Page 15 of Storm Caller

“What will they do?” I ask.

“They’ll attack anyone they encounter,” he says. “They’re stronger than you can imagine. Faster, too.”

I study the slowly moving line of Keepers, finding that hard to believe.

But then one at the front moves. One moment, he’s shambling in the distance, and the next, he’s standing right in front of a line of the camp’s soldiers. He reaches out and snags a man around the throat.

“Skies,” I whisper as the Keeper lifts the man, his feet flailing as he tries to kick away. More Keepers have closed in, swarming the soldiers as the man continues to struggle against the fist closing off his windpipe.

“He’s dying!” I shout. “We have to help him.”

I make a move to run, but Rook tugs me back. “You can’t help him,” he says. “We have to hide now!”

But I can’t seem to tear myself away from the sight. A fight has broken out. The Keepers are strong and move so fast. Their lips pull back to expose their teeth. They’re ferocious, knocking everyone over like rag dolls.

It’s a horrifying sight, made even more so when I realize that they don’t make a sound. Their mouths open and close, but nothing comes out.

Whispers. The Silence.

I shiver again, turning numb from head to toe.

Explosions break through the atmosphere, echoing blasts that crack against the fight and the rumbling storm. A Keeper goes down, clutching his knee, his mouth stretched into a silent scream as blood spurts from a wound in his leg.

“What happened?” I ask. “What was that sound?”

“Guns,” Rook explains. “Filled with bullets. They’re like stunners, but different.”

Right. Now I remember. I’ve seen photos of them from the Warming Age, but evidence of their existence in New Manhattan is rare.

“He’s bleeding,” I say, stating the obvious, but I think I’m going into shock.

Rook guides me to the edge of a building to conceal us. More fighting has broken out as the Keepers advance. I notice the camp’s soldiers aren’t trying to kill them, only disarm them and slow them down. A man presses a knee to the back of a Keeper lying face down on the ground before someone else swoops in to tie his hands and feet together.

“Why are they tying him up?”

Rook huffs out a pained sigh. “Whispers can’t help what they are,” he says. “We do our best to avoid killing any of them. Not while there’s still a chance for a cure.”

“A cure,” I shout, more questions piling up. “What do you mean?”

“Poet, we should get to a bunker. I’ll explain—”

“You’ll explain everything later,” I say dryly. “Right. Of course.”

He gives me a tight-lipped smile. A cloudburst splits above us as the sky glows with plumes of bright amethyst. Another jagged branch of Spark hits the earth, right near the fighting, sending everyone scattering.

“Poet, we can’t let them see us. Let’s go.”

“Why not? Don’t they know what you are? That you’re something else?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“But what—”

“Come on.” He takes my hand, refusing to take no for an answer this time. He virtually drags me toward the far edge of the camp. We weave through buildings and tents, where almost everyone either has escaped underground or is busy manning the perimeter.

We pass a few more closed hatches before coming to one at the very edge, right next to the glowing electric fence. Rook drops to a knee and fiddles with the latch while I focus on the distant treeline. More Keepers—Whispers—emerge, covered in dirt and blood. The fence crackles with energy, fizzing and popping.

Rook grunts, tugging at the handle, then says, “It’s stuck.”