Scorpion Shards

by Neal Shusterman

  “Don’t be scared,” said Deanna. “We’ll find them.”

  Then she disappeared down a corridor that led to the left, and Dillon headed off to the right.

  DEANNA KNEW THAT SHE should have been frightened, but she was not. She kept her wits about her as she ascended the stone stairs, passing the crumbling bones of ancient human skeletons as she stepped deeper into darkness. It could have been crouching in any dark corner she passed. It could have been waiting inches above her. She knew that somewhere nearby it was coiled like a cobra, ready to strike.

  Her foot touched something. A stone? No—it moved. A rat? Were there rats in this forgotten place? She turned but was faced by more darkness. Webs brushed across her face that were too thick to be made by earth-born spiders.

  She smelled it before she saw it—an acrid, dank odor of peat and fungus as it sprang at her from the left. She turned and it struck her shoulder, clamping on with toothless, powerful jaws like a bear trap. She felt its slippery scales coiling around her, its icy body constricting around her chest, cutting off her air and circulation. She lost her balance and rolled down a flight of stone stairs.

  At the bottom of the stairs she was able to wrench her hand free, and she grabbed the thing by its neck, tearing its awful jaws from her shoulder. Her eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and she could see it now as she held its flaring head away from her. Its breath was chill and foul, and its face was almost human . . . except that it had no eyes.

  Then Deanna realized something. It was in the way it darted left, then right—the way it snapped sightlessly and frantically in the air. Deanna knew that feeling all too well.

  You’re terrified, aren’t you?

  The serpent coiled itself tighter around her.

  You’re terrified that you’ll die!

  Deanna could sense that although it had a stranglehold on her, it didn’t want to kill her. It wanted her to let it inside. To let it come . . . home.

  Take me back, it seemed to plead. Please let me in . . . . I’m sooooo frightened. Don’t make me kill you!

  Deanna, on the other hand, felt no fear at all within her. She calmly held its head away so it could not strike. She felt herself growing weak from the lack of air as its body coiled around her chest.

  I am not your home, she told it silently. And I am not afraid of you. So I suppose you’ll have to kill me.

  The serpent, more terrified than ever, squeezed her tighter, but Deanna forced herself to her feet and pressed her thumbs firmly against its neck. It, too, began to gasp for air, and as they staggered across the rough stone floor in a lethal dance, it became a simple matter of who was going to strangle who first.

  DILLON COLE, STILL FEELING a mere shell of a human being, slowly stalked the halls of the ruined place. Window glass had long since crumbled to sand. Bones of the dead crumbled to dust beneath his feet. He wondered if, perhaps, he would join the minions of the dead in this godforsaken place.

  The creature was easy to follow; its large feet left clear footprints on the dusty floor. Dillon followed the steps up, until he came to a great room.

  There, between two pillars, sat a regal stone chair, and in that stone chair sat the crumbling remains of a man. His clothes were still intact, but the threads had mildewed and decayed until it was barely recognizable as a tattered royal robe. This palace—this whole mountain—had fallen here from another world, and all that was left of its royal occupants were bones crumbling to dust.

  On the other side of the room stood Dillon’s beast.

  Dark gray flesh, rippling with strong muscles . . . and a familiar face.

  Dillon’s face.

  The creature made no effort to run. Instead it stalked closer, mirroring Dillon’s movements, until they stood five feet apart. It made no move to attack, nor did Dillon. Instead, Dillon stared into its eyes, trying to read some pattern there.

  As complicated as it was, Dillon could read the pattern of its past. This being had begun as something small and insignificant—a maggot that he had invited into his soul in a moment of weakness. And once there, it had grown, evolved into something larger, then something larger still. Even now it seemed on the verge of a new metamorphosis. Through its translucent skin, Dillon could see a new form taking shape, ready to emerge . . . as soon as it was fed.

  Dillon pulled the revolver from his shirt. This time the first three chambers were all full.

  A smile appeared on the creature’s face. It was a twisted, evil version of Dillon’s own smile.

  I can destroy you with a single thought. You’ll be gone long before the hammer hits the chamber.

  Still Dillon tightened his grip on the trigger.

  So the creature pushed a single thought into Dillon’s mind.

  Suffer the weight, it said to him. SUFFER THE WEIGHT!

  Dillon’s finger froze on the trigger, and from somewhere deep inside he felt all his feelings return to him at once. His crippled soul was called out of hiding, and with it came an eruption from the pit of his stomach that came screaming out of his mouth. All his emotionless memories finally locked in with their meanings, and they surged like bile through his brain.

  Remorse!

  Sorrow!

  Shame, blame, and guilt echoed through his brain like a sonic boom, rattling his mind until he felt himself about to fall into the same chaos that he had created around him. He tried to deny all the things he had done—tried to deny that he had chosen this path, but even among shades of gray, the truth was there in black and white: it had been his choice to destroy. It had been his choice to feed the beast.

  The sheer weight of his crimes weighed upon him now with such a pressure that he wished that fourth chamber had been full when Winston had pulled the trigger.

  But he could right that mistake, couldn’t he? The first three chambers were full. He could rid himself of the pain—the horrible guilt.

  Suddenly the creature standing before him didn’t seem to matter. All that mattered was ending the pain, so he turned the gun around and touched the cold barrel against his own temple.

  And then, in front of him, he saw the creature flex its fingers and take a deep breath, waiting to be fed.

  To be fed.

  Dillon gritted his teeth and with all his might kept his finger from pressing that trigger. Destroying himself would be feeding the creature. It suddenly became clear to Dillon that the only way to deny this creature satisfaction was to bear the pain. And so Dillon did. He accepted the blame for the death and for the insanity. He felt the awful weight on his shoulders . . . and that weight, pressing like a thousand stones, almost killed him right there.

  But it didn’t.

  And instead he was left with just enough strength to turn the gun around again and pull the trigger.

  The bullet caught the creature in the shoulder. It wailed in pain and surprise, then grabbed Dillon and hurled him across the room.

  Dillon came crashing down on the throne, shattering what was left of its former occupant. Bone fragments splintered into the air and a cloud of dust rose from where Dillon sat.

  The creature, bleeding a viscous, dark blood, leapt toward him, and Dillon fired again.

  The second blast caught the creature in the stomach.

  It doubled over in pain.

  Dillon rose from the throne and the creature backed away toward an open veranda, pulling itself along, limping, leaving a path of its slippery blood.

  Dillon stalked after it. Then, at the threshold of the balcony, it turned its eyes to him once more.

  Finish it, the beast said, taunting. Shoot now!

  Something inside Dillon told him to look at the patterns—to check the series of outcomes that firing the bullet could create. But he didn’t listen; instead he just leveled the gun and let his anger fly uncontrolled with the firing of the final bullet.

  The beast moved its head at the last moment, the bullet barely grazed its ear, and when the beast stepped away, Dillon realized how fully and completely he had bee
n tricked . . . and how much heavier the weight of his soul had suddenly become.

  Behind the creature, on the veranda, Deanna was coiled in a death grip with her serpent of fear, when suddenly her arms went limp from the bullet that had grazed the ear of Dillon’s beast . . . and then hit her in the chest.

  “No!!!!!!!!” Dillon ran to her.

  The serpent squealed, uncoiled, and retreated to the corner, quivering, and Dillon caught Deanna’s collapsing body.

  The dark spirit laughed a healthy, hearty laugh. It flexed its muscles and absorbed this act of destruction. It fed on Deanna’s dying breaths.

  Deanna gasped for breath in Dillon’s arms.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” But his words felt impotent and useless. She tried to speak but couldn’t. He felt the wound in her chest, which was pouring blood, and saw the light slipping from her eyes.

  Deanna gazed at him weakly. “I’m not afraid,” she said. “I’m not afraid . . .”

  Dillon could see the pattern of death. He could see her mind imploding—feel death beginning to break down her body. He felt her disappearing down that long tunnel.

  And then he realized he could stop it.

  He concentrated on her wound. He concentrated all his attention. His talent was not only to see patterns but to change them. Could he close the pattern of a wound the way he could instantly solve a Rubik’s Cube? Could he reverse the patterns of chaos and death the same way he could create them?

  He put his hand on Deanna’s wound, which had stopped pumping blood. He felt the wound ever so slowly beginning to close—

  —But then he felt the pattern of her mind collapsing, so he focused on that, keeping her mind from giving in to death—

  —But then he felt the pattern of her cells begin to slowly decay, so he turned his attention to keeping her flesh from giving over to the silence of death—

  —But her wound had begun to bleed again . . . so he turned his attention to that.

  A screaming, tear-filled rage overcame Dillon. This was a task he could not accomplish, no matter how powerful his talent. He did not yet have the skill to prevent Deanna’s death. In the end all he could do was hold her in his trembling arms and watch her great light disappear into eternity.

  Standing just a few feet away, Dillon’s creature fed on Deanna’s death and completed its metamorphosis. Its outer skin broke away to reveal a lattice of veins and fine bones that pulled away from its body spreading wide, casting a shadow of a pair of wings, blacker than black, over Dillon and Deanna.

  The creature still bled—wounded, but still alive.

  Suffer the weight, Dillon, it said to him again. And every moment you suffer is a moment I grow strong.

  Then it turned from him and leapt off the balcony, soaring high on its great black wings and leaving a veil of darkness that trailed behind it, followed by Deanna’s serpent, which slithered down the rocky slope.

  Dillon leaned over Deanna’s body and cried, but his tears did no good, and when he had no more tears, he lifted her up and brought her to the throne. He brushed off the dust and fragments of ancient bone, and he gently set her down, wrapping her in the moldering royal robe . . . and as he held the robe, he could see its pattern coming back together in his hands. It was a simple pattern, just a weave of fabric. In a few moments what had been tattered, disintegrating cloth became a rich royal-blue robe of silk.

  Order out of chaos.

  How could he have been so blind as to let his talent be used to destroy when it could have been used to create?

  He held the cloth a moment longer until all its fragments had woven together in his hand and it was as bright and clean as the day it was made. Then he finished wrapping it around Deanna’s limp body and closed her unseeing eyes.

  He kissed her cold cheek. “I’ll come back for you, Deanna,” he promised. “I’ll bring you back.”

  Was it possible? Was life out of death something he could ever manage? Could his talent ever be honed to weave back a tapestry of life the way it rewove a tapestry of silk?

  He kissed Deanna again and let her go. She seemed to recline regally in the throne, like a queen in repose.

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  He turned and stepped out on the veranda once more, the sorrow almost overtaking him so that he had to hold onto the stone to keep from doubling over. Down below, he could see the others trying to climb back to their world. While way in the distance the winged Spirit of Destruction soared into the icy sky, and the serpentine Spirit of Fear followed in its shadow, like thunder after lightning.

  IN THE HEAT OF the red desert, they didn’t discuss how they had defeated their foes—instead they focused all their attention on the task at hand. There was a hole fifteen feet off the ground, and it was quickly healing itself closed. They pushed a rusted car beneath the hole, then piled everything from stones to airplane seats to rusted bicycles—anything they could find to get themselves high enough. Then, when their mound was done, Winston laid his hands on a vine, which grew around the mass of loose objects, locking them together in a living mesh.

  They only stopped in their task once; the moment they felt one of them die. Then they all took a deep breath and continued stacking, not daring to talk about it.

  They had already begun to climb toward the hole when they saw Dillon coming toward them.

  “They got away,” said Dillon. “. . . And Deanna’s dead.” The four hesitated, not even wanting to get close to him. It was Tory who finally stepped down.

  “We need to know about the hermit on the other side,” said Tory. “What can we do to stop him?”

  Slayton! He had forgotten about Slayton! He was long gone, somewhere in Tacoma by now, already beginning the great collapse.

  “I don’t think he can be stopped,” said Dillon sadly. “You should have killed me.”

  But instead, Tory reached her hand out to him. “Hurry, the hole’s almost closed.”

  Up above, Michael and Lourdes had already forced their way through the hole, which was no larger than a basketball now.

  “You’re gonna let him come with us?” Winston shouted down to Tory. “After what he’s done? With his leech-freak still out there?”

  “He’s one of us,” was the only answer Tory gave.

  Winston threw a bitter gaze at Dillon, and then threw himself into the hole and vanished. When Tory got to the top, she took a moment to look at the desolation here in this infinite “between.” Then she pushed her way into the hole, which stretched around her like tight elastic, until she disappeared into darkness.

  Dillon hesitated. If the world on the other side of that hole was already starting to fracture, it would soon be more of a Hell than this tormented place they were leaving. But it was his world, and his responsibility to face what he had done there. So he took a deep breath and grabbed the lip of the hole with both hands, stretching the rend in space as wide as it would go. Then he squeezed his way into a layer of cold, suffocating darkness, and finally he pushed himself through the gap on the other side, into the world of life.

  THE WEAPONS LOCKER WAS empty.

  This was the first thing Dillon noticed as he fell from the hole to the cold wooden floor of Slayton’s shack. The weapons locker was empty, and Slayton was gone.

  Dillon squeezed his eyes shut, trying to somehow disappear inside himself, but could not. “You don’t know how awful it’s going to be,” he told the others. “You can’t imagine what the world will be like tomorrow . . .”

  They all looked at each other, then turned back to Dillon.

  “There’s something you should see outside,” Lourdes said.

  It was light now, and the hermit’s old pickup was still there, its headlights shining straight at them. Its engine was on—overheating and billowing steam; radiator fluid soaked the ground.

  Two figures were in the light of the headlights: a small boy making rivers in the dirt with the spilled radiator fluid, and Slayton, who
was sitting up against the grill. It seemed Tacoma was no longer of any interest to him.

  “Was this part of the plan?” Michael asked Dillon.

  Clearly it wasn’t.

  “You were good . . . ,” Tory told Dillon. “But I guess there’s some things not even you can predict.”

  Lourdes picked Carter up in her arms, as the five of them stared at Slayton, loaded shotgun still in hand, sitting motionless against the grill of the pickup.

  The radiator was leaking because it had been punctured by a steel arrow. The same steel arrow that pinned Slayton’s lifeless body to the radiator grill.

  “We was playing cowboys and Indians,” said Carter, still gripping Slayton’s crossbow in his hands. “I won.”

  Inside the dead hermit’s shack a hole in the wall of the world quietly healed itself closed and disappeared with a tiny twinkling of light.

  18. THE FIVE OF WANDS

  * * *

  THEY BURIED SLAYTON BESIDE HIS SHACK WITH HIS OWN shovel. He had lived forsaken, but was laid to rest with more tender care than he had known in life. They buried his weapons with him and, with each shovel of dirt, they not only buried the man, but also the nightmare they had lived under for so long.

  They finished at dawn, and now the forest that had seemed so desolate revealed its own slow recovery in the growing light. Between the gray, lifeless trees, grass and wildflowers had come back to begin the process of life again.

  Winston gathered some of the wildflowers, strewed them across the barren grave, then brushed his fingers across them until the grave sprouted into a colorful garden. Then the four of them built a fire to warm themselves, and stood around it, talking of small, unimportant things, which they never before had had the luxury to do.

  Only Dillon stayed away, still an outsider.

  He had been the first to begin digging the grave, the first to gather wood for the fire, but when nothing was left for him to do, he placed himself in exile. They all were painfully aware of his presence.