Page 100

THE ONES WHO ANSWERED

CLAIR

I freeze, eyes useless, breath loud in my ears. The air is stale and thick with dust, old grease, damp plaster, and bodies living too close together for too long. Fabric drags somewhere nearby. A low scrape. The faint rustle of people moving in the dark.

Something solid steps in front of me.

Close.

Wood. Smoke. Leather. The faint metallic tang of blood.

Leon.

Of course it’s Leon.

I know him before my eyes do. I reach out, needing an anchor, and my hand lands on what I hope is his jacket.

“Carlos?” someone whispers.

A beat.

Then a click.

A weak, battery-powered lantern flickers to life on the floor, and the room snaps into view.

Leon is standing directly in front of me.

And my hand is resting on his ass.

Oh.

Damn.

He glances over his shoulder, eyebrows raised beneath the brim of his hat.

I yank my hand back. “Sorry,” I mumble.

The smallest smile touches his mouth before he hides it, his nonchalance sliding back into place.

I force myself to look away before my brain turns into oatmeal.

The apartment is small and wrecked, but lived in. Furniture has been dragged into barricades near the windows, and blankets cover shattered glass to block the street. A mattress lies crumpled in the corner. Backpacks line the wall, half open, supplies spilling out in small piles of cans, water bottles, bandages, and batteries.

An empty pot sits near a dead hot plate, grease hardened along the edges. A crude map covers one wall in black marker, the streets labeled in cramped handwriting and X marks clustered near certain blocks. Beside the door, deep scratches carve into the drywall.

Tally marks. Rows and rows of them. Counting days or losses. Maybe both.

The lantern flickers again, catching dust in the air and carving exhaustion into every face. Jacob’s jaw is tight. Lyla checks exits. Joanie’s eyes keep cutting to the windows. Trish’s mouth is flat, her hand still near her weapon. Leon stays in front of me, close enough for his heat to reach through the cold room.

My pulse still races, sharp and electric, making every sound louder and every shadow closer. When I finally breathe out, it shakes.

“What the fuck was that?” Jacob whirls around, pulling off his beanie and dragging a hand through his hair.

Carlos doesn’t answer right away. He paces once, then stops. His shoulders rise and fall too fast. His split lip has opened again, a fresh line of red cutting through the dried blood. His voice is low and scraped raw. “Recordings must not be enough anymore. Now they’re using real people.”

A chill settles under my skin. Not from the cold. From the way he says it like it’s routine. Like weather. Like street names. Like this is another thing a person has to know to survive Chicago.

Undead in the streets. Cannibals in the alleys. Friendly mall graffiti painted like a dinner invitation.