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ever ran against him. My dad said nobody else wanted the job, but my mom wasn’t so sure—­she thought maybe if someone else did try to run for mayor, that person would get a friendly warning in the night, and then a not-­so-­friendly visit from the bodyguards if the potential candidate didn’t withdraw his or her name. Foster was a big guy. He’d been big through the shoulders when I was younger, but his age was starting to melt the muscles off him. During the crisis, twenty years ago, supposedly he’d been in charge of one of the refugee shelters where ­people hid from the zombies, and he had a bad scar on one palm where they said he’d been shot by a looter, the bullet passing right through his hand. It always felt weird and rough when he shook your hand, which he did every time he talked to you. He took mine now and pumped it a ­couple of times, and then he turned and waved at the crowd. Maybe he was expecting them to cheer. Instead they just all looked impatient and like they wanted to see the lobster.
    â€œIf we had any butter, I’d buy that thing off you, kid,” Foster said. A ­couple ­people in the crowd laughed at that. I didn’t understand what he meant. “I guess you and your folks are eating good tonight. Any chance of an invite to dinner?”
    I just shrugged and tried to press through the mass of bodies, intending to get inside before the lobster died in my bucket. You’re not supposed to eat dead crabs, and I figured the same rule applied to lobsters.
    â€œThis is a big day,” Mayor Foster announced, and his bodyguards nodded vigorously. “It goes to show how things are turning around. Our lives are back on track, ­people. Haven’t I been saying that for a while now? Huh?”
    Some of the crowd agreed with a halfhearted yes. They were pushing their way toward me, struggling a little with one another. Just behind me I could hear Brian gasping for breath. He was watching the crowd very carefully, like he expected them to rush us and take the lobster for themselves. It was a big monster, but it couldn’t feed more than a ­couple of them, so I didn’t see why they would bother.
    Brian rubbed the stock of his shotgun. The wood there was shiny and had lost its grain from all the times he’d done that.
    â€œWe work hard,” Mayor Foster announced. “We work hard, and we live good. Right? Am I right?”
    He seemed not to be paying attention to me anymore. I ducked under his upraised arms and shoved my way through the crowd. Most of them were first generation and didn’t offer any resistance; they just moved back, swaying in that kind of boneless way they get. Like they’re afraid of anybody touching them. I stepped into the cool darkness of the lobby, and a second later Ike and Brian joined me.
    â€œThat could have gone bad,” Brian said. “You kids don’t know what a crowd can do. A real crowd.”
    â€œThere aren’t any more real crowds,” Ike pointed out.
    As I started up the stairs, he was still following me. “What do you want?” I asked him. “You already said you would never eat this thing.”
    â€œYeah,” he told me, “but I want to see how you kill it.”
    I sighed in disgust and headed up the stairs, Brian needlessly guarding my back. What was he so afraid of? What were they all afraid of, all the time? Life was good.
    In Manhattan, life was really good.

 
    CHAPTER 4
    W e lived on the fourth floor, which was a pain only because the stairwell got so dark, even during the day. All the doors were propped open, and a little light came through from windows on the various floors, but still it was way too easy to trip and fall on those steps. The light on the third floor was blocked, and when I got up there, I saw why—­old Mrs. Hengshott was standing in the doorway, half her body hidden by the doorframe. She almost never came out