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“Dew! Dew, are you okay? What the f.u.c.k was that?”

“Grenade,” Dew said, his voice oddly calm. “In the computer center. They’ll throw one in here next.”

Perry saw chlorine gas roiling away from three spots on Dew’s helmet. His faceplate was cracked. Higher-pressure air pushed out from the new holes.

“That’s not good,” Dew said.

“No f.u.c.king s.h.i.+t!”

They were both leaking air. The compressors on their suits could only compensate for so long.

“Take the guy outside,” Dew said as he scrambled to his feet. “Hit him or we’re dead.”

Perry saw a gaping bullet hole at the base of the wall. Sunlight poured through, lighting up a beam of green mist. He crawled toward it and forced himself to look out. The guy was on top of a Humvee, shooting a huge gun mounted in a turret. Perry was wearing bulky gloves, spraying mist kept beading up on his visor, he held his right thigh with one hand and someone was shooting at him—but the guy was only about twenty feet away.

Perry rolled to his side and extended his left arm. He aimed Dew’s .45 at the man’s head and pulled the trigger until the slide locked on empty.

The machine-gun fire stopped.

The man went limp and fell sideways. He half-hung off the turret’s right side. He didn’t move.

Perry heard the seven-shot report of another .45.

“Perry, I’m outside!”

Perry scrambled to his feet, a little too fast—he caught another piece of ripped wall on his left arm, and the suit tore again. He didn’t bother looking at it, just ran out of the decontamination room and into the final airlock walkway. The last door hung partly open, bent and twisted, full of small holes. Perry sprinted the last ten feet, shouldered the door without breaking stride and found himself outside in a sunny winter afternoon.

Dew stood in the middle of the burned-out house, crouched in a wide stance, .45 in front of him as he swept it back and forth.

Not knowing what else to do, Perry did the same.

Dew emptied a magazine into the dead man in the Humvee turret. Just to be sure, apparently. He reloaded, then let out a long sigh.

“f.u.c.k,” he said. “This is completely f.u.c.ked, kid.” He took off his helmet and looked at it. Perry saw four or five cracks—the thing was useless.

“At least it served its purpose,” Dew said, and tossed the helmet away. He looked at Perry’s suit. “I don’t think brown sticky tape is going to help that.”

Perry looked at his left arm. Something had hooked the PVC just past his wrist, then torn the fabric almost to the shoulder.

“Perry, you sure that gate opens at one-fifteen?”

Perry nodded. “Yeah, totally.”

They heard engines, heavy vehicles coming down the driveway.

General Charlie Ogden stood in the back of the Winnebago, waiting for Chelsea to say something. She just sat there, petting Fluffy. She no longer looked like an icon of love. She looked flat-out p.i.s.sed, her small face furrowed with anger.

He knows we are here. He is coming.