Chapter 83.
There are just two tables set tonight in the dining room.
Six at one, five at the other.
Eleven guests in all.
Alek looks around at faces she knows too well now—faces she’s seen terrified, bleeding, shaking, stubborn, brave. Seated at these tables are the last ones standing:
Jack McHenry. Army Ranger. Just survived another war, even if something in him looks cracked.
Hannah Wagner. The teenage prodigy from Germany who cheated death twice now. First in Antarctica, then in the bomb shelter. Too young for this, too smart to pretend it’s fine.
Wyatt Jordan. The New York City teenager growing up by force. He’d confided in Alek on their way out of the war zone that he’d never experienced the real world, not really, until now.
Carlos Lopez. The Colombian who called himself a businessman, but someone saw as a dangerous thug. Always watching. Always calculating.
Ant Tipton. A storm in human form. The former Royal Marine from Great Britain whom Alek saw as one word: dangerous.
Marcelo Oliveira. The Jiu-Jitsu champ whose physical skills and athletic character are now being tested on a daily basis.
Lin Zhi. The gymnast who talked openly about missing his twin brother, who’d gone home early. And was starting to question whether he still belonged here, as well.
Fumio Hase. The politician who doesn’t flinch. Once the boy-wonder governor of Tokyo at the age of thirty-two.
Logan Bergeron, player #61. He had spotted the grenade first as it came rolling into the lobby of the hospital. Not only had he reacted quickly enough to get out of the way, he had somehow carried the nurse closest to him to safety.
Gabrielle Fontaine, player #55. The French swimmer who was still more openly hostile to The Host than any of them. But still here.
One of the eleven.
Alek says softly to Gabrielle, “Sometimes I think they’re trying to kill us all.”
“Well, not all, Ms. Andrich,” Alek hears from behind her.
The Host. Himself.
He has made another unexpected entrance, striding confidently into the dining room. He strides in like he owns the place. Like he owns the air. Like he can’t imagine a world where someone says no to him.
A waiter appears on cue and hands him a glass of wine. The silver-haired man raises it.
“You’ve already eaten,” he says. “So let’s drink and be merry, shall we?”
He smiles and adds, “For tomorrow more of you die.”