“Tomorrow,” Sherry finally said, “we go east. There’s a rumor about a library. Not books. Seeds. A seed vault.”
Sherry smiled. It didn’t reach her eyes. “All we have left.”
“Please,” he gurgled. “I have kids.”
The rain over the dead city tasted like tin and old pennies. Sherry had stopped trying to remember its real name three winters ago. Now, it was simply The Hollow—a graveyard of shattered highways and glass-toothed towers that clawed at a sky the color of a bruise.
She stood, adjusted her red bow, and helped the other two to their feet. Three schoolgirls in a dead church. The last pack of a broken world.