Josephine had been up all night, her heart pounding, thinking about this day, about whether she would survive it. Now, out on the road and exposed on all sides, she was so scared she could barely breathe.
“Down,” Bella hissed.
Josephine dropped into the weeds lining the road. She stayed perfectly still, except for her chest, which was rising and falling as quickly as a butterfly flapping its wings. Bella’s face was inches from hers, the barrel of her M16 between them. “On the hill,” she whispered. She moved her eyes to the right, to indicate direction.
Ever so slowly, Josephine lifted her head, looked past the brush and scattered trees toward the top of the hill.
There were five of them, just standing there, looking around as if they were out admiring the view. Two were men, or had been when they were alive. One had foot-long yellow spines where his fingers and toes had been. The back of his head was a huge bald dome. The other man was stretched, maybe eight feet tall, and most of his body was covered in thorns. The three women weren’t any easier to look at. At least, thank God, none of them had wings.
Josephine couldn’t help but study their faces. She’d lived in Burlington her entire life, so, often, she recognized someone among the stingers. They were never who she was looking for, though; never Stan or Michael.
And what if one time they were? Would that be a good thing? No, it would be a nightmare. Yet she couldn’t help looking.
One of the stingers squatted, grabbed some vines, and started sliding down the steep slope leading to the road. The others followed, their movements fluid, almost graceful.
“Shit,” Josephine whispered.
Bella looked up the hill. “I say we run for it. This isn’t great cover, and it’ll take them a few minutes to get down that slope, so we’ll have a head start.”
“Okay.” It wasn’t a hard decision; every cell in Josephine’s body was telling her to run.
