Sammy ambled without direction, his cold blue eyes—hardened by the solitary winter—scanning Chicago’s cracked pavements, gravel-strewn expanses, and overgrown fields. Summer’s lush grasses, once teeming with vermin, lay parched and sparse, their golden blades brittle underfoot.

The sun was setting behind the trees, and the air had a faint orange haze and a smell of smoke from some faraway summertime forest fire. Ezra was in the last house in the neighborhood, rifling through the effects of a long-dead old woman.

First came the Killing Cure. Times were lawless and the people were desperate. Yet Andrew the Shepherd knew the old chants and the Word. The spirits fled from him, and the people begged him to rule over and protect them…