“We clear the rest and find the kitchen,” I say. “Food, water, anything useful. You two ready?”
They nod, falling back into formation behind me. I unclip the key ring from my belt, scanning for anything labeled ‘kitchen’ or ‘dining.’ A small brass key with a faded K catches my eye.
“This way,” I nod toward the corridor leading deeper into the church complex.
One room at a time. That’s how we survive this.
FOUR
DAKOTA
My torn dress sticks to my skin, blood drying in stiff patches that crack when I move.
But Amelia looks worse.
I should be the one comforting her, but my hands won’t stop shaking, and I can’t scrub the image of what I did from my brain.
Three people.
I killed three people.
Things. Monsters.
Whatever the fuck is happening outside, it’s turned regular wedding guests into something inhuman, and I’m covered in their blood.
My mother is hunched over her phone, whispering with my dad. “Last thing I read was that it’s some kind of government thing that went wrong.”
“That’s conspiracy bullshit,” he says, “It’s just a virus. It will be over before we know it.”
I force myself to move across the small room, trying to ignore the reverend’s muttering prayers, his eyes fixed on the ceilinglike God might reach down through the acoustic tiles and pluck him to safety.
“Meli?” I crouch beside my sister’s chair. “How are you holding up?”
She looks down at me. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? You’re the one covered in blood.”
“Most of it isn’t mine.” I try to make it sound reassuring, but the words stick in my throat.
Amelia’s cool fingers find mine. “Your hands are freezing.”
“I’m fine.”
“Liar.” Her voice is soft, barely a whisper.
“Do you need anything? Water? Your meds?” I scan the room, searching for her purse, for the pill organizer she carries everywhere. “Did you bring them?”
“In my clutch. By Mom.” She nods toward the small beaded bag sitting beside our mother on the leather couch.
I hesitate, not wanting to venture into that particular minefield, but Amelia needs her medication.
“Mom.” I stand, keeping my voice neutral. “Could you pass me Amelia’s purse, please?”
My mother looks up from her phone, face pinched with displeasure. “We’d be back at Green Research by now, continuing her treatment, if you hadn’t ruined everything.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” Her eyes narrow, voice dropping to that dangerous register she uses when she’s truly angry. “We’d be safe with security. Now look at us. Trapped in this—this closet, while those things are out there because you couldn’t even manage to get a man to say ‘I do.’”
How is this all my fault?
