Good. No lag. Some people drowned in that first waking moment—came up slow, gasping, still half under—and it got them killed. Not her.
“Our shot at what?”
“Moving back toward the tunnel. Or at least closer.”
Thunder rolled again—louder this time, longer.
I crept to the edge.
The street below was chaos, but undirected—and it worked in our favor. Rain fell in sheets. The runoff near the alley mouth ran pink. A body lay face down near the dumpster, split open along the back, ribs fanned wide, strings of tissue swaying from the metal edge like laundry on a line.
The things moved scattered and aimless through all of it—some drawn into the open, some locked in tight, jerking circlesback to the same patch of pavement. One stood beneath the fire escape across the street, slamming its forehead into the ladder in a steady rhythm. Wet. Meaty. Punching through the rain. Skin peeled back to the bone above one eye. It didn’t stop.
I turned back to her. “The storm’s throwing them off. We move now.”
She followed me to the edge, crouching low, her shoulder pressing warm against mine as she looked down. I heard her sharp intake of breath—the way she held it—and watched her eyes move across the street below: the body by the dumpster, the pink water running through the gutters, the thing still grinding its skull against metal, apparently unaware that it had started to come apart.
I waited for the freeze. The shutdown. The moment when the mind simply refuses and the body locks up behind it.
It didn’t come.
Her eyes hardened into something steadier. She took it all in, accepted it, and moved forward. Her gaze found the fire escape, the ladder slick with rain.
She tracked the whole descent before her gaze came back to me.
“You’re serious.” Not a question. “It took everything I had to get up here. Now it’s wet and slippery and—”
“Dead serious,” I said. “I’ll go first, and I won’t let you fall.”
Lightning streaked across the sky and the alley below—for that split second, it looked clear. No movement. No shapes pressing out of the dark. Only rain and concrete and the open mouth of the alley leading onto the street beyond.
“Storm’s covering sound,” I continued, keeping my voice low and even. “Visibility is bad for everyone, but they’re worse at adapting to it. They can’t compensate the way we can. I saw it when I set off the fire alarm while rescuing Fiona. This is the best window we’re going to get, and it won’t stay open long.”
She swallowed. Then she nodded.
Below, the street churned gray and white through the downpour. The things moved through it like damaged machinery: erratic, purposeless, dragged toward whatever sound had come last. One circled the alley mouth in a slow, grinding loop. Another had stopped entirely in the intersection, swaying in the current of the storm.
Not hunting.
Not yet.
“Okay.”
No argument. No hesitation beyond what she’d already worked through on her own.
I grabbed both bags and handed hers across. She took it without a word, adjusted the straps, and pulled them tight.
“Stay right in front of me,” I said. “Three points of contact at all times. Don’t rush. Don’t look down any more than you have to.”
She nodded again. Tighter this time.
“I’ve got it.”
I moved to the fire escape and swung over the edge, boots finding the narrow metal platform with a clang.
I looked back up at her. “Come on.”
She came over the edge in careful stages, her grip locked on the rail. For a second, her boot caught the wet edge of the platform wrong and slid out—
