Hell Followed with Us(57)

Cormac says, “You didn’t.”

Alex sighs. They spent most of the night trying to find a good place for the ham radio, like putting down a baby for a nap. At least it’s still in good condition. Not great, but it turns on, and that’s what matters. They’re probably the most put together of us all right now, although that might be because adding one more thing to mourn doesn’t change much.

“Do you think we can fix the fence?” Sadaf asks, holding Aisha’s arm. I can’t tell which is supporting the other.

“I don’t think the fence really matters, does it?” Faith says. “What if they come back?”

Cormac’s eyes flicker to me.

“We’ll discuss that later,” Nick says. “Right now, we need to focus on what’s in front of us.” He shakes his hands, almost like he’s brushing dust off his jacket. I recognize the motion, and I’m sure everyone else does too, but he starts giving orders like always. Sadaf and Alex still have work to do in the bank. Erin heads back in to grab extra people for sniper duty, since we might have become a target in the night, with all the fire and smoke. Salvador is put in charge of recovering what’s left of the kitchen; Faith, the storage rooms. Aisha and Cormac each get a gun, directions to scope out the surrounding blocks, and a map from Micah detailing any traps, just in case they can bring back extra food for the night. We’re going to get hungry, and quick.

I get to deal with the bodies. With Nick.

Downstairs is a charred mess. Dust from the fire extinguishers coats the floor, and we leave footprints in it as we walk. Some of it has settled on the bodies, like a gentle flurry of snow resting in hair and the creases of agonized faces staring up at the ceiling. A pair of open eyes even has dust on top, like cataracts. It makes my face itch.

We count fifteen dead. Six Angels, eight of ours, and the Grace. I know everybody whose bodies are recognizable, and about half aren’t. My first thought—we won’t have ears for some of the Angel kills; they either melted in the flames or were eaten by the Grace. The second—what the fuck is wrong with me.

I stand by the twisted, burned mess of bodies lying in the lobby, right in the midst of the broken front door, and I press my lips to my knuckles. I pray until Nick comes over, brushes my shoulder, and nods for me to follow.

Revelation 21:4—And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.

You will return to the earth for out of it you were taken; for from dust you were made and to dust you will return.



* * *





We find the Grace in the gym. It’s curled atop a melted body, the Grace’s back-bent form desperately huddled around them.

I trace the timeline in their corpses. The Grace’s head is crumpled on the side, the same way Dad’s was. Between the media room and the gym, we found an Angel whom I don’t remember. The pieces click together.

“The Grace was trying to protect them,” I tell Nick. I lead him through my train of thought. I don’t know what happened to the person—maybe they were shot, maybe they died of smoke inhalation, maybe they were immolated, Lord knows, God knows, O Lord our God—but the Grace was gravely wounded before killing the Angel in the hall and coming back to the gym. Maybe the person was dead when they arrived. Maybe they weren’t. But the Grace curled around them, or what was left of them, and died.

“At least, that’s what I think,” I say. “I don’t know.”

“No,” Nick says, crouching beside me. “That sounds right.”

You will return to the earth for out of it you were taken; for from dust you were made and to dust you will return.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Okay enough.” I have to say it. I have to get it out of my head. I twist my hands together and steady my voice. “Which squad were you in?”

Nick coughs. “What?”

“Which squad?” I whisper. “Nick? Which death squad were you in?”

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “It doesn’t matter which one,” he rasps, “does it?”

After a second, I say, “No. I guess not.”

“How did you know?”

“I saw your tattoos.” What I can see of his face is even paler than usual. He’s staring at the mangled bodies, jaw working under his mask. “Last night, when you were in the room with me.”

“You were pretending to be asleep,” he accuses.

“You thought I wouldn’t wake up while you were putting bandages on me?” I hold up my arm. He won’t look. “You thought I wouldn’t be a little on edge after everything?” Deep breath—no, no anger, no Seraph, not now. I can’t believe it’s only been a day since Cormac told me Nick was calling me an it. And what right do I have to be angry, after everything I’ve done?

I say, softer, “After yesterday?”

“I’m—” Whatever he’s trying to say gets caught in his throat. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to—”

He scrapes at his cheek. His hands are shaking a little. I want to grab them to hold them still, but I shouldn’t. Instead, I reach into my pocket and pull out the I’m sorry. I hold it out to him, keeping it open with my fingers so he can see exactly what’s written there.