Shattering the surface, she gulped air so cold it torched her throat. Eli was nowhere in sight. Neither were the dogs. No. They were just here. “M-Mina?” she coughed. “Eli?”

To her right, Mina’s head suddenly popped up like a float freed from the monster of a fish that had swallowed the hook. Chuffing, Mina turned frantic circles, looking for a place to go.

The raft. Furiously treading water, Ellie twisted, trying to get a fix on where she was. Got to find the raft, something to hang onto, and Eli, where’s—

To her left came a watery crash and then the sound of someone hacking and spitting. A surge of relief: Eli. He’d know what to do. He was stronger than her. But he’s hurt, he’s hurt, he was bleeding . . . No, Eli was fine, he couldn’t die, he’d be okay; they’d get out of this and she’d never, ever make fun of him again! “Eli!” Gasping, she croaked, “Eli, are you—”

A punch of panic stole her breath. Instead of Eli, it was the peopleeater, hair streaming, face going white with cold, and only feet away. No! Stifling a scream, she stroked awkwardly, laying down distance, hoping that not even a hungry people-eater would be crazy enough to go after her now. For the moment, he only seemed confused and in shock like her, and that might give her time. Directly ahead, she spotted the ice raft rocking in the turbulence. To her dismay, the floe was moving away, dragged by the current, propelled by the chop and churn.

Maybe the ice shelf ? No, no good. The people-eaters were there. So what was her choice? To tread water and hope help would come? How long would it take her to freeze to death, or drown? I’m small, I don’t weigh very much. Maybe not long at all then. Ellie turned a wild half-circle, looking for something to grab, keep herself afloat. And where’s Roc, where’s Eli? They must be trapped under the ice; Eli might be drowning right now! No, no! She squeezed her eyes tight against the image of poor Eli, pounding ice with his fist, big shivery bubbles boiling from his mouth. Or worse yet, Eli, too weak to swim, sinking as blood smoked from his belly, with Roc, locked in his arms. I should get them, I should dive, I should try! He would do it for her.

“I can’t, I can’t.” Her voice was squeaky and thin as a little mouse’s.

mo ns ters She knew how to swim okay—dead man’s float, sidestroke, a floppy kind of crawl where she always got water up her nose—but she wasn’t great in the water. The cold blasted her face, leeched away what little warmth she had left. Her arms and legs were so heavy. Her boots had instantly filled with water, and her parka was bloated. Treading water now was like trying to run in concrete. Eli, Eli, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Turning again, she spotted the ice shelf, a jagged white margin that seemed very far away. She’d expected to see the girl in the green scarf, but Lena was gone. She had to try. If she could battle her way to the stable shelf, she might be able to hold on and help her dog, too. For how long she could do either, she didn’t know, but anything was better than just drowning.

She flopped in an awkward, spastic splash that only sucked more energy and got her no closer to safety. The lake’s fingers, inky and long, wrapped around her ankles and tugged, trying to pull her under, kill her. Everything hurt. Her hands, her feet, her face were throbbing. The cold hacked her skin, and she was shuddering all over. Without meaning to or even an awareness that it was happening, her head simply slid below the surface.

For a long, long second, she kept on sinking. Her body didn’t seem to understand she was underwater. Then, it was as if something deep inside, what was left of her, woke up. Frantic, she clawed to the surface, spluttered, coughed out more water, looked for her dog.

Mina was gone.

No. Not even a brain yelp, though. No energy. And where was the people-eater? Everything was starting to get black . . . “N-nuh. Muhmuh . . .” Her mouth wasn’t working. She dog-paddled, her head cranked so far back she stared at blue sky blushing orange and red, the end coming on. There was a small huh as Mina resurfaced, but barely, only her snout showing and two terrified eyes.

A slap of water swamped her chin. A wave broke around her head and rolled past. Another hard splash, closer. Behind. Twisting, she saw the people-eater crashing across the lake, heading for her.

“N-n-nuh.” Dredging up a last burst of strength, she swept with both arms, pulling for open water, her thoughts as tiny and shivery as soap bubbles: What’s he doing, is he crazy? The people-eater’s splashing was closer, harder, wilder. Risking a peek, she let out a gaspy, gargly scream. Puffing like a bull, mad with hunger, the boy was gaining. A sudden, horrible thought blasted her brain: he would drown her. Drown her, tow her body back, and then eat—

“N-n-noooo!” she shrieked as he covered the last five feet in a giant surge. His hands battened on her head. She flailed, but it was like trying to fight an octopus. She went completely under. A glubby, strangled cry tried to boil past her lips, and she clamped hard, gulping it back. Can’t hold it, can’t hold it, can’t—and then she really couldn’t hang on any longer. Air bolted from her mouth, and with it, the last of her voice in a despairing wail.

Above, the boy gave a great, spastic jolt. His grip broke. With no thought other than getting her face into air, Ellie plowed to the surface. Snatching one precious breath, she saw the boy rearing, his hands shooting for her once more. Thought, He’s got me.

“Ellie!” She was so disoriented, she thought the people-eater had spoken. No, from the left. Her eyes jerked toward the ice shelf.

There, a figure stood, starkly silhouetted against blue sky. And he had a rifle.

“Ellie!” Chris shouted. “Don’t move!”

85

The needle punctured the globe of the hunter’s left eye with a small but audible pop. Alex had so much momentum going, she couldn’t put on the brakes. They fell, locked together, the hunter toppling, Alex still clutching that dart and riding him all the way down. When they hit, Alex felt the needle scrape and then punch through the delicate bone at the back of the socket. If her left ear hadn’t been screeching, she might have heard the pffft as the tranquilizer, under pressure, flooded the hunter’s brain.

The hunter went instantly rigid. His remaining eye, filmy with age, bulged. His mouth jammed open. No screams, no screams! Letting go of the syringe, Alex clapped both hands over the old man’s lips. His cheeks puffed in and out. Balls of muted sound pushed against her palms. The hunter’s good eye pinned her with a disbelieving glare. How much he really saw, she didn’t know, and she hoped this was all reflex. His body was starting to quiver and jitter; his hands flapped; the dart, with its merry red tail, danced; his boots drummed snow.

To her left, she felt the wolfdog hovering nearby and craned a look. Its ears were up, the tail nearly horizontal, and its snout wrinkled to show teeth. What she got from the smell was only threat. If it had wanted her, she’d be bleeding by now. You, big boy, are a nut.

Under her hands, the hunter’s frantic puffing had ceased. The lone eye glared a glassy accusation. A moment later, through her good ear, she heard clicks from the dead man’s radio.

Got to get out of here. Staggering back to the spruce, she got into her parka and pawed out her boots. Shadowing her, its alarm a red foam in her nose, the wolf dog took two soundless dancing steps, its meaning clear: Let’s go.

“Don’t I know it.” But go where? In several more yards, she’d be in virgin snow, her trail obvious, and they had weapons. Her eyes fell on the dead hunter—and that Springfield. There was one shot left, but she smelled more bullets in the left front pocket of that camo-jacket. Yeah, but take the rifle, and they know you’re armed. They might call for reinforcements, and then she was cooked. She might be cooked either way unless she killed that Changed boy. For that matter, they might not need the boy. That push-push go-go would wear her down, eventually. If the monster jumped again or, worse, the red storm got behind her eyes . . .

Oh, screw it. She snatched up the rifle. Her left temple throbbed from where the bullet had grazed her scalp, and her hair was already tacky with drying blood. Not going down without a fight.

But it might not come to that. If she could hide . . . But how? How do you hide from the Changed? From the minute the hunter first shot at the tree house to now, she thought five minutes had passed. The chemotherapy tang was closer, not charging but swooping in, making a beeline for that last shot. Keep up that clicking on the radio, and they’d find the body even faster.

What scared her more—now that she was paying attention—was the steadily increasing drumbeat of the push-push go-go. Maybe that was what the red storm wanted. If she lost control, she might be easier to control, or at least find. Every logical scrap of her shouted that she had to run. Yet the lizard part of her brain, everything that was instinct, yammered that hiding was better. Sometimes bunnies had the right idea. Be small, don’t move, don’t attract attention.

Don’t attract attention. She looked at the wolfdog watching her. Darth didn’t see you. Maybe he didn’t notice you. Or maybe couldn’t? No time to figure this out. The metal stink of cisplatin frothed through the trees. The red storm was a throb in the middle of her forehead, like a hidden third eye struggling to open. Decide.

Instead of shoving on her boots, she laced them together before draping them around her neck. Her feet were passing from burn to numb, but footprints weren’t as noticeable as boots. Hooking the Springfield’s carry strap across her shoulders like a samurai sword, she crouched over the body. The only blood was a gooey, meandering trickle from the ruined left eye. Can’t leave the syringe. That makes me both dangerous and a curiosity. Gritting her teeth, she wrapped her hand around the plastic tube and pulled. She felt the scrape of bone again, and when she’d gotten the needle out, the socket puddled red. Shuddering, she recapped the needle with shaking fingers before sliding the syringe back into a cargo pocket. Then, working fast, she stripped the hunter of his fancy, 3-D camo-jacket.

“Come on,” she whispered to the wolfdog, wincing at the throb of the red storm, that continual push-push. Her lip squirmed under a slow, snaky dribble. Cupping a hand to her bleeding nose, she scurried for a screen of dense brambles maybe fifty yards back, cringing at every crackle under her increasingly clumsy feet. She heard the wolfdog’s breaths as it followed. Good. The animal’s prints would erase hers.