by A. L. Davroe
He bites his lip, looks away, and a second later he disappears from my side, his fingers leaving a teasing caress in their wake as if saying “Go ahead and try.”
I know that touch is right. I can try to walk away from the love I have for the boy who played Gus in Nexis. But it would be a fool’s errand. Just like there is no other girl for him, there is no other boy for me.
Sighing, I turn and follow after Quentin. Because, like he can’t stop chasing me, I can’t stop following him. No matter where it leads.
chapter sixteen
Post-American Date: 7/7/232
Longitudinal Timestamp: 5:57 p.m.
Location: Disfavored Tunnel System
Quent comes back to the mouth of the tunnel and hands me a small pack. “Faulk and Aaron have disappeared. I assume they went back to report what happened to Mac.”
“Or maybe they’re looking for us?”
“Maybe. It looks like the cannibals are gone, at any rate.” He gestures to the pack between us. “These are all the useful things I could find.”
I reach into the pack. A few light-sticks. A couple of nutra-packs. A water jug. A sticky thermal-blanket. A few lost personal items, including Angelique’s scratch-pad. I close the pack up and struggle to put it on. “Any sign of the others?”
“None who are alive, no.”
His words force me to halt, a sudden stillness in my chest. “Who?”
He avoids my eyes. “Don’t ask me to tell you that.”
I cover my mouth to keep my lips from trembling. He means someone I know is dead, someone whose death would matter. Of course, I care that any of them are dead. That our small group of survivors had gotten this far made me want to cheer for all of them and their survival. “I…I need to see.”
“Elle…”
“Please, Quent, I need to see them. There’s no one else to remember them in death. Just us. We need to do this for them.”
I squint at his frowning face. “You’ll have more nightmares,” he warns.
“What’s a few more out of the thousands to choose from?”
Lips tight, he grasps my elbow and helps me limp back into the cavern.
The first body we come across is Beau’s. His eyes stare upward at the ceiling, he lies in a near-perfect circle of his own blood. Seeing his face makes my stomach turn, but I fight to keep the contents down as, wincing against the pain in my reinjured leg, I crouch close to him and close his cold eyes. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“I took too long,” Quent says, voice distant. “Too long to get them food and water. If I’d come back, led them away…”
“No,” I say, “don’t start thinking that way. You’ll go mad.”
He looks away. “He was my responsibility. My Doll.”
“Your Dolls came down here with you willingly. They knew the risks.”
He makes a growling noise in his throat. “Then why do I feel so guilty?”
“For the same reason I feel guilty? Because you’re a good person, and you feel like the things you’ve done are the cause of it, even though they aren’t. We’re one drop of many in a bucket of lies and deceit.”
Shoulders slumping, he stops moving and gives me a pained expression.
I force myself to stand and turn away from Beau. Then I take Quent by the hand. He’s shaking. “It’s not our fault he’s dead, that any of these people are dead. The cannibals killed them. Not us,” I say, trying to believe it myself. I lift his hand, kiss his knuckles. “We were trying to save them, to make them safe. We need to remember that.”
“I know.” His voice sounds raw. “It’s just— I’m so sick of losing people. What am I going to tell Cam?”
My heart sinks. Cam. Poor Cam. He’ll feel the same way I did when Quentin died in Nexis to save me. Falling apart, no reason to live. “If we find him, tell him the truth. That Beau died valiantly, and Cam should be proud of him. Cam might even already know, so don’t stress too much over a course of action that may never take place.”
Face twisted, he looks away, and I think he might start crying. Reaching up, I touch his face, and he grasps my hand to his cheek as though it might give him strength. I tug at his other hand. “Come on.”
We pass the body of a cannibal. Quent gives him a dark glare as we pass him.
“He’s dead. Be nice.”
He turns his glare on me then looks back down at the cannibal. “He kidnapped people and ate them for a living.” I feel his hand slide along my back, pull me closer to him in a possessive gesture. “If he wasn’t already dead, I’d have made him suffer first and I wouldn’t have felt bad about it.”
In my mind, I hear the gunshot going off, my uncle’s brains spattering, and a chill shimmies up my back, despite Quentin’s hot touch. “It scares me, how you can turn cold sometimes. How death seems so easy, so cut and dry for you.”
His hand disappears and he takes a few steps away from me. Back turned, he says, “When you’re filled with so much hate and anger, it’s easy to keep a fire inside. It’s easy to let it swallow you up, let it burn you. It’s cleansing sometimes. You come out a different person. Harder, like steel.” He glances over his shoulder. “I have to be hard, Elle. For me”—he turns away again—“for them. Sometimes I don’t have the luxury of a soft heart or ethics and morals. I’m a trained Leader. The Manager. Judge. Jury. Executioner. I can’t afford remorse.” He’s quiet for a long moment. “At least, that’s what I tell myself. But it’s not easy. And their eyes…”
“Haunt you.” I finish his thought, remembering Veronica and Nadine and Meems. “You’ve done the right things up until this point. Even killing Uncle Simon. Don’t let what I say make you question that. I’m just jealous. I wish I could handle what I’ve done as well as you do.”
He doesn’t answer me. Just begins walking. I hobble after.
Next comes Veronica again, face nearly destroyed. I assume someone struck her, most likely ruptured one of her facial Modifications. Quent avoids looking at her.
Then a boy named Twine I’d gone to school with and a man I don’t know.
Four more cannibals.
Karl was shot point-blank in his bedroll and Jayn beaten beyond recognition. “Oh,” I breathe, and turn away from them, hiding my face against Quent’s chest.
He holds me close, and I feel him fighting not to shake. In rage? Or grief?
After a few moments, I continue on. The last body is farthest from the others and hardest of all. Violet. Not surprisingly, she looks the most prepared for the death that came to her. Perhaps she was ready. Still…
I collapse beside her and stare at her face. Shot in the head. Her eyes are closed and her arms have been laid across her chest. Someone arranged her body. Out of respect? Grief comes hard and fast, making it difficult to breathe. I might have been able to handle the Dolls and the other Aristocrats, but Violet?
Quent stands beside me, face completely closed down, and I just sit there, shaking with rage and hyperventilation. I should be crying, but I think I’m all dried up. Too numb, maybe? Although I feel everything keenly, right down to my bones.
He bends down. Touches my shoulder. “We need to get moving.”
I ignore him. “Why?” I gasp the word. “Why would they kill an innocent old woman? She couldn’t fight. She could barely breathe.”
“Maybe that’s just it,” Quent says, voice quiet and clipped. “Perhaps she couldn’t have kept pace with them, would have dragged them down. They move quickly, I’m told. In and out.”
That doesn’t help, only makes me close my eyes and shake against the rage inside of me. “She was such a special person.”
“I know.”
Silence stretches for a long, long time. I stare at Violet’s serene features, lovely even with a hole in her head. After what seems like forever, Quent grasps my elbow. “Come on, we can’t stay here. They might come back.”
“Back?” I say, blindly standing at his tugging grasp. “For what?”
He slides his arm around
me, guides me toward a different tunnel. “Considering what they’re known for? I can’t imagine they’d leave bodies behind for long. I don’t want to be here if they do come back after they’ve secured their prisoners.”
The cannibals got that title from something. I glance over my shoulder and watch Violet as we walk away. I want to bury her or burn her. I want to do something to save her from that fate. But what? What could we do? I can’t ask Quent to carry all these people back to Kairos and we can’t bury them in a rock-hard tunnel.
“Wait,” I breathe.
Quent goes still.
“Can’t we do something? I can’t stand to leave them here like this. Can you?”
His shoulders droop. “No.”
An idea occurs to me, from something that I read. “Vikings.”
“What?”
“They used to do water burials. We could do that—send them off.” I point at the dark body of water at the end of the cave.
Squinting at me, Quent looks less than convinced, but he nods.
Quent drags the bodies toward the pond. Even the cannibals. I try to help, but he reminds me of my leg and, annoyed, I have to sit down and watch him do all the work, which I hate. He keeps lifting his head and inspecting the surrounding cave mouths, as if expecting someone to come at us at any moment, and it makes me twitchy and worried because if they come, I can no longer run.
By the time all the bodies have been brought to the edge of the water, he’s sweating and panting and I’m a paranoid mess and angry at myself for being so careless with my leg. Though, when he turns to me and I see the pain in his eyes, I remember my own internal agony and I find forgiveness for myself. People do foolish things in their grief, and sometimes it’s not smart and it’s not safe. I just have to fix it as soon as possible.
We send the cannibals first, not knowing what to say or do for any of them, but giving each a silent moment of respect, even though neither of us really feels it right now. It’s the right thing to do. The Aristocrats come next. The man I don’t know. Veronica. Twine. Quent drags them into the deep water, then stands waist deep and says something about each. Things I didn’t know that makes each a little more human and a lot less like generic Aristocrats who I’ve come to judge too harshly.
Body after body gets sent off into the water. I try not to think of ends. Instead, I try to think of those who might still be alive. Bastian and Sadie and their unborn child. The other Dolls. There’s Carsai and the other Aristocrats. Delia and Gus…if they weren’t caught… I hope that nothing more comes to harm any of them.
Jayn. Then Karl. Quent speaks long and quietly to each of them—saying what, I don’t know. I don’t try to listen. While I counted each as a friend and ally, they were more to Quent and it’s his time to grieve. He pulls them both into the deep water, watches them sink.
Then, he wades back in and grasps Beau by the shoulders of his uniform. He drags him out. Stands there, wrists curled under Beau’s limp arms. He starts to speak, but at this point, Quent’s ragged voice starts to falter and it’s obvious that he’s not holding it together well at all, so I carefully wade out and put a hand on his chest. “Quent?”
“I-I can’t…”
“Shhh,” I whisper, smoothing the hair at the nape of his neck. “It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything. He knows how much you loved him. Just let him go.”
Shaking under my fingers, Quent nods. Collects himself. Continues to drag Beau out. He stands shoulder deep, watching the body sink for what feels like eternity. Finally, he turns and together we slosh back to shore.
I glance down at Violet, who is still lying on the ground waiting her turn to be sent off. “Oh Violet,” I whisper, a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes again. “If only you got to live long enough to get what you always hoped for.”
Quent rummages in the pack. He pulls out a light-stick, snaps it on, and throws it with all his might into the darkness. It arcs high, making a whistling noise as it goes, illuminating the pointed stone above us before tumbling down to hit the water with a thunk. I watch as it bobs back to the surface, creating a tiny orb of wavering light as it floats.
More follow.
Two light-sticks, half a dozen. Four more.
“Quent?” I ask, concerned that he’s throwing away our only source of light. “What are you doing?”
He tosses the last one. Waits for it to splash before turning toward me. The last light-stick glows warm and ruddy between us. “Okay, it’s ready.”
I turn back to the water, squint. The light-sticks glow dully across the water, creating a wavering banner of winking rainbow light. And then I realize what it reminds me of. “Quent,” I breathe.
His smile is slow and subdued. He’s exhausted, his eyes dull and his movement weary as he turns to Violet. I bend to help him, taking up some of the weight of Violet so he doesn’t have to.
“Your leg,” he says.
“It’s fine,” I grunt against the pain. “I need to do this.”
He frowns at me, but nods. And together we draw Violet into the pool. I hold her there for an instant. Then I nod to Quentin, who takes her the rest of the way and drops her into the water.
He comes back and stands beside me.
I think about everything that’s sinking into the deep with Violet. Lifetimes of experience and knowledge. “She was a very old woman.”
“Four hundred and thirty-two.”
I glance at him. “You’re so sure?”
He nods. “She was one of the original inhabitants of Evanescence. The last remaining Elder. Everything she knew is dead with her. She deserved better than this. A better death. A better funeral. One where everyone in Evanescence is in attendance and they do a special for her on The Broadcast.” His face twists, bitter. “And we give her this.”
I take his hand, squeeze it hard. “You gave her the stars, Quentin Cyr. That’s the only thing she ever wanted. And for that, I love you all the more.”
He turns to me, meets my adoring gaze. And in that time, despite the circumstance and place and all the death, destruction, and pain around us, I feel a well of pure and positive emotion. I love this boy. The real one, not the avatar.
I turn away, stare back at the twinkling water. “That song, the one Violet was humming in the tunnel the other day. What was it called?”
“It’s called ‘My Way.’ It was her favorite, I think.”
“My Way,” I whisper and then, sad, I smile. I start to hum the song. The sad, slow thing. And as I hum, tears fall for my fallen comrades. For many years lost and for memories forgotten, ambitions foiled, and futures untold.
A moment later, Quent joins me. His low baritone lending to my high soprano. And together we send the dead off to the stars.
chapter seventeen
Post-American Date: 7/7/232
Longitudinal Timestamp: 11:23 p.m.
Location: Disfavored Tunnel System
We’re quiet as we walk away from the cave of the dead and it remains so until Quentin touches my shoulder. “We should be back at the rebel encampment by now.”
“Yes, but it’s entirely possible we didn’t pick the right tunnel out.”
We go a bit farther and the tunnel widens into another cavern that looks very similar to the other, water and all, just smaller.
“Your limping is getting worse.”
I look down at my leg, hating that I’ve been foolish again. My legs are too new to me and I’ve yet to come to terms with the fact that my mobility is a strange in-between of what I had in Nexis and what I had in Real World. I need to learn a balance and learn it fast, just like I have to learn to use a mask. “Yeah.”
“Here,” he says, turning and offering me his back. “I’ll carry you.”
“No.” While the idea is tempting, I’m not stupid. “You’re just as tired as I am. Let’s just rest for a bit.”
Quentin looks torn by the idea. It’s clear he’s about to collapse from exhaustion, but, like me, is apprehensive about rema
ining in the tunnels as long as we know cannibals are on the loose.
“Just for a little while,” I say. “We’ll turn the light-stick off. It will be safer that way.”
He gives the cave a quick once-over then nods. “All right. Just for a bit.”
Voices and bright light wake me. I sit bolt upright and scramble to find my gun, my mind trying to pinpoint the last spot I saw Quentin as I struggle for my feet.
As soon as I’m out of my sleeping bag, something hits me hard in the side. A kick. I fly back, knock my head against the rock. For a moment, I wobble on hands and knees, blinking to see through the blood-red sparks and night-black fireworks in my vision. I lift my head, only to be soundly punched in the cheek. As I collapse to the ground, I taste blood. And then I feel adrenaline rage course through my veins, screaming to fight. I struggle to push myself up.
Whoever it is grabs my hair, yanks me to unsteady feet. I lash out with my fists, but he twists his hand in my hair and tosses me back to the ground. He kicks me again, right in the stomach. This time it hurts so bad that my lungs collapse and I can’t think. He uses that time to roll me onto my face and bind my hands and legs behind me with something that bites into my skin.
As soon as I’m bound, he abandons me. Fighting the pain in my stomach and face, I struggle against my bonds and roll around to see that he’s turning to engage a new assailant who is coming at him, screaming. I don’t know who it is, I can hardly see beyond my tears of pain and the near darkness on my side of the cave.
Someone touches my arm and I gasp, but their hand finds my mouth, silencing me from a scream. “Don’t make a sound.” The voice is Quentin’s.
I feel him begin to untie me, but someone flies at him from the side, tackling him to the ground. They tussle, rolling around. I hear them splash into the water. As they fight, I desperately tug at my bonds, attempting to free my hands so that I can get to the gun sticking out of the front pocket of my pack.
