Edilio threw the Jeep into reverse and began backing up as fast as he could go, down the path. The first he noticed of the coyotes was when he felt a bump and heard a canine yelp of pain.
One hand on the wheel, yelling in fear, Edilio smashed the Jeep into an embankment. He threw it into drive, advanced a few feet to get clear, threw it, gears grinding into reverse again as a huge, snarling face appeared beside him. Coyote teeth slavered and tore at the plastic.
Edilio snap-aimed and fired. The burst was short, maybe five rounds, but more than enough to dissolve the coyote’s head into red mist.
Down they bumped, down the path, smashing and jolting.
Edilio could barely hold the wheel.
Then, suddenly, they were on flat terrain. He spun the wheel as two coyotes hurled themselves at the plastic sheath. The impact of their bodies was so great, it pushed the plastic in and slammed Edilio’s arm, knocking his hand off the wheel, stunning him.
But his foot was on the gas pedal and he floored it. The Jeep plowed straight toward a building. Edilio grabbed the wheel, slammed on the brakes, twisted hard, fish-tailed into a two-wheel turn, and roared away from the ghost town.
The coyote pack followed for a while, then fell away as it became clear that they would never catch the speeding car.
Bug still had Orsay in a headlock. But she was making more reasonable sounds, now, seeming to ask to be freed.
“Let her go,” Edilio ordered.
Bug released Orsay.
She wiped blood with the back of her hand. Edilio found a rag in the debris of the glove compartment and handed it back to her.
“It told me to chew my tongue off,” she gasped at last.
“What?” Edilio snapped. “What? Who?”
“Him. It. He told me to chew my tongue off and I couldn’t resist,” she cried. “He didn’t want me to be able to tell you.”
“Tell us what? What?” Edilio demanded, desperate and confused.
Orsay spit blood onto the floor of the Jeep. She wiped her mouth again with the rag.
“He’s hungry,” she said. “He needs to feed.”
“On us?” Bug cried.
Orsay stared at Bug. Then she actually laughed. “No. Not on us. Ow. My tongue.”
“On what? On what?”
Orsay ignored Bug and spoke to Edilio. “We don’t have much time,” she said. “Food is coming. People are bringing it to him. And when he feeds he grows strong, and that’s when he will use her.”
“Use who?” Edilio demanded, knowing the answer before he asked the question.
“I don’t know her name. The girl. The one with the healing touch. He can use her to give him legs and arms. To give him a body.
“He’s weak now,” she added. “But if he gets what he wants . . . becomes what he wants to become . . . then you will never stop him.”
“Hungry in the dark,” Little Pete said.
He was tucked into his bed, but his eyes were bright.
“I know, Petey. We’re all hungry. But it’s not really dark,” Astrid said wearily. “Go beddy boody. Nap time.”
It had been a very long night and morning. She wanted Pete to take a nap so she could catch some sleep as well. She could barely hold her head up. It was hot in the house with the power off and the air-conditioning dead. Hot and stuffy.
She had been badly shaken by Sam’s meltdown. She wanted to be sympathetic. She was sympathetic. But more, she was frightened. Sam was all that really stood between the relative decency of Perdido Beach and the violent psychopathy of Caine and Drake and Diana.
Sam was all that protected Little Pete, and Astrid herself.
But he was breaking down. PTSD, she supposed, post-traumatic stress disorder. What soldiers get after they spend too much time in combat.
Everyone in the FAYZ probably had it to one extent or another. But no one else had been in the middle of every violent confrontation, every new horror, and also been saddled with all the endless, endless details. There had been no downtime for Sam. No break.
She remembered Quinn laughing about how Sam never danced. She loved him, but it was true that Sam was lousy at relaxing. Well, if she ever got the chance, she would have to help him find a way.
“He’s afraid,” Little Pete said.
“Who?”
“Nestor.”
Nestor was the nesting doll Sam had accidentally crushed. “I’m sorry Nestor got broken. Go to sleep, Petey.”
She bent over to kiss him on his forehead. Of course he gave no response. He didn’t hug her or ask her to read him a story, or say, “Hey, thanks for taking care of me, sis.”
When he spoke, it was only about the things in his head. The world outside meant little or nothing to him. That included Astrid.
“Love you, Petey,” she said.
“He has her,” Little Pete said.
She was already out of the door when that last statement registered. “What?”
Pete’s eyes closed.
“Petey. Petey.” Astrid sat down beside him and put her hand on his cheek. “Petey . . . is Nestor talking to you?”
“He likes my monsters.”
“Petey. Is . . .” She barely knew how to ask the question. Her brain was fried. She was beyond exhausted. She lay down beside her brother and cuddled close to his indifferent body. “Tell me, Petey. Tell me about Nestor.”
But Little Pete was already asleep. And in seconds, so was Astrid.
It was in sleep that she began to fit together the pieces of the puzzle.