United as One
Page 112
“No, he doesn’t look good,” I reply. “Stay with Nine; make sure he doesn’t die. Nobody else dies today, okay?”
Marina finishes healing me. She grabs my hand.
“Be careful, Six,” she says.
Feeling rejuvenated, I sprint in the direction that Marina just came from. I remember this place well—it wasn’t too long ago that I escaped from these caverns. Never thought I’d see the day when I’d be running back into its depths, especially not when blowing it up is a viable alternative.
I won’t let John die down here. He thinks he can win this without the rest of us, thinks he needs to shoulder all this to make up for what happened with Sarah.
He doesn’t need to carry it alone.
So I run. My feet slap hard against the uneven terrain. Soon, I’m sprinting down the spiral ledge, deeper and deeper. I can see the disgusting reservoir of black ooze below. I know that’s where they’ll be. I hurdle a fallen chunk of rock, duck under a sagging stalactite and leap from the ledge onto one of the narrow stone bridges to save time. The descent is dizzying, and my heart is pounding.
At the bottom, I slow down and turn invisible. As soon as I reach the edge of the ooze lake, I stop in my tracks.
A mess of the black oil is spread across the stone floor here, almost as if a balloon filled with the stuff exploded. Some of the tendrils flop back and forth on the ground like fish out of water. Most of the stuff is dry and hardened, though.
John lies at the epicenter of it all. He looks like he’s been put through a meat grinder. There’s not an inch of his body that isn’t soaked with blood. His skin is shredded, mutilated, bones poking through in places. I think his legs and arms are broken. I watch his chest for a few seconds, hoping to see it rise and fall.
He doesn’t move.
I remember the way he was when I first tracked him down in Paradise. Handsome and brave, so naïve. Ready to put his life on the line. I remember holding that hand—the fingers now shattered, cut to ribbons—and I remember the warmth, the comfort that he gave to me when I needed it.
He died down here alone.
I should scream. But after all these years, all these deaths, I don’t feel rage and sorrow like that anymore. I feel cold determination.
Finish this.
I swallow back bile and turn my attention to the other form on the cavern floor. Frail and withered, an old man, his skin splotchy gray in some spots and, in others, a hardened black like the ooze spread across the floor. Even as I watch, those dark sections of his body slowly disintegrate, blowing away like ash off the end of a cigarette. The old man leaves a trail of the sooty substance as he drags himself across the rocks, inching towards the lake of ooze, his gnarled hand outstretched.
The purple scar around his neck is unmistakable.
Setrákus Ra. Still alive. Barely.
Inch by inch, he drags himself towards the muck.
I start forward. With my eyes locked on Setrákus Ra, I don’t notice the Voron dagger that John made until my foot bumps up against it. The blade makes a skittering sound as I kick it a few feet across the stones.
I pick up the dagger. When I look back at him, Setrákus Ra has turned over on his side. His dark eyes cast about, searching for the source of the noise. His nose is completely missing, just a skeletal hole in the front of his face, and his mouth is completely empty of teeth.
He’s afraid.
I turn visible and meet his eyes.
“Hello, old man.”
He lets out a low moan, turns back onto his belly and increases the pace of his crawl towards the oil.
I overtake him with ease, kick him in the side and roll him over. My foot actually punches a hole in his body, like kicking into a beehive. His chest is skeletal, concave, with a darkened space where his heart should be. He makes a sloppy swipe at me with a hand tipped with disintegrating claws. I swat his hand away and drop down on top of him, digging my knee into his belly.
“In a few minutes, this place is going to come down on top of what’s left of you,” I tell Setrákus Ra, keeping my voice cold and steady. “I want you to know, after that, I’m going to track down every copy of your stupid fucking book and burn it. All your work, everything you made—it’s getting unmade.”
He tries to say something but can’t. I twist my knee lower.
“Look at me,” I say. “This is what progress looks like, bitch.”
I hack the Voron dagger into the side of his neck, right at the scar. Setrákus Ra gurgles. I slice again.
I drop the dagger and stand up.
I hold Setrákus Ra’s head in my hands.
Marina finishes healing me. She grabs my hand.
“Be careful, Six,” she says.
Feeling rejuvenated, I sprint in the direction that Marina just came from. I remember this place well—it wasn’t too long ago that I escaped from these caverns. Never thought I’d see the day when I’d be running back into its depths, especially not when blowing it up is a viable alternative.
I won’t let John die down here. He thinks he can win this without the rest of us, thinks he needs to shoulder all this to make up for what happened with Sarah.
He doesn’t need to carry it alone.
So I run. My feet slap hard against the uneven terrain. Soon, I’m sprinting down the spiral ledge, deeper and deeper. I can see the disgusting reservoir of black ooze below. I know that’s where they’ll be. I hurdle a fallen chunk of rock, duck under a sagging stalactite and leap from the ledge onto one of the narrow stone bridges to save time. The descent is dizzying, and my heart is pounding.
At the bottom, I slow down and turn invisible. As soon as I reach the edge of the ooze lake, I stop in my tracks.
A mess of the black oil is spread across the stone floor here, almost as if a balloon filled with the stuff exploded. Some of the tendrils flop back and forth on the ground like fish out of water. Most of the stuff is dry and hardened, though.
John lies at the epicenter of it all. He looks like he’s been put through a meat grinder. There’s not an inch of his body that isn’t soaked with blood. His skin is shredded, mutilated, bones poking through in places. I think his legs and arms are broken. I watch his chest for a few seconds, hoping to see it rise and fall.
He doesn’t move.
I remember the way he was when I first tracked him down in Paradise. Handsome and brave, so naïve. Ready to put his life on the line. I remember holding that hand—the fingers now shattered, cut to ribbons—and I remember the warmth, the comfort that he gave to me when I needed it.
He died down here alone.
I should scream. But after all these years, all these deaths, I don’t feel rage and sorrow like that anymore. I feel cold determination.
Finish this.
I swallow back bile and turn my attention to the other form on the cavern floor. Frail and withered, an old man, his skin splotchy gray in some spots and, in others, a hardened black like the ooze spread across the floor. Even as I watch, those dark sections of his body slowly disintegrate, blowing away like ash off the end of a cigarette. The old man leaves a trail of the sooty substance as he drags himself across the rocks, inching towards the lake of ooze, his gnarled hand outstretched.
The purple scar around his neck is unmistakable.
Setrákus Ra. Still alive. Barely.
Inch by inch, he drags himself towards the muck.
I start forward. With my eyes locked on Setrákus Ra, I don’t notice the Voron dagger that John made until my foot bumps up against it. The blade makes a skittering sound as I kick it a few feet across the stones.
I pick up the dagger. When I look back at him, Setrákus Ra has turned over on his side. His dark eyes cast about, searching for the source of the noise. His nose is completely missing, just a skeletal hole in the front of his face, and his mouth is completely empty of teeth.
He’s afraid.
I turn visible and meet his eyes.
“Hello, old man.”
He lets out a low moan, turns back onto his belly and increases the pace of his crawl towards the oil.
I overtake him with ease, kick him in the side and roll him over. My foot actually punches a hole in his body, like kicking into a beehive. His chest is skeletal, concave, with a darkened space where his heart should be. He makes a sloppy swipe at me with a hand tipped with disintegrating claws. I swat his hand away and drop down on top of him, digging my knee into his belly.
“In a few minutes, this place is going to come down on top of what’s left of you,” I tell Setrákus Ra, keeping my voice cold and steady. “I want you to know, after that, I’m going to track down every copy of your stupid fucking book and burn it. All your work, everything you made—it’s getting unmade.”
He tries to say something but can’t. I twist my knee lower.
“Look at me,” I say. “This is what progress looks like, bitch.”
I hack the Voron dagger into the side of his neck, right at the scar. Setrákus Ra gurgles. I slice again.
I drop the dagger and stand up.
I hold Setrákus Ra’s head in my hands.
