Zil was no poet, but he could understand why people got sort of mesmerized by stars. Lots of great, important people must have looked up at the stars when they were on the edge, getting ready to do the things that would mark them forever as great.

Too bad these weren’t real stars.

Hank appeared, like a ghost. He was with Antoine. Zil saw others in the darkness beside the highway, already gathered. Milling together, scared, nervous, most ready to run like rabbits probably.

“Leader,” Hank said in an intense whisper.

“Hank,” Zil answered, his voice reassuringly calm.

“The Human Crew awaits your orders.”

A murmur of many voices. Scared sheep bleating together, trying to keep their courage up.

Lance was there. “I checked it out. Four of Edilio’s soldiers. Two of them asleep. No freaks, as far as I could see.”

“Good,” Zil said. “If we move fast and get the element of surprise I doubt we’ll even have to hurt anyone.”

“Don’t count on it,” Hank said.

“Whatever happens, it’s meant to be,” Turk said.

“Fate.”

Zil swallowed hard. If he showed any weakness it would be over. “This is the beginning of the end for the freaks,” he said. “Tonight we take Perdido Beach back for humans.”

“You heard the Leader,” Turk said.

“Let’s go,” Hank said. He had a shotgun as big as he was hanging on his shoulder. He slipped it off and ostentatiously clicked the safety to “off.”

And then, they were on the move. Walking fast. Zil in the lead with Hank on one side and Lance on the other and Antoine waddling along with Turk in the second row.

No one spotted them as they emerged up onto the highway. Or as they marched in quick-step past the battered old sign showing gas prices.

Past the first pump before a voice cried out, “Hey!”

They kept moving, breaking now into an exhilarating run.

“Hey! Hey!” the voice cried again.

A boy, Zil didn’t know his name, was yelling and then a second voice was shouting, “What’s happening?”

BLAM!

The sound was deafening. A dagger of yellow fire from the blast.

Hank’s shotgun.

The first boy fell back hard.

Zil almost cried out. Almost yelled “Stop.” Almost said “You don’t need to…”

But it was too late for that. Too late.

The second soldier raised his own gun, but hesitated. Hank did not.

BLAM!

The second soldier turned and ran. He threw his gun down and ran.

More voices yelling in fear and confusion. Gunfire. Here. There. Wild blasting, everyone who could, explosions of light in the dark.

“Cease fire!” Hank yelled.

The firing continued. But it was all coming from Zil’s own side now.

“Knock it off!” Zil shouted.

The explosions stopped.

Zil’s ears rang. From far off a pitiful voice cried. Cried like a baby.

For a long moment no one said or did anything. The boy who lay on his back made no sound. Zil did not take a closer look.

“Okay, follow the plan,” Hank said, as calmly as if all this was just a video game he’d put on pause.

Kids who had been tasked with bringing bottles began to unload them. Lance went to the hand-pump that brought gasoline up from the underground storage. He began to work it and fill glass bottles held by shaking hands.

“I can’t believe it,” someone said.

“We did it!” one exulted.

“Not yet,” Zil growled. “But it’s beginning.”

Hank said, “Remember: Stuff the rags far down into the bottle like I told you. And keep your lighters dry.”

They found a wheelbarrow in the weeds behind the station. It didn’t roll very well-the wheel was lopsided-but it worked to hold the bottles.

The smell of gasoline was thick in Zil’s throat. He was stressing, waiting for the counterattack. Waiting to see Sam striding up, hands blazing.

That would end it all.

But no matter how hard he peered into the black night, Zil did not see the one freak who would stop him.

Little Pete made a grunting sound as he pushed the buttons and worked the trackpad of his handheld.

Sam sat silent, withdrawn. He had said nothing since Taylor had hauled him through the door and woken Astrid from a fretful sleep.

It was stupid, Astrid realized, not talking to Sam. When Taylor had awakened her, she’d imagined somehow, in her sleepy confusion, that Sam had come running back, all forgiven.

But then Taylor had said she’d be back with the rest of the council and Astrid knew something had gone wrong.

Now they were all there. Well, most of them. Word was Dekka was sick with whatever was going around. But Albert was there, and really, Astrid admitted to herself, so long as Albert and Astrid were there, the important members of the council were present.

Unfortunately, Howard had also come. No one wanted to drag John out into the night. He could hear about it all later.

They had enough. Astrid, Albert, Howard, and Sam. Five out of seven. And, Astrid couldn’t help but note, any vote would be more likely to go in her favor.

They were at the table beneath an eerie Sammy Sun.

“Okay, Taylor, since Sam doesn’t exactly seem talkative,” Astrid said, “why are we all here?”

“A kid got murdered tonight,” Taylor said.

A hundred questions popped into Astrid’s head, but she asked the most important one first. “Who was it?”

“Edilio says he thinks it’s Juanito. Or Leonard.”

“He thinks?”

“Kind of hard to tell,” Taylor said, not quite smirking.

“What happened?” Albert asked.

Taylor looked at Sam. Sam said nothing. He stared. First at his own light, hovering in the air. Then at Taylor. He looked pale and almost frail. Like he was suddenly a much, much older person.

“Kid was whipped,” Taylor said. “It looked like what happened to Sam.”

Sam lowered his head and wrapped his hands behind his neck. He seemed to be trying to hold on to his head, pressing it hard like it might explode.

“Drake’s dead,” Albert said. Sounding like a guy who really, really hoped it was true. “He’s dead. He’s been dead.”

“Yeah, well…,” Taylor said.

“Yeah well, what?” Astrid asked, instantly hearing the change in her tone of voice, the evasion.

Taylor shifted uncomfortably. “Look, Edilio told me to bring Sam here and get you guys together. I think Sam is kind of, you know, flashing on stuff that happened.”

“That boy was whipped. Just like I was,” Sam said to the floor. “I know the marks. I…”

“It doesn’t mean it was Drake,” Albert said.

“Drake’s dead,” Astrid said. “Dead people don’t come back. Let’s not be ridiculous.”

Howard made a derisive snort. “Okay. That’s as far as I go with you on this, Sammy boy.” He made a hand-washing gesture.

Astrid slammed her palm on the table, surprising even herself. “Somebody better tell me what all these back-and-forth looks are about.”

“Brittney,” Howard said, spitting the name out like it was poison. “She came back. Sam had her and stuck her with Brianna, and told me not to talk about it.”

“Brittney?” Astrid said, confused.

Howard said, “Yeah. You know, like dead-girl Brittney? Way dead? Dead a long time and buried a long time and suddenly she’s sitting in my house chatting? That Brittney.”

“I’m still not…”

“Well, Astrid,” Howard said, “I guess we just found the limits of your big old genius brain. Point is that someone who was very seriously dead is suddenly not so dead anymore.”

“But…,” Astrid started. “But Drake…”

“As dead as Brittney,” Howard said. “Which might be a slight problem, since Brittney isn’t exactly dead herself.”

Astrid felt sick to her stomach. No. Surely not. Impossible. Insane. Not even here, not even in the FAYZ.

But Howard wasn’t lying. Taylor’s expression confirmed that. And Sam wasn’t jumping up to dispute it, either.

Astrid stood up. She stared hard at Sam. She could feel a throbbing in her head. “You didn’t tell me? This is happening and you didn’t tell the council?”