I hurriedly mutter something to Tony aboutmaybe, then give him a gentle shove on the side to get him to move along.With the vague promise that he might get lucky later, he’s happy to disrupt the other survivors nearby so that he can take one of the empty seats in the center of the row.
Meanwhile, I watch as someone grabs onto Chase’s arm, stopping him before he can get too far. They’re seated so I don’t know who it is, but Chase bends his head to listen to whatever they’re saying before he jerks up, turning to look at the stage.
Jack has just walked out onto it.
Chase hesitates, but after only a quick look in my direction, he drops down to his seat. I do the same, shifting slightly so that I can avoid Tony peeking my way.
Come on, boys. The leader is approaching the podium, and that’s more interesting than having two guys I’ve fucked fighting over me like a chew toy, right?
Here’s hoping.
Bracing his hands on the podium, Jack leans forward, speaking into the microphone. “Good afternoon. I want to thank you for all coming out on short notice?—”
Someone upfront starts to applaud. Someone else calls out a question, asking what’s so important they got yanked off their boundary check. Jack quiets them with a sharp jerk of his head. “Let me speak. What I have to tell you… it concerns all of us.”
It does?
Forget slouching. I lean forward in my seat.
“For close to eight months now we’ve come together, worked together, lived together. The Turning was hard on all of us… we’ve lost so much… but, as a community, we survived. That’s all we can do. However, I know I’m not alone when I say that I wonder what’s really going on out there. Past the lurkers, in the rest of the state. Hell, in the rest of the country.
“Is there anyone left to help us?” he continues. “Does anyone needourhelp? Today, I can say that I have the answer to at least one of those questions. Early this morning, a stranger fromoutside of the Grave made it through our eastern borders—settle down, everyone,” Jack says gently yet firmly because nearly the entire auditorium has burst into conversation at the news. “He checks out. He’s a survivor, just like us, only he came with a proposition and, well, I think I’ll let him tell you all about it.”
Jack starts clapping and, because he is, we all join in. It’s half-hearted and off-beat because most of the survivors are more concerned with turning to their neighbor and discussing in feverish whispers what Jack has just told us.
Not me. I’m still staring at the stage, waiting for my first glimpse of this stranger.
As soon as we realized what parts of Madison had been taken over as lurker nests, creating our borders and enforcing them with fire, we basically closed the Grave off fromeveryone. Since then, we’ve had one—one—survivor manage to make it through the nests and reach our borders. He was a nineteen-year-old boy that Jack was ready to welcome into our community… until he noticed the blood seeping through his hoodie and realized the boy had been bitten.
It takes twenty-four hours for a lurker to Turn. If he’d made it to the Grave an hour earlier, we could’ve saved him. Hell, if he’d admitted his injury instead of hiding it, he still might’ve had a chance.
But he didn’t. And when his eyes bled to black before anyone could help him, Eddie put him down behind the church, burning his remains. Like all lurkers, he went up in smoke instantly, and there hasn’t been another stranger in the Grave since.
Until now.
At Jack’s signal, a strikingly handsome man in his mid to late-thirties strides out onto the stage. His dark hair is dusted with grey, his features rugged and weathered. He has a pair of shrewd brown eyes and a thin-lipped smile.
The stranger is wearing all black, though the fabric has faded from its time in the sun. He’s got on a pair of black hiking boots like the ones I remember Rory wearing, right down to the flecks of mud covering the toes and the frayed laces; the worn soles thunder against the dull wood of the stage, each step a slap until he takes his place in front of the podium.
A five o’clock shadow covers his sharp jaw as he casts a stare over his assembled audience. As Jack takes a seat in one of the chairs onstage, the stranger clears his throat. He seems at ease up on the stage there, and I suddenly wonder how many other times he’s faced a crowd of survivors like this.
“Thank you, Jack. And thank you for giving me this chance to speak. Hello. Let me tell you about myself. My name is Maverick Brooks, and I’m just like you. I’m a survivor. We’ve all done what we had to do to make it to this point. That makes us the lucky ones. You see, I come from a small town in Connecticut that doesn’t exist anymore. They didn’t survive.”
The auditorium is so silent, you could hear a pin drop. No one is talking. Captivated by his rough voice, the way he demands your attention… we’re all listening to this stranger.
To Maverick.
“I’ve been out there,” he says, and then he drops the bomb: “You’re not alone. I can promise you that.” He gestures wildly with his right hand. “There are dozens of settlements just like this one where”—he starts ticking them off on his fingers—“neighbors, friends, families… they’ve all banded together to make it on their own. Separate factions trying to live their lives… but it’s a new life now.” He slams his hand against the edge of the podium, gripping it tightly. “The lurkers are taking—no. They’vealreadytaken over. But it’s up to us to take back our world. It’s time to stop hiding. It’s time to?—”
Someone near the front of the auditorium raises their hand. Maverick blinks, surprised, but whether that’s because he’sbeing interrupted or because someone raised their hand to do so, I can’t tell. He turns behind him and murmurs something to Jack. Jack nods.
Maverick points toward the front row. A young woman in her mid-twenties stands up. She tucks one stray curl behind her ear, then waves at everyone sitting in the audience.
Audrey Monroe. Our nurse.
The moment she starts to speak, I feel like I’m back in triage again. There’s something about her, how soothing her voice is, how earnest she sounds when she’s trying to get her point across, that throws me back in time to those terrible weeks I spent at St. Matthew’s after the accident.
The emotions return, crashing into me like a wave at high tide. The grief, the worry, the absolute devastation that came with learning that my twin was gone… my head is spinning and I have to remind myself where I am. What I’m doing here.