The Stranded

Copyright © 2022, 2023 by Sarah Daniels

Cover and internal design © 2023 by Sourcebooks

Cover design by Jonathan Bush

Cover images © budgetstockphoto/iStock, andrejs polivanovs/Shutterstock, Alessandro de Leo/Shutterstock, mdurson/iStock, Arthit Premprayot/Shutterstock, Yarlander/Shutterstock

Internal Design by Laura Boren/Sourcebooks

Internal images © Peteri/Shutterstock

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567–4410

(630) 961-3900

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Originally published in 2022 in Great Britain by Penguin Books, an imprint of Penguin Random House UK Ltd.

Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress.

For my husband and our children.

Contents

Part One: The Arcadia

Chapter 1: Esther

Chapter 2: Nik

Chapter 3: Esther

Chapter 4: Hadley

Chapter 5: Esther

Chapter 6: Hadley

Chapter 7: Esther

Chapter 8: Nik

Chapter 9: Hadley

Chapter 10: Esther

Chapter 11: Esther

Chapter 12: Hadley

Chapter 13: Nik

Chapter 14: Esther

Chapter 15: Nik

Chapter 16: Esther

Chapter 17: Nik

Chapter 18: Hadley

Chapter 19: Esther

Chapter 20: Nik

Chapter 21: Hadley

Chapter 22: Esther

Chapter 23: Hadley

Chapter 24: Esther

Chapter 25: Esther

Chapter 26: Nik

Part Two: Landfall

Chapter 27: Nik

Chapter 28: Hadley

Chapter 29: Esther

Chapter 30: Nik

Chapter 31: Esther

Chapter 32: Hadley

Chapter 33: Esther

Chapter 34: Nik

Chapter 35: Esther

Chapter 36: Nik

Chapter 37: Esther

Chapter 38: Nik

Chapter 39: Esther

Chapter 40: Hadley

Chapter 41: Esther

Chapter 42: Nik

Chapter 43: Esther

Chapter 44: Esther

Chapter 45: Nik

Chapter 46: Esther

Chapter 47: Esther

Chapter 48: Nik

Chapter 49: Esther

Chapter 50: Hadley

Chapter 51: Nik

Chapter 52: Esther

Chapter 53: Hadley

Chapter 54: Nik

Chapter 55: Esther

Chapter 56: Nik

Chapter 57: Esther

Chapter 58: Nik

Chapter 59: Esther

Chapter 60: Nik

Chapter 61: Hadley

Chapter 62: Nik

Chapter 63: Esther

Chapter 64: Hadley

Chapter 65: Esther

Chapter 66: Nik

Chapter 67: Esther

Chapter 68: Hadley

Chapter 69: Esther

Acknowledgments

About the Author

PART ONE

THE ARCADIA

Good evening. It is 17:00 hours on Sunday 24 October 2094.

This is the captain of the cruise ship Arcadia.

We are currently experiencing strong northwesterly winds, a high of 50ºF and a wind-chill factor of 25ºF.

All passengers please be prepared for high seas.

Daily reported Virus cases: zero.

Days at sea: 15,934.

CHAPTER 1

ESTHER

I shiver against the wind that threatens to take my homework over the ship’s railing and into the sea. That’s the last thing I need. I don’t want to pull an all-nighter, and this close to graduation, I can’t afford to let my grades slip, so I weigh the loose pages down with my digiscreen. This model was already old when I got it, and that was five years ago, the glass face sliced across by a crack like a rivulet of ice. You can feel the sharp edges with your fingers.

It’s aching cold this evening. Autumn cold, getting us ready for winter. Storm season on the ship feels never-ending. Last year, we endured night after night of thundering waves. Snow piled up on the deck in great mounds, and the chill seemed to enter every salt hole and frayed seam in our clothes.

Even the memory of it makes the skin on my arms pucker with goosebumps, so I shake out the blanket from the back of my chair, wrap it around myself, and try not to think of bugs. Crumbs and splashes of dried food crust the surface of the wool. By the end of this year, with any luck, I’ll be miles away before the worst winter storms come; I’ll be on dry land, sleeping in a warm room, with nothing to worry about but passing my first-year exams.

At least, that’s the plan.

The Lookout is packed with customers huddled around tables. Sim, the café’s stubble-faced owner, makes greasy food on a camping stove, separated from the rest of the Lookout by a counter of tacked-together planks. The café furniture is a mishmash of styles scavenged from around the ship: Plastic chairs taken from the staff cafeteria. Ornate velvet-covered dining chairs from the expensive upper-deck restaurants. A variety of faux-leather tub chairs stolen from the cabins, cracked and faded from exposure. They’ve all seen better days.

The café itself is a broad, semicircular disc of planks built out from Deck Eleven, landward side. From the decks below, you can see it’s all held up by a mess of scaffolding poles and oars and planks. It’s so rickety, it creaks in the wind as though it could collapse into the sea at any moment. In all, there are fourteen residential decks layered above the Arcadia’s waterline, and each deck is separated into cabins. A few big, fancy cabins per deck at the top of the ship, and then, the lower you go, the smaller and less fancy they get, until you hit the waterline. That’s where the really bad neighborhoods start.

The Lookout’s appeal for most patrons is the cheap food or even cheaper bitter, reheated coffee. But for me it’s the view. Every icy chair faces the land. Even when it rains—which it does a lot out here on the Atlantic coast—you can still see the city. This evening the sun is slung low behind the skyscrapers, and the coast is a jagged silhouette dotted with hundreds of brightly lit homes. My eyes trace the outline of the sun-backed buildings, drinking in every familiar detail. The shipyards, the low-lying suburbs, the towering midtown. And on the fringes of the city, right at the edge of my vision, the university campus. That’s the place I’m aiming for. Up here, I can forget the waves that separate me from the city. Up here, my new life is within reach.

Ten more minutes, then I’ll head home.

At the next table, a group of teenage girls chat in Arabic, then slip seamlessly in and out of English. One of the group pulls aimlessly at a hole in her coat sleeve while she gazes at the badges on my uniform. I squirm, suddenly aware of how stiff the collar of my jumpsuit is, and find myself pulling at the neck. I stare down into my coffee, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

A shadow passes over the table. Anything else? Sim says, wiping a hand down the grease-stained apron he always ties around his waist. His face has the deepening lines of someone who spends most of their time out in the elements. He takes my plate and tops up my mug with watery coffee. The mug is an ancient ceramic thing, cracks in the white glaze like cobwebs, and stained by the thousands of coffees it’s held before mine.

No thanks, I say, and I hold out my hand to him.

Our comgloves cover most of our hands, but the fingers are free. When we hover in an almost handshake and wait for the funds to transfer, I can feel a hint of warmth. The gloves beep in unison as my ration credits are transferred to pay the bill. I flip my hand over so that I can see the flexible rectangular display on my palm.

Hey, Sim, you didn’t charge me enough.

It’s … a thank you, Esther … for the rush on my Virus swab last week. Can’t afford to close up while I wait.

Just doing my job, I say. But thanks.

Well, you didn’t have to help me out so … thank you. Captain’s announcement said it’s going to be a rough night, but it’ll be clear tomorrow. You’ll get a good view of the city. And it’s ration day, so there’ll be bread.

My mouth waters at the thought of fresh bread, crisp on the outside, soft as a cloud inside. I’ll be in after class—you’ll save me some?

He gives me a half-smile, which is as much emotion as you get from him most days. You’re my most regular. It’ll be behind the counter for you. He lingers, eyes resting on the pile of handwritten paper on the table. Can’t be long until it’s your turn to graduate. How’s the exam prep going?

My jaw tightens with anxiety. Same as always, I say. We study. We’re tested. We study again. At this point, I know more about contagious diseases than most doctors will ever need to. Still might not make the cut though.

The girls at the next table giggle, and I can’t help looking up to see if they’re talking about me. One of them whispers behind her hand. When I catch the word collaborator, I sink further into my chair, wishing the deck would swallow me up. Tears prick my eyes. It’s not like I’ve never heard it before—plenty of people resent me because I wear this uniform—but it still stings, and it’s mortifying that this is happening in front of Sim.

He looks briefly at the girls, then he rests the antique glass coffee pot on the table. There’s a crack down one side, weeping coffee, so he carries it with a tea towel pressed against it.

Now listen to me. There’s not a person aboard this ship that hasn’t taken something they’ve needed from the Federated States. But that won’t stop them dragging you down. You ignore them, you hear? You’ve worked damn hard to get where you are. And when you graduate, I’m going to put your picture up behind the counter and tell everybody it was my coffee you were drinking while you studied. Got it?

Got it, I say.

Sim takes his coffee pot and moves to the girls’ table. Who’s up for some collaboration coffee? Fresh from the Federated States last week. His voice booms.

The girls scowl at him, but let him refill their cups, reaching their hands out to his, one by one, to pay. He winks at me over his shoulder.

At least I’ve got a shot at getting out of here. Sim’s a whole-lifer, like almost every other person onboard. He was born here, and he’ll die here, like all the Stranded.

There’s a ping from my comglove, the wrinkles and frayed cuff of the graying fabric so familiar it feels like a part of me. It’s a joyful noise for bad tidings. Glowing green text scrolls from the heel of my hand to the folds of my fingers.

Esther, it’s getting dark. Are you in?

I’ve stayed too long. Again. I sigh louder than I’d dare if Mom was in earshot, wipe my fingers on the blanket, then use the middle two on my left hand to tap out a lie.

With Alex, home soon.

Irritation nudges at me as I pull my med bag over my head and stuff my homework in among the bandages and syringes. Mom means well, and without her help, May and I wouldn’t be leaving the ship at all. She taught my sister and me everything, from how to ace our entrance exams to rigging up a desalination system so we’re never thirsty when the freshwater shipments are delayed. It’s just that she winds her worries so tight around us that we can barely fill our lungs. And May gets off easy. She’s free to stay out after dark. Or eat dinner alone without someone keeping tabs. It all makes me want to scream.

I get up and weave a path between the sticky, plastic-covered tabletops, making my way to one of the exits.

Hey! someone yells from the deck above the café.

My eyes snap up in time to see a pale hand hanging over the railing, clutching a small white rectangle. The rectangle swings through the air and shatters into a hundred sheets of paper that curl out and down toward me, catching the last of the day’s light as they fall. Making them flash.

I’m caught in a leaflet drop.

Aboard the Arcadia, news is strictly packaged and sanitized. Anything that doesn’t come from the Federated States is propaganda or hearsay or outright lies. Writing it down will get you arrested. Giving it to other people will get you arrested. Reading it, holding it in your hand, standing next to it will get you arrested.

They’ll be here soon. I should run, but instead I watch the paper drift to the ground, my heart beating in anticipation.

The air is supercharged with excitement. People grab at the leaves as they arc to the ground. Above me, hands throw ream after ream. Paper litters the floor and the tabletops and settles on the mismatched chairs. A black-and-white snowdrift lined with text.

I anchor my feet to the deck and shove my hands into my pockets to stop them from reaching out. The voice in my head that sounds like my mom says, Don’t even think about reading that message. Don’t blow your chances.

I watch the girls from the next table holding their hands out as more and more paper rains down. One girl snatches a leaflet from midair and starts to read, the others gathering around to see what it says.

Just one look. My hand trembles as I reach for a leaflet. A spark of something unfamiliar and not totally unpleasant flickers inside me. It’s anticipation mixed with anxiety. It’s fizzy. I spin to face the sea, hunching my shoulders to shield the forbidden rectangle from view. A blurry grayscale image of a cruise ship floats in the center of the paper. Not my ship. I’d recognize the Arcadia from any angle. It must be one of the others. Smoke billows out from the hull, and it keels sickeningly toward the water. Underneath the image, the text reads:

CRUISE SHIP OCEANIA CLEARED! HUNDREDS DEAD!

Coalies! Sim yells behind me.

They’re here.

A collective whimper from the café’s patrons. I squeeze the leaflet into a tight ball. It whispers, and when I open my fingers, what’s left of the paper drifts away on the breeze, leaving a smudge of gray dust on my skin. Recycling paper. Smart.

It degrades! I shout.

All around me, people scrunch up the sheets, letting the ashy powder blow away, clapping their hands to get rid of the residue. When the leaflets are crushed just right, they recycle in a hushing chorus that sounds like waves on shingle. There are still hundreds of them strewn across the floor, and no one wants to be caught next a batch of illegal words. No one wants to be scanned, to have their proximity to the drop entered on their permanent record. No one wants to be taken.

Chairs screech against the wooden deck. People leave steaming drinks and half-eaten plates of food. We shove each other in our need to get away. A table topples, showering the deck with plates and cups, the silverware falling like rain. Sim’s coffee pot ends its life in a glassy tinkle.

My need to escape surges with every heartbeat, but each step brings me up against a new obstacle: a chair leg crunching into my shin, an abandoned bag blocking my feet. People scramble around me. The tables and chairs of the Lookout heave as though moved by a churning sea. Ten steps feel like ten miles, but I make it to the Lookout’s closest exit. People bottleneck, squeezing through the single-file opening that leads to the next stretch of narrow deck.

A sour film coats the back of my tongue. Epinephrine. My adrenal glands are working overtime, getting my body ready for fight or flight, pushing blood to my muscles and making my heart work harder.

There’s a dull thud, a groan, and I look over my shoulder to see a girl lying flat on her face, papers fluttering around her. My instinct is to help. But in the second it takes me to turn back, a wave of black uniforms surges through the entrance on the opposite side of the Lookout.

The world pauses like a held breath. The Coaly uniforms and weapons are so black they seem to consume light. The mirrored visors of their smooth helmets pan left to right, taking in the scene. The people and the overturned chairs. The piles of forbidden knowledge. A static crackle precedes the Coaly’s digital voice, fed through the helmet to disguise the person inside: You are in contravention of ship bylaw sixty-two B, forbidding the creation, dissemination, and possession of inflammatory written material. Remain where you are.

Panic stretches the girl’s eyes into glassy marbles. I’ve seen that collision of dread and resignation before. Our neighbor didn’t fight when the Coalies searched his cabin. He stood by his front door with his arms loose at his sides, his body slack. But his eyes didn’t rest. They darted from face to face, searching for a clue—something, anything—that would save him.

Strands of soft brown hair stick to the girl’s lips, puffing and sucking in time with her breath. She can only be sixteen, my age, but her face is weathered and her lips raw and cracked.

The Coalies spread into the café, pouring between the tables. They catch the stragglers that have been too slow to run. One Coaly throws a man down; another shocks him with a taser. The man spasms, boots drumming against the deck.

The girl’s marble eyes are locked on to mine. They make a desperate, unvoiced appeal for help. Why hasn’t she gotten up? Fear? She’s paralyzed. I could help her—there’s still time. She’d move if I pulled her up.

There’s not enough time. People rush past me, through the opening and down the deck to safety. And the voice in my head, the one that uses my mom’s tone, says: Don’t get involved. Look after yourself. Let her escape—or not—on her own. She wouldn’t help you.

I ball my fists. You put your own life jacket on first—everyone knows it.

I leave her behind.

CHAPTER 2

NIK

I’ve never been this pumped. I’m not kidding—my heart is going like you wouldn’t believe.

News will spread fast. Now everyone’s going to know what went down on the Oceania. Pulling a drop like that is all kinds of illegal, but it’s my duty to shake things up. Clearance is coming. Got to be ready.

We’ve been zigzagging down the ship, making sure we’re not being followed, and now we’re walking beside the cabins on Residential Deck Seven. Beyond the three-bar railing, there’s a view of the sea, churning and gray. I’m trying to play it cool. My smile’s a dead giveaway, but I can’t help it—it keeps breaking through. May’s beaming too. Her eyes are all glisteny. I want to grab her hand and run.

See you later for debrief. She jogs away, then hops back and grabs my arm. We did it!

I turn in the opposite direction. Time for us to split up. We’ll take different routes home to our cabins and—crap. Coalies. Twin uniforms striding along the narrow deck. Far enough away that they haven’t spotted us yet, but there’s no way past. On one side, there’s a row of cabins, a pattern of porthole-door-porthole-door that’s repeated on every residential deck on the ship. On the other side, the railing hems us in. Those Coalies aren’t going to let us pass if we act nice. And walking back the way we’ve come won’t do any good either. By now, Hadley will have put out an all-ship alert. They’ll be rounding up everything that moves. At this point, even just walking away will have them after us faster than a drone chasing a pickpocket.

May spins back to face me. Her grin’s gone, and the color has washed from her face. She lays her hands on the top rail, one foot resting on the bottom. I take up position next to her. Pretending we’re only here for a chat. The sea and the sky blur into the same twilight gray, and even though it’s dropped cold, I’m sweating under my hoodie. My palms are clammy against the crusty white paint.

Don’t freak, I say from the corner of my mouth.

I’m not going to freak.

All right. I’m just saying, don’t freak.

Look, I’m trained for this. You’re far more likely to freak than me.

I sigh. May always needs to be top dog, even when we’ve got Coalies stalking toward us. But I like that about her. Your military training. Sure. So, what’s the plan, General? I say.

May turns her back to the sea and rests her elbows on the railing. She glances at the Coalies. We can’t let them scan us, not this close to the Lookout. Not together.

That’s affirmative, sir.

Stop fooling around. This could be life or death.

OK, give me the plan.

The plan is we run.

"That’s it? Five years of cadet training, and all you can come up with is we run?"

We run, really fast, away from the Coalies, she says.

They must have seen us by now, but they’re not moving any quicker. Where to?

That’s your department. You’ve got the shady underworld contacts.

I take a sideways look at the Coalies. We split up, I say, and I can predict her response before she opens her mouth.

No way.

If they stop you, high-flying cadet, you can talk your way out of it. Flash your comglove ID. Tell them you’re on your way home from class. If we’re together, they’re going to start asking questions.

And by yourself, you’re just another kid stopped without cause. They’ll arrest you and haul you off for interrogation.

You can use your privilege to get me back, can’t you?

I have less sway than you think, she says, and she picks at a bubble of rusty paint with her fingernail.

Look, don’t want to pull rank or anything, but I’m your handler, and it’s my call. You go first. Walk as fast as you can without looking like you’re running. I’ll wait here until you get up the next staircase before I make a move.

You’re ordering me to pretend we don’t know each other, make my escape, while you stay behind and distract them?

Never know, we might both get home without being stopped.

May fixes me with a hard stare. I’ve lost this fight. She curls her fingers around mine and, while I’m distracted by how warm her skin feels, she holds our hands up in the air. Now the Coalies won’t fail to spot us—and see we’re together.

That was so stupid, I say, pulling our hands down without letting go.

They’ve noticed us. Target acquired. Their stride lengthens to a march, and their hands tense around their weapons. Gotta keep my nerve. Once they see us run, the game starts. We can’t try for home. That’d lead the Coalies straight to us and our families, and no one wants a visit from the ship’s official police force in the middle of the night. Need to lose them first. Lucky for us, this boat’s riddled with nooks and crannies and whole sections below deck lorded over by Neath gangs. There are places even the Coalies won’t go without riot gear.

OK. Stay close—don’t want to slow down for you, I say.

Sure. Because you’re so much faster than me.

We walk, easy as you like, away from the Coalies, back toward the nearest staircase. Fast enough to keep some distance between us and them, not so fast that we look suspicious.

Head down the staircase and along the main service corridor. We aim for the rear of the ship. Once we make Neath territory, we’ll be home free, I whisper.

We’re going below deck?

It’s the only place the Coalies won’t follow us. Worried?

I’m worried because every time you take me down to Neath territory, people act like I’ve got two heads.

They’re not used to seeing ticket holders down there. And anyway you’re going to have to deal with it, because we can’t make it all the way to Enid’s with them chasing us. We need somewhere to hide until the dust settles.

Fine. But you’d better be right about them not following us. It’s bad enough that we’re going into gang territory without an invite. God knows what they’ll do if we lead Coalies down there.

I can handle it. I know people, I say.

But she’s not wrong. Silas Cuinn. Gang leader. Controls everything below deck. Mean streak as long as the Arcadia. And whether he helps us, hides us, or hands us over to the Coalies could depend on which side of the bed he got out of this morning. Heading into his territory uninvited has me feeling more than a little nervous, though I’ll do my best to hide it from May.

You got your memory scrubber in case they take you?

This isn’t my first day as a double agent.

May—

I’ve got the scrubber. Not that I plan on getting caught. She smiles, broad and toothy, like she owns the world.

All right. Let’s go, I say.

We both pull our scarves up over our faces—nothing suspicious about that; you’ve got to protect your skin from the salt. All I can see are May’s big eyes and a few wisps of hair. She squeezes my hand, and the hammering in my chest gets worse. Two well-armed, well-trained Coalies are following us. We’re about to run for our lives. And I’m still thinking about her fingers twisted into mine and the skin on my palm buzzing. I hold my breath.

Soon I’ll have to let her go.

Go! May shouts.

Stay where you are! a Coaly barks.

We run. Along the wooden boards of the deck, through the swinging door, into the covered staircase. They’re the same all over the ship, metal stairs connecting the tiny landings. A big white number stenciled onto each door tells you which deck you’re on. We plunge downwards, two steps at a time, shock waves striking through my legs. A short stretch of steps, then circle around the landing and take the next set of stairs down.

Somewhere above us a door slams, and then there’s the heavy tramp of boots on metal, and I know the Coalies are just behind us. I jump, use the handrail to swing myself around a corner, and for a second I’m airborne. May could trounce me in any race, but she stays a step behind, a human barrier between me and the Coalies. If they start shooting, she’ll put herself between me and the bullets. That’s who she is.

I count the doors as we pass them, the numbers getting lower the further down we go. Deck Four. Deck Three. Deck Two. Sweat sticks my shirt to my back. My chest rages from running.

Next one, I say, wheezing.

There’s a bang like a crack of thunder, and something thuds into the wall right in front of my face.

We both duck, clinging to the wall. And now they’re shooting, says May, panting.

There’s no number on the next door. Instead, the word SERVICE has been stenciled on to the blue paint. I yank the door handle, swing it open, feel the pressure of May’s hand pushing me in front of her. She lets the door slam behind us. For a second, I think about trying to block it, but then I hear another round of muffled gunshots. No time for anything but running.

We race into the service corridor. The ship’s main thoroughfare is wide enough to drive a truck down and so long you can’t see the ends. It runs down the middle of the ship like a spine, connecting every part. It’s the quickest way to get somewhere in a hurry, if you don’t mind taking your chances with the muggers and pickpockets. Once upon a time, it would’ve been used to move supplies and staff around without the ticket holders upstairs having to set eyes on the help. Now it’s the domain of Neaths—ship folk from below deck—and some of the more adventurous above-deck ticket holders.

Keep left! I shout. We launch ourselves along the corridor. It’s so jam-packed with ship folk you can barely move. Air ripe with music and shouting and the warmth of hundreds of Neaths squished into a small space. I map out the escape route in my head, aiming for one of the hidden entrances to Silas’s territory. There are lots of ways to get down to the lawless places below deck, some official, others secret. Just have to know where to look.

We dodge around a guy leading a goat on a rope. May ducks under a kind of makeshift tent made out of tarpaulin and emerges on the other side with the owners shouting after her. I catch my foot on a stray box, stumble. May steadies me, and we’re off again. There’s no organization down here. No planning. No rules. People set up shop wherever they find a space. It’s the perfect place to get lost.

Where now? May says.

Up ahead. Last elevator on the right.

The elevators that line the walls on both sides of the corridor are enormous steel boxes. Doors jammed open, buttons unlit—well, all except the elevator we’re heading for. They haven’t moved in living memory, and it’s a good thing because they make good sleeping places and good cooking places, and almost every one is crammed with people. It’s like one long bunkhouse.

You better be right about them not following us down, May says through ragged breath.

I don’t answer. There’s no plan B here. We can’t keep running forever. But the Coalies are lagging behind, weighed down by their knife-proof vests and shiny helmets. They’re having to jump around the pedestrians that keep getting in their way. We might just make it.

An old woman is shuffling between us and the open elevator doors, pushing a shopping cart with a mountain of junk on top. Her red, wrinkle-folded face peeps out from under a hood, and she’s hunched, covered in blankets.

I pull hard on May’s hand and swing her forward past the woman with the cart. In there! I shout. Use the cable!

May speeds ahead. Still running, I feel in my trouser pocket for an air grenade, dropping it into the old woman’s cart as I pass. I make a grab for the handle. It swings away from her easily enough, then a wheel gets stuck and it topples sideways. The grenade explodes. A plume of smoke shoots out, the contents of the shopping cart go clattering over the floor of the corridor. Scrap metal, rags, bones, frayed rope.

The old woman shrieks, mouth stretched into a gummy O with her purplish tongue wriggling inside. Everybody else hits the deck. That’ll slow the Coalies for a few seconds. Might be all we need.

May leaps through the open door, catching herself on the thick metal