Excerpt

Prologue: Flowers for a Funeral

A light rain falls.

Autumn leaves shuffle across the ground, blown to one side by the wind. Flickers of yellow, red, and orange hide the mud and sludge on the track leading to the farm.

Gravel crunches softly beneath combat boots. Soldiers move in single file. Gloved fingers are substituted for words. Short, sharp hand signals direct the approach along the hedgerow. The squad takes up various positions on either side of a closed wooden door on an old stone building.

Once, soldiers fought for their country. Now, they fight for humanity as a whole. On the right shoulder of each soldier, there's a circular badge with the image of Earth as seen from above the North Pole. The caption under the badge reads, United Nations Reaction Force. Beneath that, their respective flags and an embroidered name are proudly displayed: United Kingdom, France, Germany, Benin, Egypt, Nigeria, and Gabon.

The soldiers are nervous. With their backs pressed hard against the crumbling wall, they prepare themselves for an enemy unlike anything ever seen on Earth.

"Keep your eyes peeled for mimics," the sergeant whispers through a throat mic wrapped around his neck. "Duplicates. Identify, but don't touch. Do not engage."

"Copy that," Crosby says. He's on point for the evacuation. He shoulders his M4 and draws a pistol, holding it up near his face. The barrel points at the dark grey sky. He's nervous. His hands are shaking.

"Go," the sergeant says, backing up beside a horse-drawn cart and taking cover. He's expecting the worst.

Without moving from where he is beside the house, Crosby reaches out and wraps his knuckles in the middle of the door. In a firm voice, he calls out, "UN Evacuation Team. Is anybody in there?"

There's no answer.

"UN Evacuation Team. We have confirmation of active heat signatures inside. We're here for your safety. You must evacuate!"

The soldiers wait, but only Crosby and the sergeant are watching the door. The other squad members have fanned out, checking the various approaches to the farmhouse on the edge of the bombed-out village. One of the soldiers crouches on a padded knee, peering through the scope on his M4, looking further along the track. Another has slipped around the corner, watching for anything approaching them from across the muddy fields. The others have taken up covering-fire positions near the road. Rifle barrels bristle outward like the quills of a porcupine.

The sergeant nods.

Crosby tries the door handle. Unlocked. He swings the door open and pivots with his gun out, pointing the way. He checks both directions, whispering into his throat mic.

"Left: Coat rack. Red jacket. Small. For a child. Scarf on the shelf.

"Right: Gumboots. Three pairs. Identical."

The sergeant replies, "Copy that."

The power is off inside the house. A targeting flashlight set beneath the barrel of his gun provides Crosby with a beam of clarity in the gloomy half-light. His heart races as he steps into the stone house. Outside, the rest of the squad listens in silence.

Crosby creeps down the hallway. Floorboards creak beneath his boots.

The sergeant comes up behind him, following him inside. Unlike Crosby, he's opted for his M4 in the close-quarter confines of the old stone building.

"UN Evac Team," Crosby says, continuing to make his presence known.

Sweat breaks out on his brow in the cold. Moving on instinct, he scans each item down the barrel of his pistol, talking the team through what he sees. A thin beam of light dances over various items as he catalogs possible threats.

"Kitchen: Dog bowl on the floor. One, two, three of them. Only one has food. The others are empty. On the bench, two chopping boards. One clean. There's a large stack of plates beside the fridge. Kettles. Three. Identical. Only one with a power cord."

"Copy that," the sergeant whispers, coming up behind him. "Sanders, get on the horn. Let Archangel know we have an active nest. I need confirmation on the infrared heat count for this place. Is that bird still in the air?"

Crosby creeps on, walking slowly through the old house.

"Dining room: I make eleven chairs jammed in here. The table's in the corner. It's pressed hard against the wall and the window. At best, it would fit three or four chairs."

To get past, Crosby has to shuffle sideways, pressing his back against the wall. He draws his stomach in, making sure he's not going to touch any of the chairs as he moves toward the rear of the house. He keeps one gloved hand on the barrel of the M4 slung over his shoulder so it doesn't bump any of the chair backs.

On reaching the hallway, Crosby turns. The sergeant is no longer behind him. He's still in the kitchen, paralyzed with fear, looking at all the goddamn chairs. The sergeant is heavy-set, being bigger and more muscular than Crosby. With all his equipment, there's no way he'd make it through the gap between the chairs and the wall.

"I can't do this," the sergeant says. He holds out his hand. His fingers are shaking like leaves in a storm. "Pull back."

Crosby crouches in the far hall, taking a good look at the chairs between them. Outside, the sun is low in the sky. It's broken through the clouds, casting long shadows over the countryside. Sunlight comes in through the windows, catching the chair backs. The wood glistens as though it's been polished with oil. A rainbow-like sheen reflects off all but the three chairs pushed into the table. The sunlight seems to ripple before him. The effect is subtle, like watching waves of heat rising off a concrete road on a hot day.

Over the headset, Sanders says, "Archangel reports the infrared imagery is twelve minutes old. Two survivors. They could see us coming down the track toward them."

"We do not have survivors. Repeat. No survivors," the sergeant says.

"There are no bodies," Crosby says. "They could still be here—hiding."

"There's been no response," the sergeant replies. "We need to get the fuck out of here while we still can."

"I'm good to continue," Crosby says. "I'll check the bedrooms."

The sergeant looks down at his boots. His lips pull tight. He clenches his jaw, but eventually, he nods.

Crosby uses his handgun to push open the next door.

"Study: Two landscape paintings on the far wall. Identical. Desk by the window. Five fountain pens lying side by side. Identical."

"Stay sharp," the sergeant says, although Crosby needs no prompting on that point.

"I—I—I have a body in here. A skeleton. It's in a chair by the bookcase. The bones. They're green. It's as though moss has grown on them."

"And the chair?" the sergeant asks.

"Two chairs," Crosby replies, composing himself and focusing on his task. "Identical. One with a skeleton."

The sergeant growls, "Don't touch nothing!"

"Copy that," Crosby replies, backing out into the hallway.

The next room is a young girl's bedroom. Pretty pink curtains adorn the window. The door is wide open, allowing him to peer inside without stepping onto the carpet. Crosby is about to rattle off what he sees when Sanders comes over the radio.

"Archangel says we have grubs swarming two miles east. Recommend we pull back to the road."

"Wait," Crosby says, already in front of the next bedroom door. "I hear something."

The sergeant says, "What you're hearing is goddamn grubs stripping someone to the bone. Get out of there! Now!"

Crosby ignores him.

"Bedroom two: Lego scattered on the floor. Too much Lego. Unable to spot duplicates."

"Pull back," the sergeant says. "That's an order!"

Crosby continues inching the door open with his boot.

"Bed. One. Picture book. One. Child. I have a child."

"Jesus," the sergeant says, and Crosby can hear the emotion in his voice, longing for release.

Crosby holsters his handgun, turning off the flashlight. "Hey there, little fella. What's your name?"

A boy of four or five stares up at the soldier.

"I'm a friend, okay?" Crosby says. He's aware his appearance must be unsettling. The last thing he wants is for the child to panic and run. "Ah, your folks sent me. Mom and Dad. They said, Hey, Crosby, why don't you go in there and play with the little fella? That's it. Mom and Dad said I should come and play with you. Is that okay?"

Crosby steps over the Lego, taking care with the placement of his boots so he doesn't touch any of the small pieces.

"Mom said you like soldiers. If you come with me, I'll introduce you to my friends. They're soldiers too."

The boy ignores his comments and returns to playing with his toys. He mimics the sound of an engine running, making a broom-broom noise with the rattle of his lips. He's lying on his belly in front of his bed, resting on his elbows with his legs behind him, tapping them against the mattress. He straightens a row of Matchbox cars in front of him.

"You like cars?" Crosby asks, holding his gloved hands out and gesturing for the boy to stay still. "Me too."

"Threat assessment," the sergeant says in his ear.

"Lego," Crosby whispers. "The goddamn Lego is everywhere. So many identical pieces. Ah, he's playing with a fire engine, an ambulance, a white van, and a Ferrari. A red Ferrari. There are two red Ferraris."

"For God's sake," the sergeant says. "Don't let him touch that Ferrari!"

"Easy," Crosby says, feeling as though he's walking in a minefield. "Listen, little guy. We need to go now. Okay? But we're going to leave the cars behind. Okay?"

Crosby points at the two Ferraris off to the child's left. The boy looks at them and reaches out with his tiny fingers.

"No," Crosby snaps, on the verge of yelling but not wanting to scare the boy. Were the boy to run from the room, he could stand on grubs impersonating his Lego or bump into the chairs in the dining room and—whoosh. It would all be over in a heartbeat. Grubs can strip a cow to the bone in seconds. Crosby's seen them in action. Once. He has no desire to see it again. Not with a human. Not with a child.

The boy rests his hand on the nearest Ferrari.

Crosby holds his breath. His fingers are inches away from the boy's arm.

The boy drags his Matchbox cars closer, leaving the duplicate Ferrari alone on the carpet.

Crosby gestures at the lone Ferrari, and the boy dips his head. He bites his lip but doesn't say anything. His eyes dart between the strange toy and the soldier. It seems he's curious what Crosby's going to do with it.

"That one," Crosby says, feeling nervous. He points a gloved finger. "We don't touch that one, do we?"

The boy shakes his head.

"Crosby," Sanders says from somewhere outside, coming in too loud over the earpiece. "Archangel says there are three people there. Janette Soulazu and her two children. Josh, aged three and Amelia, aged seven."

"Copy that," Crosby says. "Does anyone have eyes on Amelia?"

"Negative."

"Come here, Josh," Crosby says, swinging his M4 down from his shoulder and onto the carpet. He leaves it there, abandoning it. He has no doubt there will be two M4s within a few hours, but he can't carry both it and the boy. The chance of bumping into something is too great. Crosby reaches out and lifts Josh onto his hip. The boy clutches his fire engine in one hand and an ambulance in the other.

Crosby steps back into the hallway. It's only now that he notices a vase has been knocked over. Water has soaked into the carpet.

"I have cut flowers on the ground."

"Flowers?" the sergeant asks, confused by the comment.

"A couple of roses. A carnation. They've been dropped in a row, forming a trail leading to the side door."

"Copy that," the sergeant says. "Hold until we reposition… Squad—on me. Relocate to the east door."

"Negative. Negative," Sanders replies over the radio. "Archangel says we have grubs inbound. They're full-size. We've got walkers!"

The sergeant says, "Crosby, pull back. Take cover. We'll wait them out."

Crosby doesn't reply. He can't. He can see a young girl outside. She's skipping on the cobblestones between the farmhouse and the barn. Her dress is wet, but she doesn't seem to care. She's got a bunch of flowers in her hand, swinging them around as she dances to a tune no one can hear. He steps forward. He has to help.

"I have eyes on," he says, creeping toward the door with Josh on his hip.

"Stand down," the sergeant says. "We have a walker overhead. That fucker is too close for air support."

Crosby positions himself by the open door. He leans against the jamb. He's a soldier. He's supposed to obey. He needs to obey, but he can't.

"Amelia," he says, beckoning for her to come to him.

The girl stops twirling and looks at the soldier as if she's seen a ghost.

"It's okay," he says, adjusting Josh a little higher on his hip. "I'm a friend. Look. Me and Josh. We're friends. I'm your friend, too. Come. Come here."

A shadow blots out the sun.

Pincer-like feet stab at the sodden ground. They're long and thin, cutting into the soil like steel girders falling from a building. An alien walker looms high over the cottage.

There's a wooden cart near the barn. It's identical to the one by the main door. Over the course of a few seconds, it dissolves. Crosby's never seen grubs on the move before. Normally, they lie in wait to ambush their prey. The wooden planks that make up the sides of the cart melt, oozing toward the cobblestones.

"Quick," he says to Amelia.

The steel rims on the cart wheels look as though they're covered in millions of ants swarming down onto the cobblestones. Another pincer strikes from somewhere out of sight in the sky above them, landing between Amelia and the cart. She turns, seeing it. She's frozen in fear.

The wooden spokes at the heart of the wheels sag under the weight of the cart as it collapses to the mud. It melts as though it were made of wax. Like soldier ants in the jungle, the tiny grubs that once made up the cart rush to the pincer, joining it.

"Please," Crosby says, pleading with her as his heart threatens to beat out of his chest. He's outside on the landing, with one hand clinging to the door frame, not wanting to leave the relative safety of a house infected with deadly mimics. Josh clings to him. He's dropped his toys. His grip tightens on the soldier. He moans, burying his head into Crosby's chest.

"Amelia!" Crosby yells, no longer fearing for his own life.

From where he is, Crosby can't see the body of the walker as it towers over the house. Legs stab at the ground as the spider-like creature positions itself in front of Amelia. Its flesh is pale and grey, like that of a rotting corpse.

A grotesque head lowers. Rain drips from its jaw. Dark, compound eyes stare at the young girl, examining her.

Amelia holds up her flowers. Her shoes slip on the wet cobblestones. She struggles to keep her balance. She's on tiptoes with her right arm outstretched above her.

A pincer approaches from the side. Although it's thick and cumbersome, the fine tip separates, taking the flowers from her without severing the stalks. The head of the creature recedes, disappearing above the house. The spider-walker continues on, carrying the flowers in one of its smaller claws, holding them up close to its mouth.

Crosby rushes over to Amelia. He crouches beside her on the muddy cobblestones, checking her for injuries. She stands still, watching as the walker steps over the trees of a nearby forest. She's shaking. Crosby rests his arm around her shoulder, comforting her as the walker disappears into the gloom, leaving nothing but questions in his mind.