Vessel, Book I: The Advent

by Tominda Adkins

In case you were wondering, Hollows are exactly what they sound like: empty voids, heedless vacuums. It would be a mistake, however, to think of them as stupid. Nor should they be thought of as the Vessel's darker opposites. They are earthly manifestations of some higher force, yes, and their ticket to existence involved a sort of sacrifice, but their similarities to the Vessel end there. The differences are too numerous to list, but it should be noted that the Hollows' most dangerous distinction concerns not what they are made of, nor what they can do, but what they lack: conscience. They have none of the stuff, not a drop.

  Whereas the Vessel are free-thinking individuals, the Hollows are all parts of a primal but calculating whole, coexisting with the singular goal of consuming life. They can see and hear for one another, and share information seamlessly within one combined, violent mind. If they are the eyes of death, then they are all separate eyes on the same gigantic head, connected by an invisible but vividly real network. A network too hideous, thank your lucky stars, to take shape in a discreet enough manner for our plane of existence.

  As an individual, a Hollow is merely the lasting imprint of a dying person. Not a dead person. Not a zombie. When a Hollow breathes into you, extracts the life from your body and takes you over, you don’t die. You never really make it all the way there, because the actual force of death itself constantly has you in its grasp. You’re always on the brink—you’re always just dying, and death lives in you, and as you, and you become just a home, a shell, a window.

  And no, you don't start shuffling around moaning with your arms straight out, voicing a desire for brains. While the Hollows do demonstrate a strong palate for human tissue and blood, they are smart about their hunger, smart enough to blend in and navigate the limitations of the sisters' curse. That which drives the Hollows is organized, intelligent, and able to mimic intact human beings in every way. So the Hollows speak to one another, though they don't need to. They drive, though they could walk for centuries without rest. They can read and pay rent and laugh, if necessary. But it's all a learned ruse; a kind of careful mirror trick, one that is less of a chameleon scheme and more of a defense mechanism within the beholder's own mind. Because there's nothing there that you want to see. When you look at a Hollow, you're looking at yesterday's meal.

  It can take a day, it can take a century, for a Hollow to completely consume the body of a human being. When a Hollow's breath is passed successfully into someone who is dying, the victim's body immediately begins to preserve. It embalms itself with the force of death so as to remain as it appeared when overtaken. Hence, there are Hollows of all sizes and all ages. There are elderly Hollows, and handsome Hollows, and obese Hollows, and even little kiddie Hollows—which, trust me, are often the scariest.

  This preservation takes place on a level of appearance only. It's skin-deep. Everything that lies beneath, everything inside, has been consumed, eaten alive, swallowed out of existence. Even the skin itself, at some point or another, is no longer there. But you see it, regardless. You see it because you don't know how to see it any other way. In order to view a Hollow as it truly is—and don't try this at home—, you have to hold your breath and face it with your eyes closed.

  If for some idiotic reason you do try that at home—if you take a deep breath right now, close your eyes, and turn to your bedroom door—and you actually do see something, then you should run. Immediately. And very fast. That's pretty much your only option, because on top of being amorphous masters of disguise, the Hollows are physical marvels. Their abilities don't quite breach comic book proportions, but they are much stronger and faster than the average living Joe thanks to the almighty emptiness which animates them. The Hollows are divine, so to speak, as divine as dying can make someone. And beyond the weaknesses they’ve learned to deal with, the torments and inconveniences of being exposed to the hateful elements, they are untouchable. Sure, they’ll shriek when on fire, or slow down in the sunlight, but they’ll be up and biting again in no time. Point is, you can’t kill a Hollow. Period.

  There are ways to repel them, even subdue them, but running is always the best policy. Shoot one, blow one up, push one off a building—just don’t expect any spectacular results. Assaults like those actually make things worse, in ways I’m not eager to describe just yet. The important thing to know is this: Only five other forces are able to completely destroy a Hollow, to shake death off it and let it die. And those applied forces have to be divine. Cue the Vessel.

  Considering all of that, you can imagine why the Hollows and the Luna Latum had both been seeking the Vessel so obsessively since day one. And, given the advanced methods acquired by the Luna Latum in the meantime—divine energy monitors and high speed motorcycles and all—you'd be surprised if the Hollows found the Vessel first, wouldn't you?

  Well, put on your surprised face, because that's what happened.

  Jesse’s letter may have had nothing to do with it. For all we know, it could have disintegrated in the Upper Bay. I've looked back countless times to that day, trying to recall the other people visiting the Statue of Liberty, and I don’t remember anyone unusual, excluding the obvious exceptions. Just typical visitors, parents and kids, a school group, tourists. I don’t trust my memory, though, not in this case. I know I was too busy watching Jackson or running from Stella to have noticed much else.

  So maybe there were Hollows sniffing around Liberty Island that day, who chose not to act in front of an audience. Maybe they found the letter. Maybe they could sense the Vessel as distinctly as they could sense one another. Maybe they heard the songs, or saw the movies, or the commercial that tipped Khan off. Maybe Dahrkren is an Odette fan.

  We didn't know.

  The Luna Latum knew one thing: that the Hollow world was buzzing that day with a name. It was repeated in their connected minds and their phone networks alike, raising up like speed bumps in their slick trails of ancient speech: Jesse Cannon, Jesse Cannon, Jesse Cannon.