“I can rest when we get to Anchorage,” Gun growls in response to our looks of concern. “I’ll keep up.”

  We glance at each other again. Billy shrugs, turns, and keeps walking. I fall in after Gun so I can keep an eye on him. Knowing he doesn’t want my sympathy, I give him a wide berth.

  *

  It takes us most of the day to reach the outskirts of Anchorage. By the time we arrive, it’s dusk.

  The edge of the city consists of ramshackle suburbs. A fine layer of snow covers everything. The houses are run-down, battered from the harsh weather. Some have been patched and repaired over the years; others have been stripped to the foundation. Fires burn in the inhabited homes, sending up puffs of gray smoke through the chimneys.

  People assess us as we pass, looking us up and down. I’m not sure if this is because they’re curious or if they’re calculating how easy it would be to rob us. Either way, one look at Gun is enough to dissuade anyone considering the latter. Even exhausted and ill, his sheer bulk is intimidating. Add the fierce glare he directs at anyone and everyone, and people go out of their way to avoid us.

  “How do people make a living here?” I ask.

  “Many are hunters and trappers,” Billy replies. “There are two competing gangs who run the city. The leaders are Rordan and Truman. They control the high-rises, which they use for growing food and raising livestock. They each run swap markets, where people can trade for the supplies they need.” Billy glances at us. “Minus the turf wars between the two gangs, the city is pretty peaceful.”

  We head deeper into Anchorage. The buildings grow taller. Many lower levels of the high-rises were looted at some point, their windows broken and their walls scorched. Heavy plastic covers most of the windows. Through the blurry material are lights and the silhouettes of people. I also see the outlines of plants and the livestock Billy mentioned.

  I see evidence of gang rule; armed men and women patrol in front of each high-rise. There are no official uniforms like you see in a mercenary corps. They don’t have bulletproof jumpsuits either, but rather than wear a mix of puffy and layered clothes for warmth.

  “How do the people know which gang the thugs are in?” I ask Billy in a soft voice.

  “They’re gang patrols, not thugs,” Billy replies. “And you tell them apart based on the territory you’re in. This part of the city belongs to Truman. All the patrols you see here work for him.”

  I frown. “How do we know when we move into Rordan territory?”

  “You just know.”

  Billy seems to think this explanation is sufficient so I drop the subject for now.

  Gun walks with both hands resting on the weapons hanging from his belt. Despite his obvious fatigue, he walks with an air of alertness. He scans every building and every person who comes across our path, as though expecting an ambush or an attack at every corner.

  “They won’t bother us so long as we stay away from their buildings,” Billy says, glancing at Gun.

  A layer of dirty, well-trampled gray snow covers the ground. Billy guides us through the streets, well-versed in its many twists and turns. He even exchanges greetings with a few people.

  It’s fascinating to see this part of his real-world life. I always imagined him and Zed living in a secluded cabin in northern California, not in a well-armed treehouse in the Canadian Yukon with a second home in Anchorage.

  “Did Hank know about your real-world life?”

  “I told her about the treehouse,” Billy replies. “I didn’t tell her where it was. Uncle Zed had a need-to-know policy when it came to our location.”

  “Did you tell her about Anchorage?”

  Billy shakes his head. “Another need-to-know policy of my uncle. Besides, Hank and I didn’t talk about our real-world lives much.” I don’t miss the fleeting sadness that passes over his face. He misses Hank, even if he’s happy knowing she’s safe in the Dome. Instead of out here with us, on the run from Global.

  I feel her absence as much as he does. I wish she was here so I could talk to her about Gun and all the conflicting feelings I have about our friendship. She can always be counted on for blunt advice and has a no-nonsense opinion on everything.

  But if she were here, she’d be hurt to find out Billy concealed so much of his real-world life from her. In his defense, secretiveness and security were two things drilled into him from a young age. It’s not like he hid his life because he didn’t trust her or love her. He just doesn’t know any other way to be.

  I look at Gun through the corner of my eyes. How much of our friendship was sabotaged by his father and the needs of Anderson Arms? Maybe his lies and secrets aren’t so different from Billy’s. Maybe I need to admit to myself that he did the best he could despite his situation.

  Gun catches me looking at him. “What’s up, Short Stuff?”

  “I . . .” I blink, trying to come up with something to say. “I’m just worried about you.”

  He smiles, blue eyes bright in the fading light. “That’s better than you wanting to see me dead. I’ll take it.”

  In spite of myself, I smile back.

  “We’re here.” Billy steers us to a ten-story building guarded by men and women in patched and worn snowsuits. “My uncle leases a room on the third floor.”

  “Mr. Grant,” greets one of the patrolmen, looking at Billy. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen you or your uncle. We were taking wagers on whether or not you’d been eaten by bears.”

  Billy’s eyes flicker with sorrow at the mention of Uncle Zed, but he hides it under an amused smile. “Any bears brave enough to cross our path met the cold end of a shotgun.”

  This bravado pleases the men. They guffaw and wave us inside. We enter the building through an outer stairwell.

  “Mr. Grant?” I ask, keeping my voice low so it won’t echo off the walls.

  “Uncle Zed was big on aliases.”

  We climb to the third floor, then enter a long hallway with carpet worn away to bare threads. The bits that remain on the edges are faded to a gray-green. Yellowed wallpaper with a paisley pattern decorates the walls, most of it peeling along the edges. Dark brown doors line the hall, all standing silent and shuttered like sentries.

  “This was a hotel from the Pre-‘Fault days,” Billy says. “Plumbing still works. Electricity can be touch and go, but for the most part it’s reliable. Security is as good as it gets in Anchorage.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “As long as the building remains in Truman territory, it will be secure.” Billy shrugs. “If Rordan makes a push to take the building, all bets are off. Although Uncle Zed has an in with Rordan, too.”

  “Do Rordan and Truman often try to seize one another’s territory?”

  Billy gives me a puzzled look. “Of course. It’s what gangs do, Sulan.”

  I fall silent after that, feeling stupid. If I hadn’t grown up in a hermetically sealed apartment in San Francisco, I might have half an ounce of street smarts.

  Billy leads us halfway down the hall to a door on the left, then punches a code into the keypad. A panel next to the door slides open, revealing a retinal scanner. Billy leans forward, letting the red light roll over his iris.

  The deadbolt on the door slides open with a soft click. Billy pushes inside to an interior that is musty and frigid. There are two beds, a small kitchen, and a sitting area set up with three computers. The wall across from the beds is lined with weapons racks from floor to ceiling. There are handguns, automatic machine guns, rifles, semiautomatic machine guns, grenades, explosives, and even three rocket launchers.

  I stare at the wall of weapons, entranced. We may have had to abandon the treehouse, but there are enough weapons here to stock a small army.

  “Coming through, Short Stuff.” Gun squeezes around me, heading toward one of the beds. He plops down with a long sigh, dropping his backpack to the floor. Looking at me with bleary eyes, he says, “I need to rest for a few minutes.”

  I see just how much he’d been rallying to get this far on foot in his condition. He lays on his side and is snoring in seconds, booted feet hanging off the bed. I attempt to cover him with the blanket, but with him lying on top of it, the best I can do is cover one shoulder and half his torso.

  “He’ll be okay.” Billy switches on his various electronic devices in the sitting room. “He just needs some sleep.”

  I nod, taking a long minute to study Gun and absorb his unfamiliar features: the strong curve of his nose, the creamy chocolate of his skin, and the small scar on the right side of his neck. It’s strange to know someone so completely, yet not know him at all.

  I unlace his boots and pull them off, then cover his feet with the bottom of the quilt. Gun snores softly the whole time, never stirring under my care.

  “How long do you think the withdrawals will last?” I ask.

  “Hard to say,” Billy replies. “I have a stash of stims in the closet. You should get them out in case we need to move suddenly.”

  “Do you think Global can find us here?”

  “Unlikely. Uncle Zed and I monitored the political movements of Anchorage as part of our standard security measures. Rordan and Mr. Winn were not on good terms. But we haven’t looked in on things since we were taken to the Dome. A lot can happen in a few months.” He grabs his Vex set.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, heading to the closet to find the stims. If we do have to run before Gun is back up to full strength, the stims could be the difference between us getting killed and escaping.

  “Checking my files in Collusion Underground to see what I can find out on the mountain man raids along the border. Also checking my data traps to see if any feeds picked up gossip about our missing friends.”

  “Do you think Taro and my mom freed the others and are out there somewhere, hiding and waiting for us?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “But you don’t think so?”

  He shakes his head. “There were enough mountain men to overpower and capture Maxwell and Aston. It’s likely Taro and Li Yuan aren’t enough to stand against them, even if they are lethal fighters.” He shrugs. “But anything is possible. I’ll be back in a bit.” He slides a Vex set over his head.

  I continue my perusal of the closet. There are cases of protein bars and bottles of water, enough for two people to live on for several months. I locate several medkits on the top shelf. I pull them out and line them up on the kitchen counter and rifle through them.

  There are antibiotics, antivirals, and anti-inflammatories. A small fortune in medicines. I even find what looks like a surgical kit, with scissors and needles and scalpels. The third kit contains the stims. They are standard caffeine stims mixed with the pain killers, enough to keep someone going for several hours. There are twelve in all.

  As I begin to sort through the different flavors of protein bars, there is movement in the periphery of my vision. I turn in time to see a something small streak past our window, leaving behind a plume of white vapor.

  “What the . . .?” I run to the window, leaning against the sill to follow the trail of vapor down to the ground.

  A small silver canister hits the street below, barely visible through the smoke trail. The gang patrol shouts, ducking for cover behind the corner of the building. Pedestrians on the street scramble to get away.

  But there’s nowhere to go. More canisters rain down, all of them deploying the white gas. Lifting my eyes, I spot a large drone in the sky ejecting canisters as it zips over the city.

  And it’s not the only drone. Billy’s apartment is high enough that I can see much of the city’s horizon. Dozens of drones whir over Anchorage, all of them dropping canisters.

  My chest and throat constrict as realization dawns. I know what this is. Gun showed me similar footage right before he killed Claudine.

  I turn to Billy, about to yank off his Vex set, but he beats me to it.

  “Sulan, you have to see this!” His eyes are wide, the Vex set holding back his bangs.

  “He’s attacking,” I blurt, unable to form a coherent sentence in my panic. “Mr. Winn—Project Renascentia—” I gesture at the window. “Do you have gas masks?”

  Billy leaps out of the chair. Instead of rushing to the window, he heads straight to the supply closet. He leans inside, pulling out an armload of clothing and flinging it to the floor.

  “It’s a simultaneous attack,” he cries before diving back into the closet. “He’s attacking everywhere!”

  “What?” I demand. “What do you mean—?”

  Billy reemerges from the closet with a box in his arms. Dropping it at my feet, he yanks out a gas mask and shoves it into my hands.

  “One for Gun.” He shoves a second mask into my hands, then pulls out a third for himself.

  Not pausing to mask myself, I rush to Gun’s side. “Gun!” I shake him.

  He responds by letting out a loud snore. His eyelids don’t even twitch when I shake him again.

  “Gun!”

  Another snore.

  I give up trying to wake him. I shove the mask over his mouth and nose, fumbling with the strap. As soon as I have it secured around his head, I shove the remaining mask onto my face.

  Billy, mask in place, hurries to the window. I join him, the two of us watching canisters rain down. Dread balloons inside me.

  “Pneumonic plague?” I ask, voice tinny through the mask.

  “Yeah.” Billy can’t peel his eyes away from the horror unfolding below us.

  How many people call Anchorage their home? How many hundreds—if not thousands—will die because of this attack?

  “Why is he attacking Anchorage?” I ask. A thought occurs to me. “Does he know we’re here?” Was this attack about getting to us?

  “It’s not about us,” Billy says. “Remember when I told you I thought Global had a bigger endgame? One none of us had figured out yet?”

  I nod.

  “Mr. Winn just showed his hand. Come on, you have to go into Vex with me.”

  5

  Takeover

  The Vex site is called News360. It’s shaped like a sphere. Billy and I float in the center of it, surrounded by a patchwork of screens. The audio is triggered by proximity to a screen so users only hear one screen at a time.

  We are in generic avatars from one of Billy’s cache sites, both of us with vague similarities to our real-world bodies. Billy is a blond teenage boy while I sport a short black bob.

  News360 is crammed with avatars, all of us elbow to elbow as we jostle from one screen to another.

  The first screen shows the White House. Hundreds of Gavs converge on Washington, D.C., their blue-black bodies filling the sky like a plague.

  Where did they all come from? There had been a handful of Gavs in the Dome. Two dozen at most. Certainly not hundreds.

  The answer comes to me when the first of the Gavs opens in midair. A side panel slides back, revealing a man in a navy blue jumpsuit and white SmartPlastic mask. He jumps from the Gav, falling through the sky. Guns and grenades dangling from his waist. A parachute opens, carrying the Leaguer down into the streets of Washington, D.C.

  Hundreds of Leaguers jump from the Gavs, all of them dropping into the streets of our capitol.

  Missiles are deployed in retaliation, some of the Gavs falling through the air like bloody bombs. But there are more Gavs than there are missiles, more Leaguers than mercenaries stationed in the White House.

  We move to another screen, this one with footage of the White House as League soldiers charge the front entrance. Dozens of Gavs converge on the distinguished old building. Mercs lower ropes out of the beasts and storm the lawn.

  The mercs guarding the White House fall under the onslaught, overwhelmed by the sheer number of attackers. I know Buggets are being fired from the guns when downed mercs writhe in pain, the telltale sign of a Bugget burrowing its way through their skin.

  “The League is real,” Billy murmurs beside me, his voice almost drowned out in the hysterical cries of those around us in Vex. “I thought it was a small band of hired men, not a genuine army. The League serves Mr. Winn and follows his orders.”

  “The capitol’s radar never picked up on the Gavs,” I whisper, recalling one of the many things I learned from Kerry during my public relations studies. Anti-aircraft systems aren’t designed to pick up biological vehicles.

  It all clicks in my mind. Mr. Winn had taken my father’s Gav technology. Somewhere, he set up a site to grow hundreds of them. Somewhere, he had built a true League army for this attack. But where? And where were the Global mercs?

  We’ve been disconnected from Vex for less than seventy-two hours. How has the world turned upside down on its head in such a short amount of time?

  We move to screens that show Leaguers storming through the halls of the White House, a tentacled creature wrapped around their forearms. I recognize them. The mottled brown creatures are called Bioblasters. They deliver a paralyzing sting to anyone that gets too close to their owners.

  “We never saw those in real life,” Billy says, gesturing to the Bioblasters. “I thought they were made up. I didn’t think they actually existed.”

  “You underestimated my dad,” I reply. Not only had Mr. Winn amassed an army, but he’d been busy growing weapons using my dad’s technology.

  Where were the other mercenary corps? Why was no one joining the fight against the League?

  The answer comes on the next several screens. On each one, we see a different mercenary compound attacked by plague drones. One by one, each compound is wreathed in the white vapor of the pneumonic plague attack.

  It happens simultaneously all over the country.

  Anderson Arms is among them.

  My heart aches for Gun, for his family and friends who live there. Did we get them the vaccine intel in time? Did they have the resources to synthesize the vaccine and distribute it before the attack?

  Next comes footage of cities. San Francisco fills the screen. I’d recognize the skyline of my hometown anywhere. The Transamerica Pyramid. Coit Tower. Golden Gate Bridge. The Russ Building.

 

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