Prologue DAY 246 A.F. REQUIEM, TENNESSEE FOOTHILLS OF THE SMOKY MOUNTAINS She’s so lovely, so fragile. Those haunted eyes. Those rosebud lips . . . they’ll scream so prettily. I gaze out my door’s peephole, willing the girl to come closer. A female so near! Come to me. In the ash-filled twilight, she paces the sidewalk fronting my charred Victorian home, wrestling with the decision of whether to approach. Chill winds toss her heavy mane of blond hair. She wears frayed jeans, battered hiking boots, and has her hands buried in the pockets of a threadbare hoodie. Her clothes are no match for the temperature outside, which has only recently dropped from the punishing heat we’ve had all winter. The weather worsens as summer nears. . . . She glances up. Has she caught the food scents carrying from my home? I have canned beef stew simmering atop a wood-burning stove. Does she note the smoke curling from the chimney? She looks hungry; after the Flash, they’re always hungry. Everything about my lair is meant to lure her to me. If the brightly glowing kerosene lantern isn’t enough of a beacon for travelers, I have a poster-board sign—written in marker and covered with plastic wrap—pinned by the door: VOICES OF THE FLASH