Chapter 2

Gwen

“Stand still, you monster.” The words whisper between my teeth in a quiet, desperate hiss. Struggling to bring the distant figure into focus, I jam the butt of my battered sniper rifle harder into the curve of my shoulder. My hands want to tremble—instead, I grip the rifle as if my life depends on it and squint determinedly through the scope—but the target stays ever so slightly out of focus.

I clench my teeth with frustration.

Come on, come on. I have to know. My fingers tighten and I reflexively adjust the scope, even though I can already tell it won’t help. Freaking refurbished parts. They work—until they don’t. Still. Although it’s blurred by my weapon’s limit, the figure in that narrow circle is too familiar.

The face shape is right, as is the long fall of black hair.

But I don’t know. I just don’t know.

Damn it. My chest heaves and my eyes burn, making the wavering image even harder to parse. But I can tell it’s leaving. It’s already climbed back over the railing, after hanging out over the street for a bizarre amount of time. Now it’s heading across the roof. It might be too far for my scope to reveal facial features, but there’s enough focus to confirm a slender build and the unusual grace of its movements, the walk almost like a dance.

Too smooth. Too similar.

My finger settles on the trigger.

“We have to go,” whispers Vin, my second in command and partner on this mission.

“No,” I hiss softly. “I have to know if it’s her.”

“Please.” From his spot, belly down on the roof beside me, he bumps his elbow against mine. “We’ve already stayed too long. We have to go.” Our hiding spot might be well-chosen, with old ventilation and an abandoned pigeon coup providing cover, but every moment we stay here is a risk. Every whisper is a risk.

A gunshot? That could be suicide.

I try to lower my gun—but I can’t take my gaze from the scope.

“It could be her,” I whisper. “I have to put her out of her misery.”

“Gwen…” Sympathy coats the single word.

I don’t need to explain further for Vin to understand who I mean—we know each others’ demons.

Good thing, too, as it’s hard to keep my tone steady, with every muscle in my face feeling tight to the point of pain. But what else can I do, when I might be viewing the corpse that used to be my sister?

I track the figure’s progress, note how its movements have shifted from the almost frantic actions on the edge to a sedate pace. All the invaders’ human puppets walk with that eerie, perfectly regulated pace. It’s reached the roof door. It’s now or never.

“I have to take the shot,” I whisper.

But if I do, I’m consigning my best friend to death.

I glance at him, helpless to voice the turmoil in my chest.

“Gweny.” His gentle brown eyes hold my gaze. “I get it—I do. I want to tell you to take the shot and damn it all to hell. But we’re pinned down. And you can’t tell if it’s Amelia—not for certain. I’d tell you to blow it all to hell if we knew for certain, you know that. But you don’t. We don’t. And we’ve already got Greenie riding our fine butts.”

I want to hate his soft words almost as much as I want to hate his logic.

My lip trembles, but my gun remains steady. “We made a pact.”

“Pact-shmact.” Vin blows out a breath. “No way I’m putting John’s corpse to rest at the expense of you. Just as we both know you’re not going to take my perfect ass down with you.”

He’s right—that’s the thing with Vin, he’s normally right. As for me, I’m supposed to be the leader of our band of lunatics. I can’t risk the mission or our scavenged bundle of medical supplies on a hunch and an ache in my gut.

Eyes burning, I watch the figure disappear into the dark recesses of a stairwell.

Gone. Just like before.

“Fuck.” The word is a ragged cry. “I lost her.”

“You lost her a while ago,” he says softly. “No more self blame, babe.”

I try to glare at him, and find him already watching me, sympathy shaping the lines of his face. I can’t glare at that. Being stared down by Vin is like being reprimanded by a slim, dystopian-chic Buddha. He’ll fix your outfit, remind you to be mindful, and then somehow make sure everyone has snacks.

No one can hate that.

Not even when it’s easier.

His black brows rise in tandem. “Done with the pity party?”

“Fuck you and the observant horse you rode in on,” I grumble under my breath.

“I might,” he muses quietly. “Does this so-called horse resemble the sexy centaur of my kinky fantasies?”

“Hah. Ha.” I slide my gun back and quickly dismantle the rifle, sliding the parts into each custom pouch in my pack.

I feel the sting of loss with each movement.

Not that I’m going to stop to cry about it.

The past three years have taught me that loss isn’t slow. There are no warning lights, no well-marked barricades. People are with you—then they aren’t. And all you’re left with is an empty hand.

I draw in a shaky breath and sling the long bag with the carefully packed gun across my back. The scope I’ll keep in my pocket, using it to find pathways through the alien ranks. They drove us out of the tunnels we’d been using beneath occupied Seattle, pushed us deeper into their territory than we’d planned. We need to be careful. Quiet. Find a way through the mess.

And still, I wonder if my sister has been in the heart of it the entire time. If we get out, will I ever find her again?

A sigh escapes me. “How the hell did I lose her, Vin?”

He grips my shoulder. “Same way we lost everything else.”

“Yeah.” I palm the scope, take a final sweep of the street below. “It’s as clear as it gets. Let’s move.”

“Joy.” Vin’s lips quirk and he nods at me.

Then we lift our hands to the sky and give the green bastards the one-fingered salute they deserve. With our ritual complete, it’s time to brave the streets. We can’t return to the tunnels—the Greenies clearly know we’ve been using them to scavenge supplies. They’re crawling with human servants and the little helmed fuckers that like to order the humans around.

Our enemy expects us in the tunnels, so we’re sticking above. Always doing the unexpected: it’s how we’ve survived this long. It’s what my Uncle Leo, our former leader, taught us. Ensuring my shirt covers the pair of Berettas riding on my hips—no need to draw attention—I lead the way.

Vin and I creep down the fire escape stairs.

We’re closer to the Space Needle than I like, but we’re not dead. So that’s a win. Halfway down, I signal for Vin to stop. I pull out my scope and take another quick survey of the streets in view.

I nod and wait until we reach the alley below.

We hunker behind a dumpster and whisper my findings. “Not seeing any more unusual activity. Standard Greenie patrols—nothing like we saw in the tunnels or on the lakeside. Should be able to avoid them. We keep our heads down, keep east and get out—got it?”

“Woof.” Vin grins as he gives the Stray Dog standard reply.

But I can tell he’s nervous—he’s not alone.

Today has gone from bad to worse. But we’re Stray Dogs for a reason: we protect our pack and we always manage to steal food. We’ll find a way through this mess, somehow.

“Woof,” I affirm, offering Vin a strained half-smile.

As we slowly approach the street, I adjust my hood, making sure it covers my bright red hair. That’s the trick to avoiding Greenies: don’t do anything to make them look twice. It’s why we always cover our regular clothes with dull gray parkas, and keep our weapons concealed. Unless we’re faced with a wall of increased patrols or tunnels teaming with sensors and scouts, it works a treat.

Reaching the end of the alley, I peer carefully past the worn bricks: no Suits in sight. Whew. At my signal, Vin and I walk slowly across the street and into the next alley. That’s how we’ll travel—as quickly as we dare through the alleys, and slowly across the streets.

Leo liked to joke that handling the aliens was no different than surviving the dinosaurs of Jurassic Park.

Running attracts their attention.

It’s ridiculous, and it works.

We weave our way through the streets following Leo’s tried and true method. My uncle was wildly creative when it came to strategy. Names? Not so much. But once he labelled our resistance cell, the moniker stuck—much to the frustration of those who wanted to take the end of humanity more seriously.

Those stalwart types belong in the SAF—the Surviving Armed Forces.

The freaks?

They belong with me.

The aliens have advanced technology and an army of brain-dead husks eager to do their bidding. The SAF has trained military professionals, most of the remaining weapons, and a bunch of civilians to care for. As for my Stray Dogs? We have cunning and sheer, balls-out crazy on our side. It’s why we’ve focused our scavenging in the aliens’ primary holdings on the west coast, leaving the safer spaces for the SAF and their civilians.

It’s worked great…until today.

Our enemy has suddenly changed their tactics, and I don’t like it. Worse, I don’t yet understand it.

We reach the next alley and I tap Vin on the arm. “Checkpoint’s in two hours at the lake’s south-eastern edge,” I whisper. “We’re starting to make up time, but we’re going to have to push it.”

He pretends to toss hair he absolutely doesn’t have. “You always complain when I’m fashionably late.”

A choke laugh escapes me. “Come on. We’ll learn what we can enroute.”

We weave across a few more streets, stopping where safe to scope out alien movements and note any changes. I scan, and Vin sketches. Normally, this kind of intel-gathering is more of a side benefit, one we add to sweeten any trade deals with the SAF. This time, it feels more urgent.

It’s a risk to spend time tracking their new patterns, but the longer we travel the more I’m convinced it’s necessary. The changes here aren’t as dramatic here, in what used to be the Queen Anne, as flooding the tunnels beneath the city, yet they’re still noticeable. The Greenies haven’t changed their patterns so dramatically since hitting us with the initial wave.

That they’re doing it now, three years later?

It makes me itchy.

Makes me feel hunted.

That feeling increases as we keep moving and find a row of alien-controlled shells walking in a line down the street flanked by a pair of Walking Suits, effectively blocking our route to the lake.

A shudder ripples up my spine at the sight.

All those people, trudging in perfectly-spaced rows. People of all shapes, sizes and colors, all with green spattering their faces and necks. Their eyes are as blank as the air is quiet.

Which makes sense, because they’re dead.

It’s hard to watch them. It feels like witnessing a row of ghosts neatly traveling a graveyard. Memories of the day we fell burn the backs of my eyes. The Frenzy. When the whole world was too busy looking down at the chaos shredding our streets to realize the true danger was descending through the clouds. The aliens used our own population as a weapon, and then kept the infected to use as slave labor.

I bite my lip and creep back from the alley opening.

No matter how many times I’ve seen the shells, the sight always hits hard. I glance at Vin in time to see grief playing across his features. I know he searched the line for John, just as I know he didn’t find him. I grip his shoulder and gently turn him around. We don’t have time to waste, and we need a new plan. From what I saw, the Suits are far enough away that there’s no immediate danger, but there’s no way we’ll make it across without the aberrant movement being detected.

Time for Plan D—or is it E?

Doesn’t matter, so long as we keep moving.

I tug on Vin and we fall back, swinging around to skirt the crest of the hill. To get back on track, we have to skirt the sloping side streets of Queen Anne and duck under the 99 to South Lake Union. From there, we’ll be able to make our way to the rendezvous point.

Assuming we can get off this damn hill. As the path to the 99 is once again blocked by a row of shells and a Walking Suit.

My heart jumps into my throat and I pull up short. Shit. This interference doesn’t feel like a fluke—and it doesn’t match the behavior we’ve observed from afar in this section of town. The aliens have changed more than the tunnels, and it all seems to be in our way.

Do they know we’re here?

I share a worried look with Vin.

At my signal, we retrace our steps and try the northern route. I know before I see them that another line of shells is blocking our path. Mouthing curses I can’t risk saying aloud, I drop back and crouch behind a dumpster with Vin. Careful to keep my face turned away from the street and my voice as quiet as possible, I say, “Something is wrong. There are never so many Walking Suits and shells in this area, and they’re all following…”

A slight tremor vibrates the pavement.

My eyes widen and lock with Vin’s as a muffled clank follows. Shit, shit, shit. Have they found us? Another set of footsteps sound, growing louder—but they’re not moving quickly. Yet. Praying it’s just part of this newest hunting pattern and not slowly approaching doom, I push Vin further against the alley wall and press my shoulders against the dumpster.

Then I hold my breath—and I know Vin is doing the same.

The urge to peer past the bin is almost overwhelming, but I don’t dare. Besides, I already know what I’ll see. The Walking Suits are bizarre things. When the Suits don the massive, armored exoskeletons, they become exponentially more deadly—yet armor itself is this almost delicate, silver lattice work that does nothing to hide the Suit inside. The metal appears to be made of thousands and thousands of shards, which flow and shift in time with the Suit.

I tense as the steps get louder, and I know it's reached the alley entrance.

To help myself stay perfectly still, I imagine myself glaring the fucker straight in the eye—or, well, helm. Inside that elaborate metal frame, the alien’s head will still be covered in a mirrored helm.

Three years of Earth being occupied, and I still don’t know my enemy’s face.

The steps grow quieter and I finally let out a controlled breath.

“That,” Vin whispers, “was too close.”

“Yeah,” I reply equally softly. “There’s no way that was a coincidence.”

I run my hands over my braided hair and try to think. We need a plan—a new plan.

Doctor Hart, our resident behavioral genius, says the aliens work on set routes, like hive-minded insects. She’s convinced they won’t deviate from one pattern unless they’re directed to change to another—and that each of those patterns will be designed to fulfil a specific purpose.

That purpose used to be keeping the uninfected out.

But now it’s like they’re trying to keep them in. And if that’s right, then there’s only one way to screw up their pattern.

Something stupid.

Otherwise known as Plan Z.

“They’re trying to trap scavengers inside their zone. To break free, we have to willingly go into it,” I tell Vin in hushed tones, while slowly extracting the necessary item from my pack.

I locate my prize and lift the tube of paint to eye level.

“Oh, fuck,” Vin whispers. “That was a joke.”

“Yup,” I say. “Now it’s our best bet.”

I uncap the tube and pour a dollop of phosphorescent green paint onto my fingers, then motion for Vin to turn around. I’m no artist, but I can smosh some marks on a guy’s cheek, neck and beneath his right eye. He does the same for me—no doubt with more flair and accuracy.

But they’ll do…assuming no one looks too close.

Trying to ignore the feel of the paint on the back of my neck, I unbraid my hair and return the tube to my pack, making sure everything that can be is concealed beneath my shapeless poncho. Thankfully, these shells are carrying items—we’ll do our best to match. The long bag holding my gun is wrapped in more gray and slung across my back in a loose manner, as if it’s nothing of value.

The shells never seem to pay attention to each other and Dr. Hart insists their behavior indicates they won’t recognize an intruder in their midst. Even if their costume is decidedly terrible.

I pray that’s true. Because we’re going in.

I lean out and study the row of shells walking the street beyond. There’s an odd rhythm to their pace, some kind of coordination. Each shell stays exactly the same distance apart. Never touching. Never even looking at one another. The prospect of joining their ranks, even for a few minutes, makes my stomach churn. Wearing the green that marks their slaves—the green that inspired us to call them Greenies—makes me want to shower for a month.

But what else can we do?

If the aliens knew they’d caught something, we’d be dead. So there’s a chance we can slip their net—we simply need to find an opening.

“Are we actually doing this?” Vin hisses.

“We are,” I confirm. “The Suits will never see it coming. We’ll join the ranks, get past this Walking Suit block, and slip away.”

Vin lets out a breath. “Okay.”

Risky? Sure.

But it’s a calculated risk. Vegas odds, my Uncle Leo would have said.

So far the arrogant, world-stealing assholes haven’t shown much concern for human ingenuity. I remind myself that’s a blind spot—one we can exploit. Because it’s amazing what a band of skilled lunatics can accomplish when you strip away everything they have to lose.

Dressing up like their dead servants?

Not a chance they’ll have a pattern for this.

Still, no amount of makeup can conceal the fact that an alien isn’t barking orders into my dead husk.

My gaze meets Vin’s, and I find the same determination in his brown eyes that I’m feeling in my chest. We grip hands. We don’t talk—we don’t need to. The pressure in our tightly clasped hands says it all: We’re in this together.

He draws in a deep breath and relaxes his features.

I follow suit, willing my expression to slump into a placid, indifferent mask.

Together, we creep toward the edge of the alley, tracking movement of shells and Suits. We wait until the Walking Suit is turned away and there’s a break in the line of shells, and then move into the opening.

I feel Vin step into place behind me.

We’re surrounded by shells. Their proximity sets my teeth on edge, makes my skin prickle with warning.

Don’t grab your gun. Do not grab your gun.

It’s an act of will to keep my hands limp at my sides.

My pulse is pounding in my ears, but I can’t give in to the urge to run. I try to focus on the streets around me, the area I grew up in. It’s strange to walk these silent, muted streets and remember what they’d been: full of art and food and life. There’d been color and noise everywhere.

Now, it’s a well scrubbed husk.

The contrast is painful—but perhaps the memory can save us. Our scavenging never came this far inside the city, yet I know there will be breaks between empty apartment buildings. With the trees lining the streets flourishing, there should be ample opportunity and cover to slip out of the line and back onto our extraction route before anything gets truly dicey.

Or so I hope.

The line seems to be heading south, down the hill to where the white needle points at the heavens—and the source of all our problems. If we end up there, in Greenie-Central, we’re fucked.

I want to clear my throat—I don’t dare.

My mouth is so dry it feels like I’ve been licking dust off the sidewalk—my gaze flicks down—if the sidewalks had dust. Which they don’t. Broken cars and abandoned furniture still bracket the road, but it’s all been cleaned and arranged into tidy groupings. I always imagined the apocalypse would be a messy, dirty affair, but this is a pristine destruction.

We turn a corner and my senses heighten. Afraid of turning my head too abruptly, I rely on my peripheral vision to scan the alleys. We have to be ready to move as soon as—

No dice.

One of the small Suits is blocking the entrance.

Oh, this is not good. I bite the inside of my lip and keep going, trusting Vin to follow. The next alley is also blocked. Panic wells in my throat and I have to force myself to breathe evenly.

Do they know?

They have to know, otherwise they wouldn’t do this.

But the shells treading the pavement alongside me aren’t showing any awareness of the wolves in their midst. Their faces remain fixed forward, their faces expressionless. This close, I can see the green marking their skin is raised, like a scar, and pulsing slightly. There’s even a faint glow flickering in the marks on the back of their necks—guess Dr. Hart is right, this is how the Greenies sent orders into whatever is left of their brains.

Which is hardly comforting.

Each of these shells can shift from passive to ferocious in an instant at the command of their alien overlords. I’ve seen it happen. I’ve watched that change kill people I loved. And it’s a good thing I’ve survived that turn, because otherwise I’d imagine them as nothing but harmless husks. Their hands are loose, their hair and clothing clean and shapeless.

They’re always clean, always without any hint of personality.

Before the Frenzy, I used to imagine life without marketing forcing us apart. I used to think it would be idyllic to live in a world where there were no social divides, where everyone was unconcerned about their outward appearance. Of course, I didn't imagine everyone being dead.

Because this soulless shamble?

It’s taught me that hell isn’t fire and brimstone—it’s a faded, mindless servitude.

The road curves and I see a trio of smaller Suits clustered two blocks ahead. Right in the middle of the route we need to take. Their mirrored helms are as impenetrable as the larger models, and they appear to be paying actual attention to the passing shells. It looks like a checkpoint—something they’ve never done before.

My heart drops to my boots.

Are we busted?

I risk a glance back at Vin and find his eyes grim. Faint tension frames his mouth, breaking the expected Shell demeanour, and I’m sure my expression is even worse. Our fake marks won’t hold up to close scrutiny any more than our faces. We need an exit, fast.

A quick scan reveals the plodding mass of shells are splitting into two lines just before the trio. One half is going toward the lake—where we need to go—and the other is heading west along Mercer. Directly toward the Space Needle. It’s insanity to go that route—but I don’t see that we have a choice, as the trio are checking the shells in the other line.

I risk another glance and tip my head slightly to the right.

Vin gives a tiny nod of agreement.

At least we’re united in our stupid. I take small comfort in that.

Heading toward the Space Needle is a gamble—but we’re out of options. We swing in tandem to the right, keeping pace with the shells ahead. The lines slowly diverge, taking us closer to the Greenies than I want. My palms are sweating and my shoulders are tense, but the trio of smaller Suits don’t appear to pay any attention to us as we move away.

No relieved breath escapes me.

No tension subsides.

We’ve survived this round. But if we don’t find a gap in this pattern soon, the aliens are going to catch us. At some point, our disguises are going to dry up and flake off—or, more likely, be sweated off. Our expressions will betray us. Or we’ll simply get too close to an alien who’s paying attention. The longer we hide among the shells, the more we’re drawn into the belly of the beast—and the more danger we’ll have standing between us and our extraction point.

Still. If we’re alive, we have a chance.

Clinging to that desperate hope, I lead us straight into the belly of the beast.

DJ HolmesApril 14, 2025