Emilia’s voice pierces the night like a deathhawk through the clouds, shrill and jarring. We scramble to our feet; Ragers will have heard her from miles away. Topi swears.
“She’s trying to kill us,” he grumbles. “We have to go back.”
If we let her carry on screaming, the Ragers will flock to the sound of her voice. She knows this. She’s doing it on purpose to attract our attention.
We find her cradling Miro in one of the small warehouses. His shirt is soaked with blood from a wound in his chest. He was caught.
“Please. You can help him. You have to help him,” Emilia blubs.
Miro’s skin is pale and he can’t breathe properly. His fingers keep curling into fists, flexing and relaxing. He’s infected. I know it. Topi knows it. Deep down, Emilia knows it too.
“Are you hurt, Mili?”
She shakes her head. “Just Miro. Please. Help him!”
“Okay. But I need some space. Step outside with Topi. Get some air. It will help you, I promise.”
“No. I can’t leave him! You’ll—”
Topi puts his hand on her shoulder. “I think it’s for the best, Mili. She works better on her own.”
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