At the top of the ladder, he stopped. Kate was standing thirty feet away.

“Kate, come on!”

She drew her collar aside. At the base of her throat, a wound had bloomed with blood. Caleb’s stomach dropped; all sensation left him.

“Shut the door,” she said.

She was holding the revolver. He couldn’t move.

“Caleb, please!” She collapsed to her knees. A deep tremor shook her body. She was cradling the gun in her lap, attempting to lift it. She rocked her head skyward as a second jolt moved through her. “I’m begging you!” she sobbed. “If you love me, shut the door!”

His windpipe clamped; he could barely breathe. Behind her, shapes were dropping from the trees. Caleb reached above his head, taking the handle in his grip.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

He drew down the door, sealing them in blackness, and shoved the crossbars into place. The children were crying. He felt for the lantern, took a box of matches from his pocket. His hands were trembling as he lit the wick. Pim was huddled with the children against the wall.

Her eyes grew very wide. Where’s Kate?

From outside, a shot.

* * *

55

Peter awoke to a clattering of branches dragging against the side of the Humvee. He shook off his sluggishness and sat up.

“Where are we?”

“Houston,” Greer said. Michael was asleep in the passenger seat. “Not long now.”

A few minutes later, Greer brought the vehicle to a halt. To the east, the darkness had begun to soften.

“Let’s be quick now,” Greer said.

Peter and Michael unloaded their gear. They were at the edge of the lagoon; to the east, skyscrapers of incredible height cut black rectangles against the diminishing stars. Greer dragged a rowboat into the shallows. Michael sat in the bow, Peter the stern; Greer climbed into the middle, facing backward. The boat sank nearly to the gunwale but remained afloat.

“I was a little worried about that,” Greer confessed.

With broad strokes he propelled them across the lagoon. Peter watched the city’s core harden into its full dimensions. The Mariner soared into view, its great wide stern riding high above the water. Inside One Allen Center they tied off, gathered their supplies, and began to climb.

From a window on the tenth floor, they dropped to the deck. Dawn was a few minutes away. Greer had refurbished a small crane of a type once used to lower cargo over the side of the ship. He spread the net beneath it, tightened the spring on the spinner joint, and attached it to the rope that ran through the block at the end of the boom. A second rope would be used to swing the boom over the water. Greer would manage the first rope, Michael the second. Peter’s job was to act as bait—Greer’s theory being that Peter was the person Amy was least likely to kill.

Greer handed him the wrench. “Remember, she’s not the Amy we know.”

They took up their positions. Peter fit the tip of the wrench around the first bolt.

—

“They’re here,” said Amy.

Carter was sitting across the table from her. “Feel it, too.”

Her heart was racing; she felt a little dizzy. It always came on like this, with a sensation of physical acceleration that culminated in an abrupt expulsion from one world to the next, as if she were a rock hurled from a sling.

“I wish you were coming with me,” she said.

“Long as I’m here, they’re safe. You know that.”

She did. If Carter died, the dopeys, his Many, would die with him. Without them, Amy and Carter stood no chance.

She looked around the garden one last time, saying goodbye. She closed her eyes.

—

Two bolts to go, one on each side. Peter loosened the first, leaving it in place. As he fit the head of the wrench around the second bolt, a massive force, like a giant fist, struck the hatch from the opposite side. The deck beneath his knees shuddered from the impact.

“Amy, it’s me! It’s Peter!”

Another wang; the loosened bolt popped from the hole and bounced across the deck. He had seconds to spare. With a final yank, he freed the last bolt and began to run.

The hatch blew skyward.

Amy alighted on the deck, compressing to a reptilian crouch. Her body was glossy and compact, annealed with hard muscle beneath the crystalline sheath of skin. Peter was standing just beyond the net. For a moment she seemed puzzled by her surroundings; then her head slanted with a darting motion, taking him into her sights. She scuttled forward. Peter saw no recognition in her eyes.

“Amy.” He lifted a hand toward her and spread his fingers. “It’s me.”

She halted, inches from the net.

“It’s Peter.”

Rising, Amy stepped forward. Greer pulled the rope; the net engulfed her and shot upward, her weight freeing the spinner from its brake. The net began to twirl, faster and faster. Amy was screaming and thrashing in its grasp. Michael yanked the second rope, swinging the boom over the side of the ship.

Greer let go. The rope holding the net shrieked through the block. Peter ran to the rail. He had just enough time to see the splash before Amy vanished into the oily water.

—

Darkness.

She was spinning and twisting and falling. Her senses swarmed with the awful, chemical-tasting water. It filled her mouth. It filled her nose and eyes and ears, a grip of pure death. She touched down upon the mucky bottom. The net held her body fast in its tangle. She needed to breathe. To breathe! She was thrashing, clawing, but there was no escaping its grasp. The first bubble of air rose from her mouth. No, she thought, don’t breathe! This simple thing, to open one’s lungs and take in the air: the body demanded it. A second bubble and her throat opened and the water slammed into her. She began to choke. The world was dissolving. No, it was she who was dissolving. Her body felt untethered to her thoughts, a thing apart, no longer hers. Her heart began to slow. A new darkness came upon her. It spread from within. This is what it’s like, she thought. Panic, and pain, and then the letting go. This is what it’s like to die.