Plus, with the way Nick spends most of his time alone, and his being in the death squads…Okay, maybe it does make sense we never met. I never really focused on cute boys when I had Theo to occupy myself with.
“Did you ever have Sister Mackenzie?” I ask. “She was the worst.”
“She was awful.”
“Do you remember when she brought in that crucifix? The one with the naked Jesus that had his dick out and everything?” Nick makes a spluttering noise, which I realize is his laughter, and I laugh too. “I can’t believe she did that. Just. The entire dick was out. I swear it’s the only reason I don’t want one now.” I make a flaccid motion with my finger. “It looked like a sad worm.”
He splutters again. My cheeks hurt from smiling. A small moment of calm in this burned-out building, surrounded by bodies, both of us aching, nervous, and so, so tired.
I should apologize for burning this place down, but I don’t. I want to keep this moment safe. I wish I could stay here forever, surrounded by ash and death and his laughter.
* * *
Cormac counts the ears we manage to retrieve as if there will be more the next time he does: three. Three isn’t nearly enough for what the Angels did to us. What they took from us. Our food, our water, our home, our safety.
Alex brings up the idea of taking the ears of our dead friends. The Vanguard won’t be able to tell the difference. We consider it. There is nothing in the traps, our food stores are mostly ash, and we can’t risk disappointing the Vanguard. Not after what I did.
A lot of things are my fault these days.
Nick says, “I’ll leave it up you, Cormac.”
“Jesus.” Cormac pulls his hair. “Don’t make me choose.”
“Then we’ll vote. No looking.”
We vote with our eyes shut. I vote for it. Nick whispers the results to Cormac, who swallows hard. “All right,” he says, “all right.”
Afterward, as I slog through the mess, peeling apart sticky Angel corpses to find anything that could help us, I heave so hard, a trail of spit comes up. I take down my mask to wipe it away, but when the cloth touches my throat it happens again, and I end up with my head against the wall, gagging, waiting for the wave to pass.
It doesn’t. I take a page out of Nick’s book and find a pen and a piece of scrap paper in the bank and write to pass to him: I feel sick, I’m gonna go lie down. He walks me to the copy room and gives me a salvaged blanket, and I stay there until he comes to find me again.
“Erin wants to talk to everybody,” he says. “Should I tell her not to wait up?”
I push myself upright, a sick taste lingering in my mouth. “No, I’ll be—” I clamp my jaw shut to keep stomach acid from creeping up. “I’ll be fine. Give me a second.”
“You can rest.”
“I’m coming,” I insist and stagger to my feet.
In the lobby of the bank, Erin is sitting on the help desk, looking slightly better but not much. Everyone gathers around her like a gaggle of baby ducks, staring at her or anywhere but her, depending on how they deal with this kind of thing. Some nervously leaf through old deposit slips, click pens, or scratch the carpet. I sit by the desk, staring out the window to the courtyard. Nick takes his spot next to Erin, arms crossed.
Her gentle, wavering words break the silence.
“We don’t need to talk about what happened,” she says. “We all know what happened, and we all know what we lost. Moving forward, we’ll be staying here. The Acheson LGBTQ+ Center is not safe to inhabit, at least for now.”
A few pained cries rise up from the crowd. So much of their lives went up in flames: the books in the office; the photos on the walls; the flyers, apartments, and friends whose bodies were eaten away by the inferno. It’s what the Angels have always done to humanity—what society has always tried to do to us. Always taking, always sinking in its teeth. My fingers dig into my arm and pieces of skin start to come off. I stop myself by biting the inside of my remaining cheek until I draw blood.