Lies (Gone #3)(50)

Zil turned to faces he knew were expectant, giddy, excited. He could hear it in their whispered conversation.

“Tonight we strike a blow for humans,” Zil said. That was the line Turk had come up with. Something everyone would be able to quote. “Tonight we strike a blow for humans!” Zil cried, raising his voice, no longer afraid.

“Death to freaks!” Turk shouted.

“Light up!” Hank cried.

Lighters and matches flicked. Tiny yellow pinpoints in the black night, casting eerie shadows on wild eyes and mouths pulled back in grimaces of fear and rage.

Zil took the first of the bottles—Molotov cocktails, Hank said they were called. The spark of the lighter caught the gasoline-saturated wick.

Zil turned and heaved the bottle toward the closest house.

It arced like a meteor, spinning.

It crashed onto the brick steps and burst. Flames spread over several square feet of porch.

No one moved. All eyes were fixed. Faces fascinated.

The spilled gasoline burned blue. For a while it seemed it would do nothing but burn itself out on the porch.

But then a wicker rocking chair caught fire.

And then the decorative lattice.

And suddenly the flames were licking up the pillars that supported the porch roof.

A wild cheer went up.

More bottles were lit. More wild arcs of twirling fire.

A second house. A garage. A parked car sitting on deflated tires.

Cries of shock and horror came from inside the first house.

Zil didn’t let himself hear them.

“Onward!” he cried. “Burn it all down!”



Down through the dark they shuffled and stumbled, Caine’s starved and starving remnants.

“Look!” Bug cried. No one could see him, of course, or his outstretched pointing hand. But they looked, anyway.

An orange glow lit the horizon.

“Huh. The stupid punk actually did it,” Caine said. “We have to hurry. Anyone falls out, they are on their own.”



Orsay climbed to the top of the cliff, weary but propelled by Nerezza’s helping hand.

“Come on, Prophetess, we’re almost there.”

“Don’t call me that,” Orsay said.

“It’s what you are,” Nerezza said softly but insistently.

The others had all gone ahead. Nerezza always insisted that the supplicants leave the beach first. Orsay suspected it had to do with Nerezza not wanting anyone to see Orsay struggling and scraping her knees on rocks. Nerezza seemed to think it was important for kids to see Orsay as above all that normal stuff.

A prophet.

“I’m not a prophet,” Orsay said. “I’m just a person who hears dreams.”

“You are helping people,” Nerezza said as they rounded a buried boulder that always gave Orsay trouble. “You are telling them the truth. Showing them a path.”

“I can’t even find my own path,” Orsay said as she slipped and landed on her palms. They were scraped, but not too badly.

“You show them the way,” Nerezza said. “They need to be shown a way out of this place.”

Orsay stopped, panting from exertion. She turned to Nerezza, whose face was just two faintly glowing eyes, like a cat’s eyes. “You know, I’m not totally sure. You know that. Maybe I’m…maybe it’s…” She didn’t have the word for what she felt at times like this, times of doubt. Times when a small voice down deep inside her seemed to be whispering warnings in her ear.

“You need to trust me,” Nerezza said firmly. “You are the Prophetess.”

Orsay topped the cliff. She stared. “I must not be much of a prophet. I didn’t foresee this.”

“What?” Nerezza called up from just below.

“The town is burning.”



“Look, Tanner,” Brittney said. She raised one arm and pointed.

Her brother, now glowing a dark green, like a billion little nodules of radioactivity, but still Tanner, said, “Yes. It is time.”

Brittney hesitated. “Why, Tanner?”

He gave no answer.

“Are we doing the Lord’s will, Tanner?”

Tanner did not answer.

“I am doing what’s right. Aren’t I?”

“Go toward the flames, sister. All your answers are there.”

Brittney lowered her arm to her side. It seemed strange, somehow. All of it. All of it so very strange.

She had burrowed up through the wet dirt. How long? Forever and ever. She had burrowed like a mole. Blind. Like a mole. No. Like an earthworm.

Tanner began chanting in a singsong voice. An eerie poem that Brittney remembered from so very long ago. A class assignment, a thing memorized and quickly forgotten.

But it was still buried in her memory. And now it came from Tanner’s mouth, his dead mouth gaping with black-edge fire dribbling like magma.

But see, amid the mimic rout

A crawling shape intrude!

A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude!

It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs The mimes become its food,

And seraphs sob at vermin fangs…



Tanner smiled a ghastly smile and said, “In human gore imbued.”

“Why are you saying that? You’re scaring me, Tanner.”