options. He edged toward the nearest fire, about two hundred
feet away, in the next seating section.
As he got closer, his skin rose into goosebumps. He saw a
pair of red pajamas draped over the back of one of the seats.
His gas mask was a dead giveaway, but maybe the pajamas
would allow him to blend in somewhat. Gonzalo struggled
to pull them on over his clothes. The pajamas were too tight
around his body. He could feel stitches ripping and fabric
splitting, but the flannel was so soft he couldn’t stop running
his hands up and down it, enjoying the sensation against his
palms. It was softer than anything he’d worn in years. It felt so
good he didn’t want to stop. Then he caught himself.
What the hell was he doing?
He felt a bolt of panic when he realized he didn’t know how
long he’d been rubbing the flannel. What was he doing focus-
ing on the feel of his pajamas like there was nothing else in
the world?
Gonzalo’s gaze went back to the guy in the center of the bed
on the Coliseum floor, surrounded by dozens of prone Thunder
girls and boys—although the Thunder closest to him seemed
to be all girls. That had to be Zeus. His face was obscured by
the glaring shield of his gas mask. What kind of uninfected
person in their right mind would lounge in a den of poison?
Gonzalo’s eye caught movement nearby. Sasha was charg-
ing down the stairs toward the Coliseum floor, flanked by the
same group of Thunder girls. She looked angry. They all did.
268
