The cut on Honor's lip is gone.

I don't understand. If nothing 's there, where did the blood come from?

An icy wind whips around us. I peer down at my brother, searching for answers, but all I'm aware of is the shiver of confusion and disbelief racing up my spine.

How did the wound just...disappear?

I don't have time to figure it out. The woman is getting closer. Her eyes wild, her thin lips curling into words I don't understand.

Thomas grips my arm. "I think it's Miss Perkins."

My breath hitches as I look closer. It is, Miss Perkins. But it's not the Miss Perkins I know. An older woman passing by turns to stare.

Honor tugs on my sleeve. "What's the matter with Teacher?"

Before I can respond, Thomas shoves us behind him. "Miss Perkins, are you okay?"

She continues forward, her lips chanting an unidentifiable message. When the words come into focus, her voice is a raspy whisper. "It's time...for school." She chokes, gagging on her own breath.

Thomas forces Honor and I back until we're pinned between him and the building. He holds out his hands to stop her. "Don't come any closer!"

But she doesn't listen. She continues her slow shuffle towards us.

My eyes blink against the wind. I press Honor to me as dread coils in my chest, the crowd outside the store taking notice. They inch closer, their movements jerky and stiff, their foreheads wrinkled with curiosity.

And then suspicion.

"She's Of the Blood!" one of them shouts.

Several women scream. People force their way back into the store while others run away. The sudden commotion confuses her. Miss Perkins stutters to a halt in front of us. She sways back and forth, back and forth, almost losing her balance.

I don't know what to do. Part of me wants to go to her, to help her, but the other part of me is terrified. I've never seen her this way before. Like a rabid dog.

Except...this is my teacher. A woman who cares for me and my family. Now, she needs me to return the favor.

When I take a tentative step toward her, Thomas grabs my arm. "What are you doing?"

A rush of emotion blurs my vision. "Thomas, she's sick. She needs our help."

His fingers tighten around me, but his face is conflicted. "Faith —"

An explosion cuts him off. The blast bounces off the buildings and echoes down the street. I flinch and squeeze my eyes shut, my hands cupped over my ears as the sound wails inside my head.

And then...silence.

When I open my eyes, Everett Winsley emerges from the crowd with a smoking gun in his hands, his gaze wild like a trapped animal. I turn back to Miss Perkins. She's crumpled on the road in a heap, a puddle of blood soaking the snow beneath her.

"No!" A long scream howls between my lips, but no one cares.

People shout, running this way and that, as wind screeches between the buildings and pulls at my braids.

Stunned, I step closer to her and a metallic tang pinches my nostrils. The bullet drilled clean through her forehead, the insides of her skull oozing from an unseen hole behind her head. Her bloodshot eyes gaze up at the gray sky as though she's watching the clouds roll past.

My muscles tense. When I take another step closer, an arm pulls me back. "Faith, don't," Thomas warns. "We don't know if she's dead."

No one could survive that.

And then it dawns on me. My eyes snap to his. "You don't think she's —?" I can't say it.

Thomas holds my gaze.

"No..." I shake my head. "She was alive, Thomas. She wasn't well, but she wasn't Undead!"

"But how do we know for sure?"

His question takes me by surprise. I glance back at our teacher, pale and breathless in the road. After Mama passed away, Miss Perkins took a special interest in me and my brother. Making sure Honor had the extra help he needed with his school work, and trusting me to teach the younger kids in class. She asked questions and wanted to know how we were coping, always making certain we were okay. She was so young and had her entire life ahead of her.

And now she's gone.

Just like Mama and Grace. The Miltons. Ms. White and Mr. Dodd. Just like Eliza. So many people I care about have lost their lives. But unlike the others, Miss Perkins was killed in a moment of panic. Of raw and uncontrolled fear.

Anyone acting suspicious or out of line will be shot on the spot.

The constable's announcement rings in my head. What right do we have to play God? Miss Perkins was ill—but Undead? I don't believe it.

A group of men swarm her body like diligent ants, each carrying out an obvious preconceived role. No questions asked, no gesture unsure. As if each one had their task assigned and are executing it as second nature. Shoving twigs and clumps of straw around her body and in between her clothing. Like tinder and kindling.

Tinder and kindling.

My heart skips as I clutch Thomas' sleeve. "What are they doing?"

He doesn't answer.

"Thomas," I say again, "what are they doing?" My voice rises above the panic.

The muscles in his jaw clench. "This is their plan. It's what they came up with after you ran out of the meeting."

Before I can respond, the town blacksmith approaches Miss Perkins. A tin bucket dangles in his grip. He tosses the contents atop her body, drenching her in a colorless liquid. Wisps of brown hair splay across her face like the dingy strings of a mop.

Movement...it's happening all around us. Too many things going on at once. I can't focus.

Footsteps beat against the packed snow, colors rushing past my peripheral vision in flashes of browns and grays. An icy white backdrop. A flicker of black, flapping in the wind. Voices shouting, women crying. More carriages speeding away from South Harbor with what little belongings the families could manage heaped in a pile behind their seats.

The harsh realization nearly knocks me back. My fingers squeeze Thomas' arm. "Please don't tell me they're—"

Before I can get the words out, someone flings a lit matchstick at Miss Perkins' body and an incredible whoosh forces me back, my arms shielding my face.
My teacher disappears behind a wall of orange, the stench of singed hair and burning flesh tinging the icy air. I turn away, coughing, my lungs taking in the surge of smoke. Heat pushes us back even further. Further.

"Faith." Thomas grabs my elbow and drags me away. "It's not safe here anymore. We need to leave South Harbor."

The gravity of his words slam into me.

He's right. We don't have a choice. The longer we stay here the more danger we're in. Even if the Undead aren't real, even if they're not rising all over the world, we need to escape this town. It may be our only chance at survival.

A pent-up breath bursts from my lips. "When?"

"As soon as possible." His eyes drill into mine. "Go home. Tell your father what happened. You're smart, he'll listen to you. Pack only what you need and I'll meet you at the docks."

This is really happening. "What about your parents? Will they leave with us?" The questions tumble from my mouth.

"I meant what I said the other day. If I can't convince them to go, we'll leave them behind." His expression softens. "Don't worry. You'll be safe with me. Pa's been teaching me how to work the boat. I'm good at it, too."

He thinks I need reassurance, but I don't. I trust Thomas with my life. I trust him with the lives of my family. "I believe you."

Thomas hesitates, as if he's moved by my confession, and then he gives me a gentle shove. "Hurry. Take Honor and go. We'll meet by the water after dusk, that way no one will see us and try to force their way onto the boat."

He can't be serious. "Shouldn't we save as many people as we can?"

His head shakes. "We can't trust anyone—not anymore."

No one can be trusted. That may be true, though I'm not sure we share the same reasoning. Thomas worries the Undead are real, yet I can't help but wonder if we are the monsters.

The anger I feel towards this town, towards it's people, flashes along my veins.

But now is not the time to challenge him with a debate. I gather my skirts and swivel around to grab Honor, but he's not there. I spin in a circle, searching, my gaze sweeping down the road. "Honor!"

He's...gone.

Low-hanging clouds form a thick, gray barricade overhead, and the scent of frost swells in the air. Snow falls around me, heavy and fast. Coating my lashes, making it difficult to see. Entombing us in a fresh layer of white.

My sleeve rubs across my eyes. "Honor!" I call again. My voice catches in the wind and blows away.

A wave of hysteria bubbles inside me. With shallow breaths, I push through the crowd, thrusting myself between a young couple and pushing past a woman with a screaming infant in her arms.

Thomas is at my side in an instant. "What is it?"

My heads spins. I grip his sleeve to keep from falling. "It's Honor. I don't see him!"

His fingers graze my arm before finding my hand. "Maybe he went back to school. Let's start there."

With our hands entwined, Thomas and I circle the fire, the flames denser now and reaching for the sky. Back at the schoolyard, a few students still linger on the lawn, unaware of what's happening in town. Yet no one has seen my brother. We check the outhouse and tromp around the property, our boots driving through the snow.

But he's not there. He's not anywhere.

"Maybe he went home?" Thomas says.

"Maybe." But even as I say this, my heart hammers with doubt.

Honor never told me he was leaving. He knows I worry. I like to know what he's doing, and who he's with. It's not like him to run off without a word.

We retrace our steps, back through town and toward home. Icy flakes pelt my face as we approach the farm, my lungs blazing from our steady pace. The barn doors are wide open, clapping against the exterior slats in the wind, the weather vane atop the roof spinning on its axis.

Hope flares in my chest. "Maybe he's in there!"

When Thomas and I make it inside, the stench of sweaty animals and manure consumes my senses. A plethora of leather bridles, headstalls, and rusted tools hang along the walls, while horses, goats, and oxen graze on heaps of hay in their stalls. When they see us, they snort and stomp their hooves, kicking up clouds of dust. Oblivious to the world crashing down around them.

My fingers curl around my sleeves as we curve around Papa's plow to peer inside the carriage. But there's no sign of my brother or father. "Why would Papa leave the doors open?"

Thomas shrugs. "Maybe the latch didn't catch and the wind ripped them apart?"

I nod, wanting to believe him. But Papa's careful. He'd never leave the barn without tending to things properly. Equipment stored where it belongs, animals safe in their pens, doors fastened in place.

Unless something was wrong...

"Let's check the house," Thomas suggests.

I stare at the farmhouse from across the icy pasture. Ribbons of smoke rise from the chimney and curl into the gray sky. On either side of the trampled path of footprints, snow stands over two feet deep. Three feet in some areas, and the drifts deeper still.

Honor must be in there, he has to be. But when we secure the barn and barge through the back door, the house is quiet. Empty. Wind blows against the windows, rattling the glass in the frames.

I sink into the rocker with my face in my hands. "What should we do?"

Thomas crouches down next to me. "We'll find them. I promise." The warmth of his breath caresses my cheek. When I meet his gaze, he gives me a small smile.

I want to believe him. To find comfort in his soft lips and trusting eyes, but I'm afraid to let myself. Because what if it's not true?

A scrape at the back door makes us jump. It swishes open and Papa stumbles inside, a bluster of snow coming along with him. He staggers into the kitchen and collapses to his knees.

"Papa!" Springing up from the rocker, Thomas and I help him to his feet. His body trembles, his lips blue with cold. Cheeks red against a deathly pale face.

We guide him to a kitchen chair and he slumps into the seat. He's out of breath, his chest heaving as he struggles to take in more air. Hunched over like this, he looks small. Almost fragile. The weight he's lost since Mama passed more obvious now than ever.

I fight to keep under control. "Papa, what happened?"

He scrubs a hand over his face, his fingers mottled with frostbite. "I fell. Outside the barn. I must have passed out."

Thomas and I exchange a look. "But we just came from the barn," I tell him. "We didn't see you."

"I was...in...the snow."

My stomach drops to my toes. I cup his face in my hands. "How long were you out there? You're freezing!"

His teeth chatter but he doesn't answer.

Thomas grabs the quilt from Papa's bed and drapes it around his shoulders, but he's trembling so violently, it slips to the floor. I try this time, tucking the corners into his shirt so it doesn't come loose. "We're going to fix you up, okay? I'll make some tea."

When I pull away, Papa stops me. "I'm not thirsty. Please. I'll be fine."

Alarm sparks in my chest. "Papa, this is not the time to be stubborn. We need to raise your body temperature before you fall ill. Tea will help. It will warm up your insides." When he shakes his head, I crouch lower to look him in the eye. "Listen to me. You've been lying in the snow for I don't know how long. You need to warm up."

His eyelids droop, his chin bobbing toward his chest. "No tea. I just want to sleep."

"Papa, please!"

"Faith ..." Thomas guides me a few feet away. "Why don't you make tea and I'll help your father into bed. Give me his garlic necklace. We need to get it on him."

There's an edge to his voice and I know not to disagree. I pull the braided twine from my pocket. "What about Honor?"

"Let's take care of your father first and then go back out."

My lips are dry and chapped. My tongue slides across the surface, but it only makes them tighter. "We need to find him, Thomas. I promised Mama—"

"We will." He brings a hand to my cheek. His thumb brushes over my skin, leaving behind a trail of heat.

All I can do is nod. I head to the stove and stuff another log into the stove. Flames swell around the wood with a burst of crackles and pops. Once the tea is warm, I pour the steaming liquid into a cup, but my hands shake so fiercely some spills onto the saucer.

Thomas gets Papa out of his coat and into bed. As soon as his head hits the pillow, a chorus of rumbles and grunts rise from beneath the covers. The necklace is draped around his neck, the sliver of garlic slung off to the side.

The cup and saucer clink against each other in my hands. "He needs to sit up for a drink. We can't leave until he does."

Thomas doesn't look me in the eye. "You need to stay here."

The words twist my insides and drive out a breath. "I need to look for Honor. He's my responsibility and I have to make sure he's safe." I set the dishes on the bedside table and tuck another blanket around my father.

"I'll make sure he's safe." Thomas grasps my arm and spins me around. "You need to stay here and take care of your father. He's not well."

"He just needs to warm up, is all. It'll only take a little bit and then I can go back out—"

"Faith, he has a fever. I felt it when I helped him into bed."

Without another word, I turn back to Papa. He's bundled beneath the blankets, his rumpled hair sticking up along his head. Perspiration dots his hairline. When my palm finds his forehead, it's burning to the touch.

How could I have missed it?

A cold sweat sweeps across my skin as I try make sense of what's happening. But I can't. Papa wouldn't have a fever from falling in the snow. "I don't understand..."

Thomas' mouth spreads into a thin line, his eyes hard and knowing. He thinks Papa is Of the Blood. But he can't be. The Undead aren't real. Even if they were, our doors and windows were locked tight. I helped bolt them into place myself.

I shake my head. "He's not. Don't say it. Don't even think it!"

Thomas clenches his fists and his knuckles blanch white. "He's not well. Maybe he has just fallen ill, but we can't take that chance. Not now." His voice drops to a whisper as if someone is listening. "If anyone sees him like this, they'll kill him. Just like they did to Miss Perkins."

Whatever I'm about to stay gets caught in my throat. Something inside me knows it's true. That's exactly what they would do.

There's a tap, tap, tap against the window and I jump. The curtain sways back and forth as wind from outside leaks between the cracks and crevices. I cross the room and pull aside the fabric. A panel of wood has come loose from the house and whacks against the glass. The nails we hammered into the pane are all firmly in place. Besides Thomas and my own family, no one else, living or dead, has entered this room.

My gaze shifts back to Papa and I close my eyes. Leaving South Harbor is no longer an option.

We're trapped.

A torrent of fear and uncertainty thickens in my throat. No tears. I've gotten so used to holding them in, that to let them fall now, in front of Thomas, would be admitting defeat.

And I am not giving up.

Thomas grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. I push down the emotions and open my eyes, ignoring the quiver in my stomach. "I'll stay."

Relief floods his face. "I'll bring Honor straight here when I find him."

"But what about the curfew? What if—"

"I'll bring him straight home," he says again. "Make sure to bolt the door after I leave."

"But we don't have to do that until nightfall."

He shakes his head, the muscles in his jaw flexing beneath his skin. "We're not taking any chances."

I stare into his eyes, my mind spinning. My biggest fears are coming true. Everything I promised Mama is falling apart.

And there's nothing I can do to stop it.

This last imagine is a picture of Miss Perkins right before they...you know. 🫣 And here's some fun ones of the crazy townspeople!