The Keep of Fire by Mark Anthony

Mirrim and looked down at the child. The paper raven was gone. Her small hand held only ashes, and even as he watched the wind blew these away.
    “But where?” His mouth was a desert, his voice a croak. “Where am I supposed to go?”
    Wise purple eyes glinted. Her voice was a faint whisper, as if she were already fading. “You must die to be transformed.”
    He held out a hand. “No, wait—”
    Light struck Travis’s face, blinding him. He turned from the glare of the sun. It was only a second, maybe two, but by the time he turned back the fire-baked ground where both child and woman had stood was empty.
    Laughter bubbled in his throat, but he knew it would be a mad sound, and he swallowed it back down. It was easy for them, easy for the ones who went away. But what about him? What about the ones who stayed behind? What were they supposed to do? Then he thought of Sister Mirrim’s eyes, and he knew that it wasn’t easy for any of them.
    Travis stepped away from the broken wall, then halted. He still didn’t know where to go. If Child Samanda’s words had held an answer, then he could not grasp it. He considered going back to the saloon, then forced himself to forget the idea. Duratek knew to find him there. And so did Deirdre and the Seekers. He turned his back toward Castle City and started walking across an empty field. Maybe it didn’t matter where he went, just so they didn’t find him.
    He reached the highway that led out of town and kept on going. Sometimes the act of walking was purpose enough. Then something caught his eye.
    Travis approached the dented newspaper box that rested beside the road, next to a row of mailboxes. He squatted down and, through the scratched plastic panel, read the headline:
    DOZENS BURNED NATIONWIDE—CAUSE UNKNOWN
One Doctor Calls It “a New Black Death”
    Beneath the headline was a photo: a dark, twisted shape like those in the photos Hadrian Farr hadshown him. He sucked in a breath between his teeth, then scanned down the article.
    Researchers have yet to discover the cause for the self-immolations that have been reported throughout the Midwest in the last six weeks. Some have labeled it a wave of copycat suicides, but in none of the deaths has a fuel or other flammable agent been identified. According to witnesses, many victims have shown symptoms of unusual behavior and high fever shortly before—
    The article broke off, continued on an inside page. The column below held only a small story about the increasing use of Electria among young people, compared to other drugs. Travis dug into the pocket of his jeans, but his hand came up with only a scant collection of pennies. Not that it mattered. He didn’t need to read any more; he knew now where he had to go. Maybe this really was like the Black Death. Maybe it was a disease—a disease transmitted by touch.
    He shoved the coins back into his pocket, lurched to his feet, and glanced at the horizon. “Hang on, Max,” he whispered. “You’ve got to hang on.”
    Travis thought about getting his truck, but it was still parked at the saloon. It would be quicker to walk to Max’s place than to go back and retrieve the vehicle. He scrambled over a slumped wire fence and headed across the empty field south of the road. Minutes later he crested a rise and saw the Castle City railyard ahead. The road to Max’s apartment was just on the other side.
    He skidded down a gravel slope to the flats around the railyard. A hundred years ago, trains had passed through Castle City three times a week, carrying people, dry goods, tools, and coal. However, the last train had rolled out of this place two decades ago. Now therailyard was a silent place: a cemetery where dreams of wealth had died, and boxcars lay strewn about like the corpses no one had bothered to bury.
    Travis picked his way over rusted tracks, passed the caved-in remains of the old station house, and crossed to the farside of the railyard. From here it was just over a mile