That's a lot of bloody tears.

Time was flowing in reverse. The 1st Wave knocked us back to the eighteenth century. The next two slammed us into the Neolithic.

We were hunter-gatherers again. Nomads. Bottom of the pyramid.

But we weren't ready to give up hope. Not yet.

There were still enough of us left to fight back.

We couldn't take them head-on, but we could fight a guerilla war. We could go all asymmetrical on their alien asses. We had enough guns and ammo and even some transport that survived the 1st Wave. Our militaries had been decimated, but there were still functional units on every continent. There were bunkers and caves and underground bases where we could hide for years. You be America, alien invaders, and we'll be Vietnam.

And the Others go, Yeah, okay, right.

We thought they had thrown everything at us-or at least the worst, because it was hard to imagine anything worse than the Red Death. Those of us who survived the 3rd Wave-the ones with a natural immunity to the disease-hunkered down and stocked up and waited for the People in Charge to tell us what to do. We knew somebody had to be in charge, because occasionally a fighter jet would scream across the sky and we heard what sounded like gun battles in the distance and the rumble of troop carriers just over the horizon.

I guess my family was luckier than most. The Fourth Horseman rode off with my mom, but Dad, Sammy, and I survived. Dad boasted about our superior genes. Not something you'd normally do, brag on top of an Everest of nearly seven billion dead people. Dad was just being Dad, trying to put the best spin he could on the eve of human extinction.

Most cities and towns were abandoned in the wake of the Red Tsunami. There was no electricity, no plumbing, the shops and stores had long since been looted of anything valuable. Raw sewage was an inch deep on some streets. Fires from summer lightning storms were common.

Then there was the problem of the bodies.

As in, they were everywhere. Houses, shelters, hospitals, apartments, office buildings, schools, churches and synagogues, and warehouses.

There's a tipping point when the sheer volume of death overwhelms you. You can't bury or burn the bodies fast enough. That summer of the Pestilence was brutally hot, and the stench of rotting flesh hung in the air like an invisible, noxious fog. We soaked strips of cloth in perfume and tied them over our mouths and noses, and by the end of the day the reek had soaked into the material and all you could do was sit there and gag.

Until-funny thing-you got used to it.

We waited out the 3rd Wave barricaded inside our house. Partly because there was a quarantine. Partly because some pretty whacked-out people roamed the streets, breaking into houses and setting fires, the whole murder, rape, and pillaging thing. Partly because we were scared out of our minds waiting for what might come next.

But mostly because Dad didn't want to leave Mom. She was too sick to travel, and he couldn't bring himself to abandon her.

She told him to go. Leave her behind. She was going to die anyway. It wasn't about her anymore. It was about me and Sammy. About keeping us safe. About the future and hanging on to the hope that tomorrow would be better than today.

Dad didn't argue. But he didn't leave her, either. He waited for the inevitable, keeping her as comfortable as possible, and looked at maps and made lists and gathered supplies. This was around the time the whole book-hoarding, we-have-to-rebuild-civilization kick started. On nights when the sky wasn't totally blanketed in smoke, we went into the backyard and took turns with my old telescope, watching the mothership sail majestically across the backdrop of the Milky Way. The stars were brighter now, brilliantly bright, without our man-made lights to dim them.

"What are they waiting for?" I would ask him. I was still expecting-like everybody else-the saucers and the mechanical walkers and the laser cannons. "Why don't they just get it over with?"

And Daddy would shake his head. "I don't know, pumpkin," he would say. "Maybe it is over. Maybe the goal isn't to kill all of us, just wean us down to a manageable number."

"And then what? What do they want?"

"I think the better question is what they need," he said gently, as if he were breaking some really bad news. "They're being very careful, you know."

"Careful?"

"To not damage it more than absolutely necessary. It's the reason they're here, Cassie. They need the Earth."

"But not us," I whispered. I was about to lose it-again. For about the trillionth time.

He put his hand on my shoulder-for about the trillionth time-and said, "Well, we had our shot. And we weren't handling our inheritance very well. I bet if we could somehow go back and interview the dinosaurs before the asteroid struck..."

That's when I punched him as hard as I could. Ran inside.

I don't know which is worse, inside or outside. Outside you feel totally exposed, constantly watched, naked beneath the naked sky. But inside it's perpetual twilight. Boarded-up windows that block out the sun during the day. Candles at night, but we're running low on candles, can't spare more than one per room, and deep shadows lurk in once-familiar corners.

"What is it, Cassie?" Sammy. Five. Adorable. Big brown teddy-bear eyes, clutching the other member of the family with big brown eyes, the stuffed one I now have stowed in the bottom of my backpack.

"Why are you crying?"

Seeing my tears got his started.

I brushed past him, headed for the room of the sixteen-year-old human dinosaur, Cassiopeia Sullivanus extinctus. Then I went back to him. I couldn't leave him crying like that. We'd gotten pretty tight since Mom got sick. Nearly every night bad dreams chased him into my room, and he'd crawl in bed with me and press his face against my chest, and sometimes he forgot and called me Mommy.

"Did you see them, Cassie? Are they coming?"

"No, kiddo," I said, wiping away his tears. "No one's coming."

Not yet.

11.

MOM DIED ON A TUESDAY.

Dad buried her in the backyard, in the rose bed. She had asked for that before she died. At the height of the Pestilence, when hundreds were dying every day, most of the bodies were hauled to the outskirts and burned. Dying towns were ringed by the constantly smoldering bonfires of the dead.

He told me to stay with Sammy. Sammy, who'd gone zombielike on us, shuffling around, mouth hanging open or sucking his thumb like he was two again, with this blankness in his teddy-bear eyes. Just a few months ago, Mom was pushing him on a swing, taking him to karate classes, washing his hair, dancing with him to his favorite song. Now she was wrapped in a white sheet and riding on his daddy's shoulder into the backyard.

I saw Dad through the kitchen window kneeling by the shallow grave. His head was down. Shoulders jerking. I'd never seen him lose it, not once, since the Arrival. Things kept getting worse, and just when you thought they couldn't get any worse, they got even worse, but Dad never freaked. Even when Mom started showing the first signs of infection, he stayed calm, especially in front of her. He didn't talk about what was happening outside the barricaded doors and windows. He laid wet cloths over her forehead. He bathed her, changed her, fed her. Not once did I see him cry in front of her. While some people were shooting themselves and hanging themselves and swallowing handfuls of pills and jumping from high places, Dad pushed back against the darkness.

He sang to her and repeated stupid jokes she'd heard a thousand times, and he lied. He lied the way a parent lies to you, the good lie that helps you go to sleep.

"Heard another plane today. Sounded like a fighter. Means some of our stuff must have made it through."

"Your fever's down a bit, and your eyes look clearer today. Maybe this isn't it. Might just be your garden-variety flu."

In the final hours, wiping away her bloody tears.

Holding her while she barfed up the black, viral stew her stomach had become.

Bringing me and Sammy into the room to say good-bye.

"It's all right," she told Sammy. "Everything is going to be all right."

To me she said, "He needs you now, Cassie. Take care of him. Take care of your father."

I told her she was going to get better. Some people did. They got sick, and then suddenly the virus let go. Nobody understood why. Maybe it decided it didn't like the way you tasted. And I didn't say she was going to get better to ease her fear. I really believed it. I had to believe it.

"You're all they have," Mom said. Her last words to me.

The mind was the last thing to go, washed away in the red waters of the Tsunami. The virus took total control. Some people went into a frenzy as it boiled their brains. They punched, clawed, kicked, bit. Like the virus that needed us also hated us and couldn't wait to get rid of us.

My mother looked at my dad and didn't know him. Didn't know where she was. Who she was. What was happening to her. There was this, like, permanent, creepy smile, cracked lips pulled back from bleeding gums, her teeth stained with blood. Sounds came out of her mouth, but they weren't words. The place in her brain that made words was packed with virus, and the virus didn't know language-it knew only how to make more of itself.

And then my mother died in a fury of jerks and gargled screams, her uninvited guests rocketing out of every orifice, because she was done, they'd used her up, time to turn off the lights and find a new home.

Dad bathed her one last time. Combed her hair. Scrubbed the dried blood from her teeth. When he came to tell me she was gone, he was calm. He didn't lose it. He held me while I lost it.

Now I was watching him through the kitchen window. Kneeling beside her in the rose bed, thinking no one could see him, my father let go of the rope he'd been clinging to, loosened the line that had kept him steady all that time while everyone around him went into free fall.

I made sure Sammy was okay and went outside. I sat next to him. Put my hand on his shoulder. The last time I'd touched my father, it was a lot harder and with my fist. I didn't say anything, and he didn't, either, not for a long time.

He slipped something into my hand. Mom's wedding ring. He said she'd want me to have it.

"We're leaving, Cassie. Tomorrow morning."

I nodded. I knew she was the only reason we hadn't left yet. The delicate stems on the roses bobbed and swayed, as if echoing my nod. "Where are we going?"

"Away." He looked around, and his eyes were wide and frightened. "It isn't safe anymore."

Duh, I thought. When was it ever?

"Wright-Patterson Air Force Base is just over a hundred miles from here. If we push and the weather stays good, we can be there in five or six days."

"And then what?" The Others had conditioned us to think this way: Okay, this, and then what? I looked to my father to tell me. He was the smartest man I knew. If he didn't have an answer, there was no one who did. I sure didn't. And I sure wanted him to. I needed him to.

He shook his head like he didn't understand the question.

"What's at Wright-Patterson?" I asked.

"I don't know that anything's there." He tried out a smile and grimaced, like smiling hurt.

"Then why are we going?"

"Because we can't stay here," he said through gritted teeth. "And if we can't stay here, we have to go somewhere. If there's anything like a government left at all..."

He shook his head. He hadn't come outside for this. He had come outside to bury his wife.

"Go inside, Cassie."

"I'll help you."

"I don't need your help."

"She's my mother. I loved her, too. Please let me help." I was crying again. He didn't see. He wasn't looking at me, and he wasn't looking at Mom. He wasn't looking at anything, really. There was, like, this black hole where the world used to be, and we were both falling toward it. What could we hold on to? I pulled his hand off Mom's body and pressed it against my cheek and told him I loved him and that Mom loved him and that everything would be okay, and the black hole lost a little of its strength.

"Go inside, Cassie," he said gently. "Sammy needs you more than she does."

I went inside. Sammy was sitting on the floor in his room, playing with his X-wing starfighter, destroying the Death Star. "Shroooooom, shroooooom. I'm going in, Red One!"

And outside, my father knelt in the freshly turned earth. Brown dirt, red rose, gray sky, white sheet.

12.

I GUESS I have to talk about Sammy now.

I don't know how else to get there.

There being that first inch in the open, where the sunlight kissed my scraped-up cheek when I slid out from under the Buick. That first inch was the hardest. The longest inch in the universe. The inch that stretched a thousand miles.

There being that place on the highway where I turned to face the enemy I couldn't see.

There being the one thing that's kept me from going completely crazy, the thing the Others haven't been able to take from me after taking everything from me.

Sammy is the reason I didn't give up. Why I didn't stay beneath that car and wait for the end.

The last time I saw him was through the back window of a school bus. His forehead pressing against the glass. Waving at me. And smiling. Like he was going on a field trip: excited, nervous, not scared at all. Being with all those other kids helped. And the school bus, which was so normal. What's more everyday than a big, yellow school bus? So ordinary, in fact, that the sight of them pulling into the refugee camp after the last four months of horror was shocking. It was like seeing a McDonald's on the moon. Totally weird and crazy and something that just shouldn't be.

We'd been in the camp only a couple of weeks. Of the fifty or so people there, ours was the only family. Everybody else was a widow, a widower, an orphan. The last ones standing in their family, strangers before coming to the camp. The oldest was probably in his sixties. Sammy was the youngest, but there were seven other kids, none except me older than fourteen.

The camp lay twenty miles east of where we lived, hacked out of the woods during the 3rd Wave to build a field hospital after the ones in town had reached full capacity. The buildings were slapped together, made out of hand-sawed lumber and salvaged tin, one main ward for the infected and a smaller shack for the two doctors who tended the dying before they, too, were sucked down by the Red Tsunami. There was a summer garden and a system that captured rainwater for washing and bathing and drinking.

We ate and slept in the big building. Between five and six hundred people had bled out in there, but the floor and walls had been bleached and the cots they died on had been burned. It still smelled faintly of the Pestilence (a little like soured milk), and the bleach hadn't removed all the bloodstains. There were patterns of tiny spots covering the walls and long, sickle-shaped stains on the floor. It was like living in a 3-D abstract painting.

The shack was a combination storehouse and weapons cache. Canned vegetables, packaged meats, dry goods, and staples, like salt. Shotguns, pistols, semiautomatics, even a couple of flare guns. Every man walked around armed to the teeth; it was the Wild West all over again.

A shallow pit had been dug a few hundred yards into the woods behind the compound. The pit was for burning bodies. We weren't allowed to go back there, so of course me and some of the older kids did. There was this one creep they called Crisco, I guess because of his long, greased-back hair. Crisco was thirteen and a trophy hunter. He'd actually wade into the ashes to scavenge for jewelry and coins and anything else he might find valuable or "interesting." He swore he didn't do it because he was a sicko.

"This is the difference now," he would say, chortling, sorting through his latest haul with crud-encrusted fingernails, his hands gloved in the gray dust of human remains.

The difference between what?

"Between being the Man or not. The barter system is back, baby!" Holding up a diamond necklace. "And when it's all over except for the shouting, the people with the good stuff are going to call the shots."