If Theo hadn’t been exiled from the death squads, that could be him right there. My betrothed, staring at me with a mask and a gun.
One soldier points at the road. The Grace folds itself up and sits, shuddering all the way down. There’s enough gray matter left in the heads of Graces that they can be whipped into following basic commands—sit, stay, kill. Steven doesn’t give me the dignity of following orders. He just forces me down to the curb. The others trade packages of food and their map, praying over their meals and clustering in the shade. The rookie squabbles for the map and jerks it out of someone’s hands with a triumphant snort.
I weave my bloody fingers together and press my lips to my knuckles like I’m praying too. If we’re going to stop, I’m going to take advantage of it. There has to be a way out. If I can put some distance between me and the Angels, any distance, I can lose them again. There’s an old café behind us, and the glass door is shattered, revealing a path through a seating area with chic little tables, right to a back door labeled Emergency Exit.
If I distract them long enough, I could do it.
By the sedan, the rookie says, “We’re really close to where Salvation disappeared.”
Everyone stops. Unease settles like a fog.
I heard something about that a while ago. Squad Salvation went out to sweep a possible camp of nonbelievers last month and never came back. Mom held a service on the chapel lawn for them, lifting her hands to help them to their destined place with Jesus, the gift of eternal life now and in Heaven forever. Not a funeral, though. Angels never hold funerals.
Brother Hutch takes the map. “We shouldn’t be,” he says. “We’re nowhere near the northeastern quarter, we should be fine. We should be…”
The Grace snuffles.
“We are,” Brother Hutch says. “Aren’t we?”
Another soldier crowds in. “I thought we were taking the long way around.”
“I thought we were too,” Brother Hutch says. “Maybe we got turned around by the courthouse.”
CRACK.
A wound blooms across Steven’s throat, like someone aimed for center mass and botched it, tearing his neck into a mess of meat and severed arteries. He stays upright for a second, gurgling, before he falls.
We walked right into an ambush.
The Grace screams, long and loud and high. It clatters to its feet, and its mouth opens into a hole of teeth and spit, swinging toward the office building across the street. I jam myself against the sedan for cover. Brother Hutch slides into place next to me, cradling his rifle to his chest.
CRACK. The rookie stumbles in silence, eyes bugging. CRACK. He’s dead.
The Angels scatter. Some jump through the broken window of the storefront next door, some duck behind the pickup parked in front of the sedan. Steven’s body stares at me, mouth open, a halo of blood spreading around his head.
“Where are they?” Brother Hutch snaps.
“There!” someone shouts back, pointing to the top of the office building.
Up there, backlit by the sun, a smudge of black—and it’s gone. Brother Hutch pulls me down and hisses, “Stay.”
Brother Hutch shatters.
It’s not a clean shot. The bullet nicks his eye and takes out a piece of his skull, blowing it open. I jerk back, slamming against the curb. Brother Hutch is gone. The man who watched with a gentle smile while Mom cleaned my scraped knee, the man who congratulated Theo and me on our betrothal and wished us a happy marriage through holy war, he’s gone. His body sags. There are brains on the sedan. There are brains on me.
Dad’s shattered skull. His blood in my mouth.
If they want their monster, make them suffer for it.