I skitter from car to car as if I’m just a random survivor on the street. The parking lot and walkways are mostly deserted, but inside the shops, people mill about. Some are picking out clothes. This is probably as good a place as any to find a jacket, but food comes first.

The signs of burger joints, burrito places, and juice shops make my mouth water. There was a time when I could walk into any of these and order food. Hard to believe.

I head for the supermarket. There’s a line inside, where people can’t be seen from above. I haven’t been in a market since the early days of the attack.

Some stores had their shelves emptied by panicked people, while others shut down completely so no one could get in. The established gangs from the World Before took over stores as early as the day after the Great Attack when it became clear that nothing was certain.

The bloody feather hanging on the door tells me that this supermarket is gang-owned. But by the looks of all the people in here, the gang is either generous enough to share with the rest of us, or they lost some kind of fight with the Resistance.

The bloody palm prints smeared on the front door glass make me think that the gang was none too happy about giving up their treasures.

Inside, Resistance personnel give out small amounts of food. A handful of crackers, a scoopful of nuts, instant pasta. There are almost as many soldiers in here as there were during the aerie attack. They stand guard by the food tables with their rifles plainly in sight.

“This is all you get, folks,” says one food worker. “Hang in there and we’ll be able to start making meals soon. This is just to keep you going until we get the kitchens fired.”

A soldier yells out, “One package per family! No exceptions!”

I guess no one has told them about the food delivery in Obi’s headquarters. I look around and scope out the situation.

There are kids my age, but I don’t recognize any of them. Even though a lot of them are as tall as adults, they don’t stray far from their parents. Some of the girls are tucked under the arms of their moms or dads like little kids. They seem safe and secure, protected and loved, looking like they belong.

I wonder what that’s like? Is it as good as it looks from the outside?

I realize that I’m cradling my elbows like I’m hugging myself. I relax my arms and stand tall. Body language says a lot about your place in the world, and the last thing I need is to look vulnerable.

I notice something else. A lot of people are looking at me, the lone teen girl in line. I’ve been told I look younger than seventeen, probably because I’m small.

There are big guys carrying hammers and bats who I’m sure would prefer to carry a sword like the one on my back. A gun would be better but guns can be tricky to steal, and at this stage of the game, only burly men seem to have them.

I watch the men watching me, and I know that there is no such thing as a safe harbor in the World After.

For no reason, Raffe’s chiseled face pops into my mind. He has an unnerving habit of doing that.

By the time I get to the front of the line, I’m pretty hungry. I hate to think of how Paige must be feeling. I reach the distribution table and put out my hand, but the guy takes one look at me and shakes his head.

“One package per family, sorry. Your mom already came by.”

“Oh.” Ah, the joys of fame and misfortune. We’re probably the only family who is recognized by half the people in the camp.

The guy looks at me like he’s heard it all—any excuse to get more food out of him has already been tried. “We have rotten eggs in the back if you want more cartons.”

Great.

“Did she just take rotten eggs or was there some real food in there too?”

“I made sure she got some real food.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” I turn away. I can feel the weight of eyes watching me walk alone toward the darkening parking lot. I didn’t realize how late it was getting.

On the edge of my vision, I see a man nodding to another, who then signals to another guy.

They’re all big and carrying weapons. One has a bat across his shoulder. Another has hammer handles sticking out of his jacket pockets. The third has a large kitchen knife stuck into his belt.

They slip out casually behind me.

Chpater 11

I HAD planned to shop for a jacket, but no way am I going into an enclosed space at dusk with these goons behind me.

I head for the open parking lot, ducking from car to car as we were instructed to do.

The guys behind me do the same.

My World After instincts scream at me to break into a run. My primal self knows I’m being stalked and hunted.

But my World Before brain tells me they haven’t done anything threatening. They’re only walking behind me, and where else would they go except to the school across the street?

I’m back in a semi-organized group of people. I can’t behave like a savage, like I’m a paranoid schizophrenic.

Right.

I break into a sprint.

So do the guys behind me.

Their feet slap faster and closer to me with every stride I take.

Their legs are longer and stronger than mine. It’s just a matter of seconds before they’ll be on me. My center of gravity is way lower than theirs so I can zigzag like nobody’s business, but that’ll only buy me a few more seconds.

I run by several people who crouch behind cars on their way back to the school. None of them looks willing to help.

The standard advice against muggers is to toss away whatever they’re after and run like hell because your safety is worth so much more than your purse. That’s a no-brainer. Except they’re either after me or Raffe’s sword. I can’t give up either of those.

My adrenaline is pumping and fear is screaming at me. But my training kicks in and I automatically run through my options.

I could scream. Obi’s men would be out here in a second. But so might the angels if there are any within hearing distance. There’s a reason why we need to be quiet and stay out of sight. I’d be putting everyone at risk by screaming, and the soldiers might shoot all of us with their silencer-enhanced guns to shut me up.

I could run into Obi’s building. But it’s too far away.

I could stop and fight. But my chances are pretty poor against three men with weapons.

I don’t like any of my options.

I run as fast and as far as I can go. My lungs burn and I’m getting a stitch in my side, but the closer I can get to Obi’s building, the better the chance that Obi’s men will see us and stop the attackers.

When my back prickles, telling me they’re getting too close, I turn around and pull out my sword.

Damn, I sure wish I knew how to use it.

The men skid to a stop and fan out around me.

One lifts his bat to striking position. Another pulls out two hammers from his coat pockets. The third pulls out the kitchen knife from his belt.

I am so screwed.

People pause to watch—a few faces through the windows, a mother and child at an open doorway, an older couple under an awning.

“Get Obi’s men,” I whisper-shout to the couple.

They grip each other tightly and hide behind a post.

I hold out my sword like a light saber. It’s about the only sword knowledge I have. I’ve trained with knives, but a sword is a whole other animal. I guess I could bludgeon them with it like a bat. Or maybe if I throw it at them, I might get a chance to run.

But there’s a gleam in their eyes that tells me this isn’t just about getting a pretty weapon off an easy target.

I start shifting to the side to line them up in a row so they’ll get in each other’s way if they rush me all at once. But before I can position myself, one of the guys throws a hammer at me.

I duck.

They pounce.

Then everything happens so fast I can barely absorb what’s going on.

I don’t have room to swing so I ram one of the attackers with the sword’s hilt. I feel the crunch of his ribs as he goes down.

I try to swing the blade at the other men but hands grab me and shove me off balance. I brace for a major hit, hopefully from the bat and not the hammer.

Just my luck, both weapons go up together, one in each man’s hand. The bat and the hammer are black cutouts against the twilight sky in that heartbeat moment before they come down for a smashing blow.

A growling blur crashes into the men, knocking them both to the ground.

One of them gapes down at himself. Blood seeps across his shirt. He looks around bewildered.

All our eyes land on the crouching, growling thing in the shadows that looks like it’s about to pounce again.

When the thing steps out of the dark, I see the familiar flower-print dress, tights, and pink sneakers of my sister.

A zip-up hoodie hangs off her shoulders and her hair streaks down her face, giving glimpses of her angry stitches and razor teeth. Paige stalks around the men like a hyena, bent almost on all fours.

“What the hell,” says one of the attackers from the ground, crab-crawling backwards.

It’s freaking me out to see her like this. With all the slashes on her face and the metal shining on her teeth, she looks like a nightmare come to life, one I should be running from. I can tell the others think so too.

“Shh,” I say hesitantly reaching out toward Paige. “It’s okay.”

She growls a low guttural sound. She’s about to pounce on one of the guys.

“Easy, kiddo,” I say. “I’m fine. Let’s just get out of here, okay?”

She doesn’t even look at me. Her lip twitches as she eyes her prey.

There are too many people watching.

“Paige, put on your hood,” I whisper. I don’t care what the attackers think, but I worry about the stories the spectators might spread.

To my surprise, Paige pulls up her hood. Some of the tension eases from my muscles. She’s aware and listening to me.

“It’s okay,” I whisper inching toward her, fighting my instincts to run from her. “These bad men are going to go away and leave us alone.”

The men get up, never taking their eyes off Paige. “Get that freak away from me,” says one. “That thing’s not human.”

My mother has snuck up on the attackers without any of us noticing. “She’s more human than you could ever be.”

She shoves her cattle prod into his ribs. He jerks away from her with a muffled yelp.

“She’s more human than any of us.” Mom has a way of whispering that gives the impression of yelling.

“That thing needs to be put down,” says the guy who was holding the bat.

“You need to be put down,” says my mother, approaching him with her prod.