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PEOPLE HELPING PEOPLE

Get up, Perry. I need you.

Coughing.

Dust, the taste of smoke, the taste of dirt, the taste of . . .

(don’t think about it)

. . . of scorched flesh. In his mouth.

More coughing.

But not just from the brick and dirt and smoke and wood and the (don’t think about it) scorched flesh, coughing from something deeper, way down in his lungs.

Something that burned.

Perry knew. He felt stabbing pains all through his skin, his face, in his muscles and eyes. They were inside him.

It’s time for you to join me.

It was her again. In his head. He’d thought the gate was the most beautiful thing he would ever experience. He was wrong. As rapturous as that gate was, it paled in comparison to the voice.

Come to me, Perry. Get me out of here.

So beautiful. He’d heard her before, but he’d been hundreds of miles away. Now there was no distance, no jamming, no grayness—her pure, raw power raged through his soul.

Perry stood and stumbled down the street. Men were all around, the brave guys of Whiskey Company, rolling on the ground, coughing, spitting up blood. They were all totally f.u.c.ked.

Just like Perry.

And there, lying in the middle of the street . . . Dew Phillips.

Just relax and let it happen. You’ll be stronger now. You’ll be like me. Come to me, Perry. Protect me.

Perry shuffled toward Dew. The man was on his back, mouth opening and closing. He saw Perry and managed to smile, then shrug.

Dew knew the deal.

“Sorry . . . kid,” he said, his voice a hoa.r.s.e croak. “Looks like . . . we’re not going fis.h.i.+ng after all.”

Kill him.

Dew’s face screwed into a pinched mask of agony. Perry knew what Dew was feeling, because he felt that same pain himself. The difference was, Perry and pain were long-lost buddies.

Dew’s wave of pain seemed to fade for a second. He blinked rapidly, then coughed, b.l.o.o.d.y foam splattering onto his lips.

“Kid . . . get my radio. See if Margaret got out.”

Perry nodded. “I will.”

Kill him. Do it now.