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My mouth goes dry.
Leon lifts one hand, licks the tip of his finger, and marks a tally in the air.
What the hell does that mean?
My eyebrows pull together.
He only gives me that little half smile, the one that makes me want to throw something at him and also maybe climb him like a tree, which is inconvenient because we are in a gore-slick alley.
Trish says, “Well, I guess that changes our plans a little.”
Lyla’s eyes flick toward the rooftops, then the alley Joanie came from. “Good job, kiddo.”
Joanie bows. “I learn from the best.”
“Thank you,” Lyla says.
“I was talking about Clair.” She laughs. “That bomb stunt was fucking legendary.”
I shrug, stupidly pleased to have the approval of a teenager.
Lyla’s gaze cuts to me and she winks. “Agreed.”
Two compliments from Lyla in one day? I really am improving.
Jacob cuts in. “We head back toward the vehicles. If we search, we search the outer streets only. No pushing deeper today.”
Lyla points toward the street. “Nobody follows voices. Nobody breaks formation for screaming. We verify before we move.”
We all take off, jogging to create more distance between us and the growing horde at our backs.
I shift my grip on my rifle.
Luis’s words echo in my head.
Something’s off here. It crawls under my skin.
And I don’t think we’ve seen the worst of it yet.
THIRTEEN
BLAME GAME
LEON
We come back empty.
Every can. Every route. Every garage, shed, tank, and rusted-out vehicle.
Dry.
No one says it out loud when we roll into camp, but the failure settles over us anyway. Jacob drags a hand over his face. Lyla unloads her pack with sharp, silent efficiency. Joanie kicks a rock into the trees, then glares after it like the rock personally betrayed her.
Cold creeps in with the dark, carrying smoke, wet dirt, and the city still rotting beyond the tree line.
Earl hunches over the hood of his car with three maps spread beneath his hands, his cracked readers low on his nose. His pen taps once before he marks off another section of the city.
“It doesn’t make sense,” he mutters.
