Requiem

“Come on,” he says. His voice is strained, but he reaches out and takes my hand. His palms have grown calloused, but his touch is still gentle.

I scan instinctively across the line of trailers, trying to pick out the one Alex had claimed for himself. But that was last summer, in the dark, and I was terrified. I don’t remember any of its features but the roll-away, plastic-tarp roof, which won’t be distinguishable from where I’m standing.

I feel a brief flicker of hope. Maybe Alex is here. Maybe he came back to familiar grounds.

The sandy-haired man is speaking to Pippa. “You got here just in time,” he says. He is much older than he appeared from a distance—in his forties at least—although his neck is unblemished. He has obviously not spent any significant amount of time in Zombieland. “Game time is tomorrow at noon.”

“ Tomorrow?” Pippa repeats. She and Tack exchange a look. Julian squeezes my hand. I feel a pulse of anxiety. “Why so soon? If we had more time to plan—”

“And more time to eat,” Raven cuts in. “Half our number is practically starving. They won’t put up a very good fight.”

The sandy-haired man spreads his hands. “It wasn’t my decision. We’ve been coordinating with our friends on the other side. Tomorrow is our best chance for getting in. A large portion of security will be busy tomorrow—there’s a public event down by the labs. They’ll be pulled away from the perimeter to guard it.”

Pippa rubs her eyes and sighs. My mother puts in, “Who’s going in first?”

“We’re still working out the details,” he says. “We didn’t know whether Resistance got the word out. We didn’t know whether we could expect any help.” When he speaks to my mom, his whole ma

“You have help now,” my mother says.

The sandy-haired man looks out over our group. More and more people are pushing out of the woods, flowing into the clearing, huddling together in the weak morning light. He starts slightly, as though he has only just become aware of our number. “How many of you are there?” he asks.

Raven smiles, showing all her teeth. “Enough,” she says.

Hana

The Hargroves’ house is blazing with light. As our car turns into the drive, I have the impression of a massive white boat run aground. In every single window, a lamp is burning; the trees in the yard have been strung with miniature white lights, and the roof is crowned with them as well.

Of course, the lights are not about celebration. They are a statement of power. We will have, control, possess, even waste—and others will wither away in the dark, sweat in the summer, freeze as soon as the weather changes.

“Don’t you think it’s lovely, Hana?” my mother says as black-suited attendants materialize from the darkness and open up the car door. They stand back and wait for us, hands folded—respectful, deferential, silent. Fred’s work, probably. I think about his fingers tightening around my throat. You will still learn to sit when I tell you. . . .

And the flatness of Cassandra’s voice, the dull resignation in her eyes. He poisoned cats when he was little. He liked to watch them die.

“Lovely,” I echo.

She turns to me in the act of swinging her legs out of the car, and frowns slightly. “You’re very quiet tonight.”

“Tired,” I say.

The past week and a half has slipped away so quickly, I can’t remember individual days: Everything blurs together, turns the muddled gray of a confused dream.

Tomorrow, I marry Fred Hargrove.

All day I have felt as though I am sleepwalking, seeing my body move and smile and speak, get dressed and lotioned and perfumed, float down the stairs to the waiting car and now drift up the flagstone path to Fred’s front door.

See Hana walk. See Hana stepping into the foyer, blinking in the brightness: a chandelier sending rainbow-shards of light across the walls; lamps crowding the hall table and bookshelves; candles burning in hard sterling candlesticks. See Hana turning into the packed living room, a hundred bright and bloated faces turning to look at her.

“There she is!”

“Here comes the bride . . .”

“And Mrs. Tate.”

See Hana say hello, wave and nod, shake hands, and smile.

“Hana! Perfect timing. I was just singing your praises.” Fred is striding across the room toward me, smiling, his loafers sinking soundlessly into the thick carpet.

See Hana give her almost-husband an arm.

Fred leans in to whisper, “You look very pretty.” And then: “I hope you took our conversation to heart.” As he says it, he pinches my arm, hard, on the fleshy inside just above my elbow. He gives his other arm to my mother, and we move into the room while the crowd parts for us, a rustle of silk and linen. Fred steers me through the crowd, pausing to chat with the most important members of city government and his largest benefactors. I listen and laugh at the right moments, but all the time I still feel as though I am dreaming.

“Brilliant idea, Mayor Hargrove. I was just saying to Gi

“And why should they have light? Why should they get anything from us at all?”

“. . . soon put an end to the problem.”

My father is already here; I see that he is talking to Patrick Riley, the man who took over as the head of Deliria-Free America after Thomas Fineman was assasinated last month. Riley must have come up from New York, where the group is headquartered.

I think of what Cassandra told me—that the DFA worked with the Invalids, that Fred has too, that both attacks were pla

I have to swallow back the sudden urge to laugh.

“Excuse me,” I say as soon as Fred’s grip on my elbow loosens and I see the opportunity to escape. “I’m going to get a drink.”

Fred smiles at me, although his eyes are dark. The warning is plain: Behave.“Of course,” he says lightly. As I make my way across the living room, the crowd presses tightly around him, blocking him from view.

A linen-draped table has been set up in front of the large bay windows, which look out onto the Hargroves’ well-manicured lawn and impeccable flower beds, where blooms have been organized by height, type, and color. I ask for water and try and make myself as inconspicuous as possible, hoping to avoid conversation for at least a few minutes.

“There she is! Hana! Remember me?” From across the room, Celia Briggs—who is standing next to Steven Hilt, wearing a dress that makes it look as though she has stumbled accidentally into an enormous pile of blue chiffon—is frantically trying to get my attention. I look away, pretending not to have seen her. As she begins barging toward me, pulling Steven by the sleeve, I push into the hall and speed toward the back of the house.

I wonder whether Celia knows what happened last summer: how Steven and I breathed into each other’s mouths, and let feelings pass between each other’s tongues. Maybe Steven has told her. Maybe they laugh about it now, now that we are all safely on the other side of those roiling, frightening nights.

I head to the screened-in porch at the back of the house, but this, too, is packed with people. As I’m about to pass the kitchen, I hear the swell of Mrs. Hargrove’s voice: “Grab that bucket of ice, will you? The bartender’s almost out.”

Hoping to avoid her, I duck into Fred’s study, shutting the door quickly behind me. Mrs. Hargrove will only pilot me firmly back to the party, back to Celia Briggs, and the room full of all those teeth. I lean against the door, exhaling slowly.