‘This is a song sung by the late, great Jeff Buckley called “Hallelujah.”’ He begins strumming his guitar, and he quietly transforms into someone who I’m sure would have been a celebrity at any other time.
The bittersweet chords ring over the bay as his voice softly builds momentum. People begin singing along with his mournful crooning. Some of us have tears drying on our faces in the cold wind as we sing ‘Hallelujah’ in broken voices.
When it’s over, there’s a moment of quiet. We’re left wondering about life and love and other things that are messed up and broken, yet somehow still a triumph.
The clapping is subdued at first but quickly builds into a wild cheer.
After that, the singer strums his guitar aimlessly until he hits on a familiar tune. He begins to sing a pop song that’s light and fluffy and upbeat. Everyone sways and hops and bursts out in song.
We’re nowhere near as good as the angels I heard singing at the aerie. There are enough of us singing off-key that we could never be considered good, much less perfect like the angels. But all of us singing together – the cults with their greasy amnesty marks, the rival gangs on the suspension cables, the angry freedom fighters, the parents with their kids on their shoulders – that’s a feeling I’ll never forget for as long as I live. However long that will be.
I hold on to the feeling and try to lock it in the vault in my head where I know it’ll be safe and with me forever. I’ve never put anything good in there before, but I want to make sure it doesn’t get lost. Just in case this is the last big human show of any kind, ever again.
And then, I hear it.
The thing I dread. The thing I’ve been expecting.
There’s a low buzz. And the air begins to stir.
Far too close to us, the mist boils.
They’re coming.
The sky blacks out with their bodies, and the mist swirls with the wind of a thousand wings. Either no one spotted them coming in the gathering fog, or we were all too mesmerized by the show.
A voice over the speaker starts a countdown. That’s supposed to be a signal for the audience to run and for everyone to get into position.
‘Five . . .’
Five? It’s supposed to start at twenty-five.
Everyone wastes a precious second realizing that we’re already out of time.
‘Four . . .’
Everyone scrambles. People shove and run in panic. The overcrowded audience and the show contestants have only four seconds to evacuate to the hideaway lattice and net beneath the bridge.
The singer onstage keeps on singing as if neither hell nor high water nor apocalyptic angels descending on us will stop him from giving the best performance of his life. He’s finished his catchy pop song and is now singing a love song.
‘Three . . .’
I have to clamp down hard on the urge to run like everyone else. I keep my position and put heavy-duty earplugs in my ears, leaving my noise-canceling headphones around my neck. I see others doing the same around the edges of the stage, the rafters, and the suspension cables.
‘Two . . .’
There are too many people rushing in the same direction. The hideout lattices we set up can only handle so many people below the bridge. It’s utter chaos, with everyone running and screaming.
‘One . . .’
As the crowd drains, they leave behind camouflaged gunmen who scramble into position.
A cloud of locusts swoops in from the mist faster than I expect in a flurry of stingers and teeth.
Locusts?
Where are the angels?
59
Shots blast into the locust swarm, but we might as well be shooting at the clouds for all the good it does. The locusts must have been attracted to the lights and sound that were meant for angels.
They’re landing on all fours around us. Gunfire shoots off everywhere as the ground crew kicks into action.
I pull out my knives just as a locust drops down from the sky in front of me. Its stinger looms over its head and jabs at me.
My arms automatically come up. I slice and stab. I’d give anything for Pooky Bear right now.
That thought makes me all the more vicious. I voluntarily gave Raffe his sword back.
I slice again.
The stinger whips out of the way of my blade.
The scorpion in front of me is doing its best to kill me. It’s moving its stinger so fast I have to wonder if it was a tap dancer in its previous life.
I’m drenched in sweat in seconds as I evade and try to fight at the same time. These little knives aren’t going to do anything but annoy it.
I spin to the side and give it my fastest side kick. My foot slams into its knee with a crunch.
The locust screeches and leans to the side as its knee breaks.
I bend low and swipe the other leg. The monster crashes down.
‘Stop!’ My sister runs to the middle of the bridge flanked by her pet locusts, yelling at everyone around her.
It’s a war zone with bullets zinging by, and she still runs out in the middle of all the chaos with her arms out. My legs almost give out at the sight of her.
‘Stop!’
I’m not sure who stops first – our fighters or the locusts – but both sides pause to look at her. Hope and wonder rise in me as I watch my sister stopping a bloody battle with just her conviction.
I don’t know what she would have done next, because a huge locust lands beside Paige.
The white streak in his hair is unmistakable and so is his demented anger. This time, Raffe isn’t here to intimidate him. He grabs Paige’s pet locust and lifts him into the air above him like a squirming baby.
‘No!’ Paige’s hands reach up like a little kid trying to get her ball back from a bully.
White Streak slams the smaller locust down against his knee, breaking the beast’s back with a snap.
‘No!’ Paige screams. Her crisscrossed face turns red, and the cords in her neck stand out.
White Streak tosses the broken locust onto the concrete. Ignoring my sister, he stalks around the broken beast.
The injured locust pulls itself forward by its hands. It tries to get away from White Streak, dragging its dead legs behind it.
White Streak is making a show of it, puffing up and standing tall for all to see as every scorpion-tailed monster watches. He clearly plans to show that he’s the king of the locusts and no one else can challenge him.
That means he’s going to have to kill Paige.
I sprint toward my sister, weaving through the spectators. Although the air boils with locusts, no one else is fighting on the bridge. Doc had warned them that some locusts might be on our side. Now no one seems sure what to do. Everyone on the bridge – locust and human – watches the drama unfold.