by Naomi Hughes
I freeze in place. Then an alien urge fills me up, propels me forward against my will. I want to apologize. To ask him if he can still smell the blood and dryer sheets, too—if he can still see that bright green of Ginger’s eyes, still remember the way his body arced under that column of darkness.
I stop myself. The cop is shoving people aside, coming toward me, and he doesn’t look like he wants an apology. He looks like he wants to kill me. And, I remind myself, that would be extremely counterproductive for all of us.
I pivot, locate the transmitter again, and charge toward it. There are no wires—it’s battery-operated, remotely connected. When I go to pick it up, something small falls off the top and clatters to the ground. A remote. I grab it, find the button to stop the broadcast, press it, and then drop the remote into my pocket.
I scoop up the chest itself, and then pause. This thing is about thirty pounds. There’s no way I’ll fit down the storm drain with it. And I can’t just quickly send out the message I need to right here and now, either. I need Elliott’s help for that—and I just sent him into the sewers with every cop in the city on his tail, so I could make sure he wouldn’t give himself up to his mom.
I spare a quick glance down the street. Elliott has disappeared—hopefully into the storm drain and not into police custody—and the mayor and the cops are now dispersed throughout the crowd, searching for him, grabbing escaped prisoners.
A shot rings out and I flinch. No one except the older cop has spotted me yet, and he’s gotten distracted chasing down the fleeing fish-selling brothers now, but it’s only a matter of time before other officers recognize me and come after me.
I won’t get far in a chase lugging this transmitter. And I can’t risk anyone even realizing I have it yet, or my whole plan could go up in smoke. I search for ideas. Can’t go down the drain, can’t flee on foot. That leaves only one option.
I curse under my breath. I take three long strides. And I step onto Valkyrie Bridge.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I COUNT TO FIVE AND THEN STOP WALKING. I KEEP MY gaze fixed on the gray nothingness over my head so I won’t accidentally look into any of the mirrors that have been thrown on the ground farther in. I may know the truth about what they are now but that doesn’t make them any less terrifying, or any less deadly. I listen carefully—for the scuff of shoes behind me, for the breathing of any Beings ahead of me. I keep my own breathing shallow and try not to think about the smells.
The heavy acridness of the fog. The cloying undertone of death that clings to it.
All I have to do is hide. Just for a few minutes. The cops will go after the fleeing prisoners, and the looming eye wall of the hurricane will drive everyone else back to their shelters. Then I’ll be safe. Then I can escape without being spotted.
That smell of death. I’m trying not to think about what it is. Who it is. But I can’t stop picturing Sam Garcia’s panicked face. I wonder how far he got. Halfway across? Did he make it to the mainland before they got him? Or is it really what’s left of him that’s rotting right now, hanging heavy on the air?
My stomach flops over, and I half turn back toward the entrance. This was a terrible idea. I’ve been through some wild shit the last few days, it’s true, but to voluntarily walk onto Valkyrie Bridge? This place has been the source of my worst nightmares for a year. I should get the hell out of here as fast as my feet can take me.
But there’s nowhere else to hide. No other way I can keep the transmitter safe till I can get it to my loft. It’s boiled down to a choice between stepping onto Valkyrie Bridge or failing to do what I came here to do, and apparently the bridge is the lesser evil.
I keep my breathing even, listening to the fog-muffled sounds of the chaos outside. A slow minute passes. Then another. By the time I count to five hundred, the distant din of thunder is all I can hear.
I should give it another minute or two just to be safe. There could be a cop out there, stationed to watch the entrance the way they usually do after exile ceremonies, to stop anyone trying to return. I should wait here until I’m certain they’re all gone.
One more minute. I’ll give it one more minute. I’ve been through all the fog on the mainland, faced down multiple Beings, even held one in my hand. I can manage standing still on Valkyrie Bridge for sixty more seconds. I let out a long breath that shakes only a little.
Beneath a roll of thunder, I hear the clink of glass on concrete.
I whip around, my eyes straining to see past the smothering gray. That came from the direction of the mainland. Farther down the bridge—where there’s nothing alive.
Or … did I get turned around? When I came in here I walked straight toward the mainland and then stopped, or at least I thought I did. But I’ve shifted my weight a few times, and I did half turn toward the entrance a moment ago. I swivel my head back and forth, trying to recalculate, but the more I try to be sure which way is which, the more lost I feel. I understand now how exiles can get turned around in here, how their plans—to just walk past the mirrors with their eyes closed, to find the edge of the bridge and jump off it—fail so easily in this disorienting haze.
Claustrophobia clamps its jaws over me. The fog is too thick, too heavy. With every breath I take I can feel it clogging my throat. I need to run. Need to get away. Need to be safe.
I force myself to take a long, slow inhale. The fog isn’t clogging my throat. It isn’t even real, I remind myself. I need to think clearly. If that sound came from the island, that means someone is out there waiting for me, and if I accidentally run toward them I might as well serve myself up to the mayor on a platter. But if the sound came from farther down the bridge—where the Beings are permanent, where they’ve been known to lie in wait for new exiles—and I run that way …
Deep in the fog, the clinking echoes again. My body makes the decision for me. I turn ninety degrees and sprint in the opposite direction of the sound.
My footfalls smack against the concrete. My breath comes in gulped-down gasps. I’ve taken more than five steps by now. Haven’t I? It’s too far, farther than the entrance should be. I’m running toward the mainland. Which means I need to turn around.
But before I can, a shape looms out of the fog ahead of me.
I curse, my fingers tightening around the transmitter as I try to stop, but its weight pulls me off-balance. The best I can do is turn so that my shoulder crashes into the shape rather than the transmitter. My foot lands wrong and I slip, then hit the ground hard on my back.
I go still.
Birds sing. Thunder rolls. My right shoulder aches from the impact. Whatever I hit, it had no give to it. Not like a person would. But it didn’t have that cool obsidian feel of a Being, either. I dare to lift my head.
A Valkyrie statue looms above me, blank gaze fixed somewhere on the horizon. I’m at the bridge’s entrance.
I close my eyes and drop my head back to the ground, muttering a brief but fervent thank you, and then clamber to my feet. My back is soaked from the standing water, but I managed to keep the transmitter dry and intact, at least.
I look around. The road is empty. There’s no one in sight. The sky is still oddly yellow and cluttered with birds, and the distant rolls of thunder are getting much louder. I glance at the beach below the bridge’s steep embankment. The storm surge looks high, and the waves seem bigger than they were when I went into the fog. The eye wall is approaching fast.
It’s good news. The radios will have been brought into the town’s designated shelters for the length of the hurricane, in case of emergency transmission from City Hall. I’ll be able to reach most or even all of the islanders with a broadcast now, which means my plan might actually stand a chance at success.
If I can make it to my loft undetected. If Elliott escaped capture.
There’s a discarded yellow poncho snagged on a downed tree branch a few yards away. I slosh over to it, pull it off, and wrap it carefully around the transmitter. It’s not much of a disguise, but it’ll ha
ve to do.
I grip the chest tightly, breathe through my anxiety, and start toward the city.
The only nearby entrance to the mines that isn’t a storm drain is through a condemned building in the middle of town. The streets are deserted, but as I walk through them, the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. All the times I’ve been stopped and searched here, all the cops who were so eager to catch me in the act. Back then, the need for court-worthy evidence kept them at bay. Now, if just one of them recognizes me or realizes what I’m carrying, we’re all done for.
My steps splash in the ankle-high water as I turn onto Banyan Lane. The intertwined trees arc overhead, their prop roots stretching toward the ground, dripping from the rain. The quiet, sheltered space beneath them feels like a cathedral. I can see why the tourists like them so much, my brother whispers in my ear.
The northeastern horizon is a dim gray between the branches. Ty is no longer that way, was never that way. But he still pulls at me like a lodestone anyway.
Whatever I have to do, I promise him again. My plan won’t be pretty. But there’s a chance it’ll work, a chance it’ll get me to him, and that’s all that matters.
I glance at the street ahead. I’ve reached a fork. To the left and right are boarded-up businesses. The building in the middle is an old bank, wedge-shaped, with broken windows and doors nobody bothers to lock. When I slip inside, my palm tingles with a faint, icy pain, making me wince. I shift the transmitter’s weight away from the injury as much as I can. The black veins have crawled all the way across my left shoulder now. I wish I could flip up my collar to hide them, even though nobody is nearby to see. How long has it been since the last wave of pain? With any luck, I’ll manage to get to my loft before the next one hits.
I wonder whether Elliott will be there waiting for me. If he escaped, if he’s okay. If my unthinking sacrifice with the scorpion was pointless anyway. I regret doing it. Probably.
I pick up my pace as I weave through the shadows inside the bank. Past the dusty tellers’ desks, through the back office area. I duck behind the biggest desk, a mahogany monstrosity too heavy for anyone to steal. A sheet of rusted metal is pushed up against the wall here. Careful not to make any noise, I set the transmitter down, tap what passes as the “door frame,” then nudge the metal away and duck into the gaping hole behind it. I quietly slide the metal sheet back into place once I’ve got the transmitter through. A few of its dials are still glowing. I pull the poncho partway off so that I can navigate the tunnels by their dim light. As I weave my way into the familiar darkness, I breathe a little easier. I made it. I’m safe now.
I come to a crossroads where the mines connect to the sewers. Storm runoff rushes through the tunnel ahead of me, a knee-high river of snarling white water. Bracing my steps carefully, I start to cross it. There’s the faintest of stirrings to my right. It’s my only warning before a body crashes into me at full speed.
I go sprawling. By sheer luck, I manage to twist so that I land halfway out of the river and halfway into the tunnel I’d been aiming for, managing to keep the transmitter dry once again.
“Who’s that?” demands a voice. A female voice. A commanding and lightly accented female voice, which almost certainly belongs to a cop. That’s why I didn’t see any of them in the city above—they must have suspected Elliott escaped through a storm drain and went down themselves to search for him.
“No one of consequence,” I reply in my most charming tone, stalling for time while I frantically search for ideas. I reach out with my left hand, looking for a rock or debris or anything that I can use as a projectile or distraction. By sheer luck, my fingers close on what feels like a broken chunk of concrete.
Splash. The woman steps closer. The dim red light glints off her badge. The name tag next to it reads DIAZ. She was at the boardwalk with Ginger, I remember, on the team that apprehended me. Which means I’m screwed.
She comes to the same conclusion. “Hands up,” she snaps, lifting her gun.
My palm is starting to ache. I shift my grip on the chunk of concrete, then realize it aches not because my grip was awkward but because there’s another wave of pain building up, about to incapacitate me at the worst possible moment.
It’s now or never, then. I let my gaze go behind her. “No, don’t!” I shout. She doesn’t take the bait and look to see who I’m talking to, but she does hesitate for just a second—long enough for me to hurl the concrete chunk at her face. She jerks away, taking the impact on her forearm instead, and I scramble to my feet and flee.
I yank the poncho back down over the dials so Diaz can’t track me by its glow. I hold my injured hand out, following the wall on my left. There’s cursing behind me and then several loud splashes in quick succession. She’s coming after me, and she’s pissed.
I feel a break in the wall, a gap barely big enough for me to squeeze the transmitter through. It’s a shortcut—a dangerous one—but I’ll have to take it. I shove myself in, trying to be as quiet as I can. The walls here are bowed in by pressure. Too many of the supports have snapped and the earth weighs heavy on the remaining ones, ready to cave in entirely if another of them breaks.
The pain in my hand intensifies. I grit my teeth and try to breathe through it the way Dr. Washburne taught me to breathe through my anxiety. It helps, but only a little.
I count the supports as I go, feeling the rotted wood graze my fingers. Three. Four. Five. I pant with the effort of not crying out. Just a few more … and then I’ll … I’ll turn off into the tunnel leading to my loft—maybe she’ll be far enough away that she won’t hear by then—
Agony lights up every cell, fingertips to collarbone, a writhing supernova of pain. My veins feel alive. They’re snakes beneath my skin. Venom drips in their wake, eating through my body like acid. I gasp in a breath and hold it, clamping down on myself, my vision blurring with the effort of staying silent. I can’t stay on my feet. I fall sideways against the wall, then to the ground.
I curl around the transmitter. I scream.
Through the haze of agony, I hear footsteps. Diaz heard me. She’s coming through the side tunnel after me. I’ll be caught. I’m doomed—we’re all doomed.
My legs spasm. One of them catches a support beam. It shudders and the earth around me creaks and groans.
Diaz’s footsteps pause.
I have an idea. Something about—caving in, blocking the path …
The distraction costs me my concentration, and I scream again. It’s a terrible sound—an awful keening, something you hear in the woods at night, prey being torn apart—and I try to muffle it, but it’s like trying to stop an avalanche. I spasm again, my whole body this time. With my last ounce of lucidity, I turn a bit so that one of my feet catches the support beam again.
It snaps.
Diaz shouts. Her footsteps scramble away from me. Something is rumbling all around us, grinding and shrieking, like the earth’s bones breaking.
I have to get up. Have to move. This tunnel opens into a bigger, better-supported tunnel a few yards down—but I don’t think I have a few yards left in me. I roll onto my side, still curled around the transmitter, but can’t manage more than that.
The earth around me groans and rumbles, growing louder. The ground beneath me trembles. Something heavy lands on my leg, pinning me: a fallen support.
I’m going to die in here. Alone. Without Ty, without even Elliott. I’ll be crushed in a cave-in, unable to escape because I’m incapacitated by the sting of a creature I created with my thoughts. In the end, I’ll have effectively been killed by my own fears. I would laugh if I could. How ironic. How absolutely, perfectly terrible.
Someone yells. Not Diaz.
A hand wraps around mine. It’s bigger than Diaz’s would be. It feels familiar. I remember this grip. But I remember it the other way around, I think—my hands over his, clamping down over taut tendons, white ridges of knuckles. Like trying to hold a grenade together. I thought he would let go. He didn’t. He doesn�
��t now, either.
He hauls me forward. My leg is trapped. Century-old dust fills the air, clogging my throat. He shifts his grip, hands under my arms, and pulls harder. I help as much as I can, trying to push with my other foot, and I finally come free. But the pain is still strengthening—too much, it’s too much. I close my eyes.
I’m dragged a few yards and then dropped back to the ground. Earth’s rumbling slows and stops, but the pain is still twisting, wringing, scorching. There’ll be nothing left of me soon.
Someone shakes me, not gently. “Don’t die, you jackass,” he says sharply. “I still have to kill you, remember?”
He picks me up. I fade out, in, out.
The clattering of feet against metal. A sense of swaying, like the floor is suspended over empty space. An old hydraulic elevator with a padlock on its back wall. Someone said that. Me?
A familiar clatter of metal: a padlock rattling on its chain. A low, muttered curse. Whoever’s carrying me shifts his grip. He reaches into my right pocket. No, I try to tell him. Right is for unlocked, left is for locked.
Except suddenly I’m not sure if I’m remembering my system correctly—which pocket is for which keys. And what if I accidentally put it in the wrong pocket? Or worse, what if I’m not even remembering right from left correctly?
Dimly, I realize that I’d forgotten this part of OCD. The way it worms into your head, plants doubt, makes you question the most basic, fundamental crap until you can’t be sure of anything anymore, and it is exhausting and petrifying and aggravating as hell because goddammit, I am freaking dying and I still can’t stop worrying that maybe, somehow, I don’t actually know my left from my right.
I try to laugh again. Nothing but a choking sort of wheeze comes out.
The click of tiny metal teeth sliding perfectly home in the padlock: a sound I’ve got memorized. The person carrying me must have found my key after all. I’m taken into a room. I didn’t get to tap the doorway. I need to tap the doorway. I can’t manage to form the words, though.