settle down.

But that did not happen. After an hour, she had to slip off the roan and duck into the woods. Her stomach emptied itself in heaves, not only of a measly half of a power bar she’d forced down before leaving the cave but of the broth from that morning and whatever else she hadn’t managed to digest—which, she thought, might be everything.

After, she hung, jackknifed over the snow, her gloved hand clutching a spindly aspen. She’d waded well into the woods and behind a screen of hemlock, so she didn’t think Nathan or Chris could see. A ball of sour mucus jumped into her mouth, and she spat. God, she had never had PMS like this. Cramps, yes, and some vomiting, but she’d never been so sick for so long. Could you get withdrawal or something from birth control pills? Hell, she didn’t know. Unless . . .

No. She closed her eyes against the idea as much as the nausea. No, God, come on, that’s so unfair. We only did it twice. That’s not fair.

“Lena?” Chris called from beyond the trees. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she managed. “Just a sec.”

Maybe I’ll fall again, she thought as she boosted herself back onto the prancing, complaining roan. Or maybe riding will do it. There’s got to be something I can take or do; there’s got to be something.

Someone had to know what she could do. If she ever saw him again, she might even ask Kincaid. She could tell Chris, because he was a good person and he would want to help. Yeah, but he had enough on his plate. She’d be just one more problem for which he’d feel responsible. Better to wait until she was sure. No use jumping the gun. It wasn’t like Chris could do anything about it now anyway.

“Hey.” She looked down to see Chris, the roan’s reins in one hand and a look of concern on his face. “Lena, you going to be okay?”

“Oh, sure,” she lied. “No problem.”

But what she thought was: Oh, Peter. I think I’m in so much trouble.

50

He knew H-Q and C-Y: headquarters and, probably, Chucky. The rest meant nothing to him. But even if Peter hadn’t understood Morse code, he was getting good at reading Finn’s moods, and that black look was story enough.

“B-b-bad . . .” His throat, already dry, closed down almost immediately, and he began to hack in great, shuddering heaves. Every breath felt as if someone had slipped stilettos between his ribs.

He’d been a prisoner going on twelve days. They’d only started feeding him horse-pills a day and a half ago, which he’d hoped would knock out the pneumonia. But now he thought he was getting worse. Whatever they were injecting into him probably wasn’t doing him any favors either. Judging from the colors— sickly yellow, chalk-white, liverish brown—the injections might be killing him that much faster. Peter spat a thick, green gob of phlegm and chunky mucus into an emesis basin already a third full of the same goo. To his complete lack of surprise, he saw streaks of bright red blood. His fever was spiking again, too. He was burning up and shivering at the same time. What amazed him was that his bullet wound was actually healing, the bruises shading to a mottled green and yellow.

Exhausted from his coughing jag, he fell back against his sweatsoaked pillow and tried again. “B-bad n-n-news?”

“Let’s just say that you’ll be our only normal guest for a while.” Finn looked at Grier. “Can he be moved?”

“I . . . uh . . .” Grier was a tiny, elfish man with bad myopia. Plucking up the emesis basin, Grier gave it a swirl, squinted at the mess, shrugged, and said, “Couldn’t hurt.”

“Good.” Finn snapped his fingers at Steiner, the newest guard. Two days ago, Peter had seen his chance and gone after Lang. Peter had only gotten a few precious seconds, but that was all he needed. After the mincemeat he’d made of Lang’s face, they slapped Peter back in ankle and wrist restraints. That was all right. Beating the shit out of Lang had been worth it. Peter just wished Weller had been around, too. “Take him,” Finn ordered. “But get him some warm clothes first.”

Steiner and two other guards returned with a bundle of clothes that were identical to their own: olive pants and a shirt, socks and underwear, a thick sweater, and even a camouflage parka and watch cap. They gave him back his old boots, which were blotchy with rust-colored stains of blood: his, Fable’s. Tyler’s. Peter was so weak his fingers shook as he tried working the buttons, and Steiner had to do it for him.

“Wh-where,” he wheezed, “are y-you . . .”

“Can’t say,” Steiner muttered, but Peter saw the fine film of sweat start on the guard’s upper lip. “You might still do okay,” the old man said.

“What?” He twisted his head around until he found Grier standing a few feet away, his hands in the deep pockets of his doctor’s coat. “Why?”

“Not up to me,” Grier said. His voice was like a caricature of a cranky old farmer, the kind with steel-rimmed specs and a longtined hayfork. “I got nothing to do with this.”

Still, it never occurred to him to be afraid. He didn’t think they would execute him; Finn thought he was valuable, and Peter was certain he hadn’t seen the last of Finn’s little experiments. So he didn’t fight. Then again, he didn’t have the strength. His legs were so wobbly that Steiner and the other guard pretty much carried him from the tent.

This was Peter’s first time out of the infirmary. If he were well, he’d be scanning right and left, memorizing the layout just in case. After four days, the storm finally seemed to be spinning itself out, although snow was still coming down. He couldn’t see much: a handful of sagging tents; a few sturdier-looking, snow-mantled huts. A black wall of trees behind a gauzy drape of blowing snow. It occurred to him that he didn’t know whether he was still in Michigan. A long storm usually meant a stall, which happened around the Great Lakes all the time. He’d been pretty far gone when they found him, so they still might be relatively close to Rule, but he doubted it, and his surroundings gave him no clue. He caught the steady chug of a generator, and from the thumps, he thought there might be two more to his right, out of sight.

The guards dragged him left and down a semi-cleared path hemmed on either side by dense evergreen forest. They trudged through snow for what felt like a long time. The generator thump faded almost completely. Ahead, the path flared. A dark wood cabin, the sturdy kind made of Lincoln logs, hunched in a clearing. The cabin was a perfect but very long rectangle with two stone chimneys trickling gray smoke. The windows were shuttered. A black lattice of iron bars had been fixed to the apron of each with a thick layer of cement. Two guards manned the door. Each had an assault rifle: M4s and illegal as hell when laws had mattered. He had a feeling Finn had been making his own rules for a long time.

Steiner nodded at one of the guards, who turned, rapped on the front door, and waited. A second later, an eye-level window set in the door brightened. Peter saw the quick white flash of a face. There was the rattle of hardware as whoever was inside threw back a bolt.