Hard, diagonal sheets of water hammered the asphalt of the Norchester Bridge. It wasn’t normal rain. It was thick, oily, and smelled of ozone—the atmosphere weeping under the stress of the alien signal.

  Frankie Rivera walked into the storm.

  The water slicked her red leather jacket, turning it into a gleaming crimson shell. She didn’t blink against the downpour. She stared at the silver convertible trapped in the sea of gray bodies, fifty yards ahead.

  Three minutes, her internal clock ticked. Calculating velocity. Calculating resistance.

  To her left, Leilani moved with a limp, sheltering behind the rusted hulk of an abandoned sedan. She held a pneumatic framing nailer connected to a portable air tank strapped to her back.

  To her right, Ted crouched behind a toll booth barrier, clutching an identical modified tool.

  “Line in the sand,” Frankie barked. Her voice cut through the wind, deep and louder than the wind.

  Behind them, Dee Dee ran in a crouch, pouring a heavy, shimmering dust from a canvas sack onto the wet road. Silver filings. Shredded coins. A conductive barrier to prevent the horde from circling back to the van.

  “Set,” Dee Dee yelled, scrambling back to the safety of the toll booth.

  The path Daria had opened was closing. The drones were twitching, the hive mind overriding the command to wait.

  A drone—the high school principal, wearing a tattered suit—stepped out of the line. His jaw hung loose. Blue light leaked from his mouth.

  He hissed.

  “Engage,” Frankie commanded.

  Leilani fired.

  KA-CHUNK.

  The nail gun coughed. A silver roofing nail, filed to a needle point, hit the principal in the knee.

  PFFT.

  The silver grounded the bio-electric current holding his atoms together. Blue lightning arced up his leg. He convulsed, his limbs dissolving into gray sludge before he hit the ground.

  “It works!” Ted shouted. “Eat hardware, you freaks!”

  Ted popped up and pulled the trigger. KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK-KA-CHUNK.

  He sprayed nails wildly. Most hit the pavement, sparking. One hit a drone in the shoulder. It shrieked and exploded in a shower of sparks.

  The horde roared.

  The roar hit them. A wall of noise that shook the suspension cables overhead.

  They charged.

  Frankie didn’t flinch.

  She accelerated.

  She pushed off her back foot, the asphalt cracking under her boot. She exploded into motion, a red blur cutting through the rain.

  She met the waves.

  The first drone, a massive dockworker, swung a lead pipe at her head.

  The pipe moved in slow motion. Rust flaked off the metal. Raindrops exploded against the iron.

  She ducked and flowed under the swing. She came up inside his guard.

  She drove her fist into the chest.

  She wasn’t wearing the silver charm anymore. She didn’t need it. Her fist, moving so fast that the drones seemed to stand still, struck with enough force to shatter stone.

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  CRUNCH.

  Her hand punched through his ribcage. Gray sludge sprayed over her red leather. She grabbed his spine and ripped it out.

  The drone collapsed.

  Frankie tossed the spine aside and spun.

  A second drone lunged. Frankie caught his throat. She squeezed. His neck snapped with a sharp, wet crack.

  Target. Eliminate. Next.

  She used to hate the sound of bones breaking. Now, it was just data. Sound of success.

  She carved a path through the mob.

  To her flanks, the nail guns hissed.

  KA-CHUNK. Zap. Boom.

  Each shot Leilani took dropped a drone. Leilani fired. Pump. Fire. Pump. Fire. She didn’t blink. She watched the edges. Anything that moved died. Her gaze patrolled Frankie’s sides, a silent prediction of any creature daring to break formation and threaten her charging daughter. Her shotgun didn’t fire to attack, but firing to protect. Keeping them back, a guarantee that no stray talon would breach the frantic, black blur of Frankie’s defense.

  Ted was screaming—a continuous, high-pitched war cry—but he kept firing.

  Frankie reached the halfway point.

  The silver convertible was close now.

  Tasia Moreno huddled in the driver’s seat. Someone had slashed the canvas top of the car open. Rain poured in, soaking the expensive leather interior.

  Tasia held her phone up, livestreaming her own death. Mascara streaked down her terrified face.

  A drone climbed onto the hood of the car. A cheerleader in a torn uniform, pompoms of blue light swirling in her eyes. She crawled toward the windshield, claws scratching the glass.

  Tasia screamed.

  Frankie jumped.

  She cleared ten feet of air, landing on the trunk of the convertible. The suspension groaned.

  The cheerleader drone looked up, hissing.

  Frankie grabbed the drone by the hair and waistband.

  She hoisted the drone over her head.

  “Going down,” Frankie murmured.

  She hurled the drone.

  The cheerleader sailed off the side of the bridge, plummeting into the black water.

  Frankie hopped down, landing on the hood. She stood there, rain streaming off her leather armor, peering through the windshield at Tasia.

  Tasia lowered her phone. Her hands were shaking so hard she almost dropped it.

  She looked at Frankie.

  Tasia’s eyes widened, no longer looking at the quiet girl from English Lit.

  And then Frankie smiled.

  She showed her teeth.

  Canines extended. Razor-sharp needles.

  Her eyes flashed. The gray storm clouds parted, revealing a core of burning red.

  Tasia screamed.

  “You’re a monster!” Tasia shrieked, scrambling backward into the passenger seat, kicking at the dashboard. “Get away from me!”

  Frankie tilted her head.

  Monster.

  The word meant nothing. It was a label. Words didn’t matter.

  “I am the predator,” Frankie corrected, tapping the glass.

  A drone slammed against the driver’s side door, shattering the window. Glass sprayed over Tasia.

  The drone—a mechanic with a wrench fused to his hand—reached in, grabbing Tasia’s arm.

  “No! Help!” Tasia wailed, trying to pull away.

  Frankie moved.

  She reached through the broken window, past Tasia.

  She grabbed the drone’s face.

  She dug her fingers into the gray flesh. She pushed.

  She shoved the drone backward, smashing his head into the steel guardrail of the bridge.

  SPLAT.

  The head exploded. Gray sludge coated the railing.

  Frankie pulled her hand back. She wiped the slime on her pants.

  She studied Tasia again.

  Tasia was hyperventilating, staring at the headless body draped over her car door, then back at Frankie.

  Tasia understood.

  The monster wasn’t eating her.

  The monster was cleaning the windshield.

  “Stay in the car,” Frankie commanded.

  She turned away.

  Tasia wasn’t the objective. She was a cleared obstacle.

  Frankie scanned the bridge.

  The path was open to the end.

  And there, standing in the wreckage, waiting under the glow of the lightning, was Daria.

  The Queen radiated the signal, the surrounding air distorted.

  Frankie stepped off the hood of the car. Her boots hit the wet asphalt with a heavy thud.

  “Mom,” Frankie spoke into her headset—a burner phone taped to her shoulder. “Cover Tasia. I’m going to the end.”

  “Copy,” Leilani’s voice crackled, breathless but steady. “Give ‘em hell, baby.”

  Frankie didn’t answer.

  She sprinted.

  Toward the Queen. Toward the bomb. Toward the silence.