Page 133 of Chaos

Make sure they’re fine.

Then the fire.

Then … this, whatever this is.

I take off running the second the gap parts wide enough.

Soldiers surge off the walls, joining me as I sprint up the hill. I’m about halfway through Frankie’s front vegetable gardens, getting closer to the mushrooming smoke ahead, almost to the gigantic wings of Thornewood that push forward, when something white and brown at the edge of my vision has me slowing.

Beast rounds the side of the building, a blur of fur, nose forward, beelining straight for me.

Just behind him, Auden blasts into view, tiny fists pumping, his jacket with the furry hood flapping, his little legs moving.

But no Frankie.

No Shane.

Auden’s shouting.

Beast gets to me first, nose racing forward, I block him with my thigh, my fingers sinking into the fur, still searching the crowd for Frankie.

The smell of the smoke is thicker now, and the roar of the fire makes it hard to hear what he’s saying.

Until he’s a little closer, and his arm spreads out, finger stretched, toward Thornewood.

He’s shouting, pointing his finger. “Frankie!”

I follow his finger toward Thornewood, and the massive column of smoke.

I start running again. “Where’s Shane?” I shout behind me.

Auden’s words follow me like a curse. “He’s in there, too.”

33 |One block at a time

FRANKIE

IKNOW THE MOVE.I practiced it last summer. So many times with Shasta and Venus, back in the sunshine times when it felt like Thornewood had nowhere to go but up.

I mastered it.

Or I thought I had.

Because now, I may as well not have bothered. I can’t make it work.

It’s just like in the cellar—no amount of practice or squats with Venus screaming I’m a bad beech or pre-blind Shasta making me drill or Yorke sparring with me is enough.

“No big fucking boyfriend, huh? Just you.” Duane’s grip on my neck tightens, and I can’t twist my weight the way I need to, work my leg loose, get my calf up to his chest.

Broken shards of glass cut through my shirt, pierce my skin.

All I can think is:why?

My fingers scrabble across the old smooth stone floor, riddled with broken glass and potting soil. All the seeds I didn’t get to plant, the gardens I won’t get to grow.

What was the point? Of any of it? Why survive the plague? Why come to Thornewood? Why meet Yorke? Just to die?

And Maybe? She’ll die inside me before she ever gets a chance to live?

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