By the time we reached the Vinsons’ modest home on the edge of town, our truck bed held four evacuees wrapped in blankets against the cold night air. Nora Vinson, the school secretary who knew every family’s business, answered her door in a bathrobe, her honey-brown hair flattened on one side from sleep. Behind her, her sixteen-year-old son Cooper watched with those observant hazel eyes that never seemed to miss anything.
“Evelyn,” she said, recognition and concern washing over her face. “Is this about what happened at the school? With Beth?”
I nodded, stepping inside. “You noticed people acting strange?”
“For days now,” she confirmed, shutting the door against the night chill. “Half the parents at conferences this week spoke like they were reading from scripts. And today the school board all showed up wearing the same blue shirts, talking in unison.” She shuddered. “Cooper noticed first.”
The lanky teenager spoke from where he leaned against the wall, arms crossed defensively over his chest. “They blink wrong,” he said quietly. “All at the same time. And they don’t look at things normally. Their eyes go to noise, but there’s no... curiosity.”
His observation sent a chill through me. Cooper had always been watching, quietly taking in everything from the sidelines. Now that careful observation might save lives.
“Smart kid,” Dutch said. “You both need to come with us. Now. Grab essentials only.”
Nora hesitated only a moment before nodding. “We have to hurry. Sheriff’s been driving by every hour, watching the house.”
Cooper was already collecting backpacks, moving with quick, efficient motions. “They know who’s affected and who isn’t,” he said. “They’ve been making lists.”
That information made my blood run cold. If they were tracking the unaffected, our evacuation window might be narrower than we thought.
We found Jett Hollenbeck leaning against the wall behind the Stop Over Motel, smoking something definitely illegal. The sullen seventeen-year-old blew smoke rings into the cold night air as Dutch explained the situation.
“Yeah, no shit,” Jett said, flicking ash onto the gravel. “My mom’s been walking around like a zombie. Casey and Tally, too. They kept saying the same things about ‘processing residents’ and ‘the final synchronization.’ Then they tried to drag me to that old mine.” He shuddered. “Creepy as hell.”
“We’re evacuating everyone who hasn’t been affected,” I told him. “You need to come with us.”
Jett considered me through narrowed eyes. “There’s this guy who’s been staying at the Steinholt ranch. He showed up a week ago, right before everyone started going zombie. Bet he’s behind this. Saw him meeting with Vick Steinholt and those securitydudes in HighPlains uniforms when I snuck into Tally’s room the other night.”
My heart stuttered. “Did you see him? What did he look like?”
“Tall, fancy suit. Gray hair at the temples.” Jett’s observant eyes caught my reaction. “You know him?”
I couldn’t speak. Dutch answered for me. “That’s enough questions. Get in the truck, kid.”
Four more stops at isolated ranches yielded seven more evacuees—a young couple with twin toddlers, an elderly man with his adult daughter, and two brothers who worked the oil fields. Each had their own stories of neighbors acting strange, of feeling watched, of water that tasted wrong.
By midnight, we were bumping down the unmarked road toward Lone Quill Reservoir. The moon had risen, casting silver light across the water’s unnaturally still surface. Alistair had set up a field medical station in the old lodge, the windows glowing warm against the night. Tents dotted the clearing around it, makeshift shelters for the evacuees who now numbered twenty-three.
I spotted Sophia immediately, curled in a camp chair near the cabin door, Mr. Hoppy and Agent Waddles still clenched in her arms. Alistair stood nearby, organizing supplies.
“Mommy!” Sophia launched herself into my arms as I climbed from the truck. I buried my face in her hair, breathing in the scent of her, letting her solid weight ground me against the chaos.
“Have you been good for Dr. Shaw?” I asked, setting her down but keeping her hand in mine.
She nodded solemnly. “I helped sort bandages. And I showed him how to make a butterfly with paper clips.” Her eyes drifted to the new arrivals climbing from Dutch’s truck. “Are they sick like Ms. Beth?”
“No, sweet pea. They’re fine. Just like us.” I squeezed her hand. “They need a safe place to stay while Trent and his team fix things.”
Nolan stood by his helicopter at the edge of the clearing, running checks on the sleek black machine. His usual irreverence had been replaced by focused intensity, his eyes constantly scanning the tree line.
“Last batch?” he called to Dutch.
“Should be,” Dutch replied, helping Mrs. Longfield down from the truck bed.
“What about Howie Hardy at the junkyard?” Mrs. Longfield said. “Has anyone checked on him? He’s in that wheelchair.”
Dutch looked at me, exhaustion etched in the lines of his face. “One more run?”
I glanced at Sophia, at the safety of the camp, at Alistair’s quiet competence as he checked Mr. Longfield’s pulse. Then I thought of Howie, a double amputee who had a serious hoarding issue with the abandoned cars and engine parts on his property. He lived alone at the edge of town, stubbornly independent despite his disabilities. If anyone would refuse evacuation, it would be Howie.
