Up the aisle, Roddy turned, holding the wound in his belly. “Mr. Zig, is everything—？”
Behind Zig, Reagan sat there, hunched over, determined, as she sawed the pipe. Zzzt zzzt zzzt.
“Go! Get out!” Zig shouted, picking up speed, grabbing Roddy by the shoulder and spinning him around, both of them now running toward the red exit sign. “Elijah, up! Let’s go!”
“Ammonia! I knew I smelled ammonia!” Elijah said, crinkling his nose, scrambling, trying to get to his knees, his hands still cuffed behind his back.
“Get up! Go! Get out!” Zig yelled, pushing Roddy toward the door and helping Elijah to his feet. Even with the fan, there was no missing the sound of her sawing. Zzzt zzzt zzzt.
“You shoulda shot her in the head!” Elijah said.
With a shove, Roddy hit the latch, pushing the freezer door open. Warm air slapped his face as he burst through the plastic slats.
Elijah and Zig were close behind. But as they were about to reach the door, Zig glanced back at Seabass’s body, his legs askew, his face gray, his jaw sagging open as foamy red bile leaked from his ears and nose, canals that always flooded during a hemorrhage. Around his neck was a beaded chain. Dog tags. Someone who’d served the country.
“What’re you doing?” Roddy asked from outside the slats.
Zig grabbed Seabass by the wrists, tugging him toward the door. He’s still someone’s child. Someone’s world.
“He’s gone! Let’s go!” Roddy yelled.
Zig didn’t care, now remembering how much modeling clay it took to rebuild the melted faces of the fallen soldiers from Kuwait so their parents could see their sons and daughters one last time.
With a tug, Zig pulled him to the door. Seabass had served, too. Moving him would only take an extra second.
In no time, Zig was through the slats, Seabass’s body thumping down the threshold, sliding across the warehouse’s polished concrete floor. The change in temperature brought a puddle of sweat across Zig’s face.
“Mr. Zig, we need to go!”
Zig glanced back toward the freezer. Roddy was right—they needed to go. Even out here, the ammonia smell was worse than ever. But the thought of Reagan inside . . . If the ammonia exploded, she’d take out the whole building, maybe the whole block . . . plus all the supplies that help so many . . . and Zig and his crew, too. From where they were, at the back of the warehouse, they’d never make it out in time. But if he could stop her . . .
“Mr. Zig, this is not the time to do something stupid.”
Roddy was right about that, too. But for two years now, since the day he left Dover, Zig had been working hard to show respect for the dead. And also for the living. If he was fast enough, he could save them all . . .
“Mr. Zig, do not—！”
Too late. Darting back into the freezer, Zig disappeared through the plastic slats. The smell hit him first—it was overwhelming—his face contorting at the ammonia. He put his nose into the crook of his elbow as he ran.
“Reagan!” he yelled, sprinting up the right-hand aisle.
She was exactly where he’d left her, by the pipes in the corner, still tugging on the camping saw. Zzzt zzt zzt. Her hands shifted back and forth, but she was moving slower now, at half speed. The wound in her neck . . . she was losing blood.
“Reagan, enough! Let’s go!” Zig said, grabbing at her arm.
She ducked out of his reach, hitting him with a dark glare. Her skin was sallow, an unhealthy yellow. But what caught him off guard was the inferno in her eyes. “This is your suicide. You just don’t know it yet.”
Turning back to the pipe, she continued to saw.