No one answers. Another crash against the door. The bookcase shudders.
“It will hold,” Julien says. “We stay here for now.”
The certainty in his voice should be comforting.
It isn’t.
The room is some kind of office administration area. Amelia sits on a wooden chair, her face ghost-white but composed. Rosa stands beside her, one gnarled hand on my sister’s shoulder. My mother and father sit on a couch, while the reverend cowers in the corner beside a fireplace, muttering prayers.
I move to Amelia, taking her hand in mine. The medication makes her run cold sometimes, but this is different. Her skin feels too cool, clammy.
“Always knew weddings were dangerous.” Her fingers curl around mine.
“Maybe,” I say.
The door shudders again under another impact. Something on the other side wants in.
And it won’t take no for an answer.
THREE
JULIEN
Five hours trapped in this glorified closet, and the air’s thick with sweat, fear, and unspoken accusations.
I roll my neck, muscles knotted tight from standing guard at the door. The banging stopped hours ago, but I can’t shake the feeling they’re still out there.
Waiting.
My phone battery’s at fifteen percent, the hundredth call to Cole, my best friend, still unanswered. Outside, the world’s turning to shit, and in here, we’re just a powder keg waiting for a spark.
The church office wasn’t built for seven people. The reverend huddles in the corner, lips moving in silent prayer, and the Bible clutched to his chest like a shield.
Cameron and Sienna have claimed the space by the window, his arm around her shoulders, her head on his, whispering to each other. At least someone in this nightmare found what they wanted.
Nicklas paces the three steps the cramped space allows, checking his watch every thirty seconds like time mightmagically start moving faster. His suit is rumpled, face flushed with what I suspect is more rage than fear. The kind of man who gets angrier when things don’t follow his script. His wife, Carmen, sits rigid on the leather couch, makeup streaked down her face, knuckles white around her purse.
Abuela hasn’t left Amelia’s side, who’s even paler now than she was during the ceremony, but somehow the calmest person in the room. She’s used to facing death while the rest of us are playing catch-up.
And then there’s Dakota.
She sits on the floor, back against the wall, still as a statue. Her wedding dress hangs in tatters around her knees, where I ripped it. Blood crusted in her hair, splattered across her face, and chest. Some of it hers, most not. Her small hands are scraped, her thumb circling rhythmically against her inner wrist.
She hasn’t spoken since we got in here. Just stares at the wall opposite, blue-gray eyes distant and flat, like she flipped off a switch.
Shock, probably.
Not surprising after she caved in that kid’s skull. Not a kid. A thing. Whatever the fuck these things are now.
Did I look like that back then?
“The networks are overloaded.” Carmen stares at her phone. “Nothing’s going through.”
“Welcome to five hours ago,” I mutter, refreshing my own screen for the hundredth time.
The emergency alerts stopped coming two hours ago. Last one just said stay inside, lock your doors. Like, we didn’t figure that out.
My phone vibrates, screen lighting up with Cole’s name. Finally.
