A minute or an hour or a day or a week may have passed, for all I know. I just know one foot and then the other. I know the feel of the frozen wall under my half-numbed hands to keep balance. I know the feeling of my feet sliding—that moment I think I’ll catch myself just before I slam to the ground.
And I know pushing myself back up, bruises blooming on bruises. Moans chase me, the sound such a constant that it feels as necessary as breathing.
The tunnel slopes deeper underground, which makes the ice underfoot grow thicker. It starts to fill the tunnel until I’m forced to walk stooped over so I don’t hit my head on the ceiling. Keeping my balance on the slick surface becomes difficult, and finally I fall with a thud that forces the air from my lungs and sends the lantern flying.
As I lie there trying to coax myself to breathe again, shadows whisper at the edge of the feeble light.
I roll to my knees, recognizing the shapes: twisted arms, splayed fingers, gaping mouths. Eyes still open, sightless. Ice burns on my knees and palms. My teeth chatter and I have to clench my jaw hard to make them stop.
Bits of the bodies jut from the ice, frozen in time. Fingers like blades of grass coating a field, an elbow like a broken tree branch. They’re everywhere, surrounding me. My lantern’s trapped in a nook a few arm’s lengths away, and slowly, careful to avoid the snags of protruding bodies, I crawl toward it.
The ceiling grates against my back, the space so narrow I almost have to lie flat on my stomach to reach the lantern. I’m forced to rest my cheek on the ice, facing the bared teeth and clawing hands.
Some of the dead look like they’re asleep—like they collapsed down here, with no more living flesh to tempt them, and have been trapped ever since.
As I crawl I feel the top layer of ice beginning to melt under my touch. A tiny puddle already rests under the divot where the lantern rolled to a stop. Moans from the dead chasing me slip around the narrow space, bathing the frigid air with a sense of intense loneliness.
Stretching my arm as far as possible, I feel my fingers slide over the heated glass bulb of the lantern, knocking it just out of reach. Something brushes my foot and I glance over my shoulder, see fingers wrapping around my ankle. Teeth straining from the ice. All around me ice crystals sparkle and shimmer in the light and then there’s a sputter, a last gasping wheeze from the lantern, and everything goes black.
I scream. I can’t help it. The darkness hits with such a startling intensity that I’m stunned. I clamp a hand over my mouth, silencing myself. Listening for the sound of another body moving.
The image is still imprinted in my mind. The Unconsecrated, half her body trapped in the ice. Reaching for me nonetheless, her movements agonizingly slow.
I kick and kick again, dragging my knees to my chest until I’m wrapped in as tiny a ball as possible. Sound is basically useless in the tunnels. It hits the walls and runs over the ceiling, making it tricky to judge direction or distance. A trace of air whispers up my back and my mind conjures the worst—dead lips against my skin—and I have to force myself to focus.
I listen to my breathing and then I stretch my senses beyond that. I hear water melting down icicles dripping to puddles collecting under my body. And then I hear a body unfolding. The pop of a joint stretching. The wheeze that comes before the moan.
I knew there were pockets of dead trapped in these tunnels. I knew it was only a matter of time. Twisting onto my side, I grab my machete and swing it toward where I last saw the lantern, hearing the blade clank across the metal, the glass rolling over ice.
Panic claws at my senses, desperate to overwhelm me and shut me down, but I refuse to crumble. I feel the tip of the machete hook the lantern, then slide it toward me and fumble in my pocket for the flint.
I strike. A tiny flicker of light that illuminates mouths and eyes a short distance away. I whimper.
Strike again.
Hands stretching toward me.
I lash out with the machete, swinging it wildly around me and finding only air and ice. I kneel, strike the flint again and again, twisting my fingers against the wick of the lantern until there’s a hiss and a sizzle and the flame sputters to life.
The moans are almost whispers, Unconsecrated bodies so close to being frozen that their movements are dulled, as if trapped under thick sludge. But still they come for me.
Clawing at the ice, sliding across its surface, they slither through the narrow gap near the roof of the frozen tunnel.
The few moments I took to light the lantern allowed them to come closer. I see the details now—the curve of cheekbones, angle of jaws, arch of eyebrows. The hollow desire.
When the first one is within range I strike out, piercing her eye with the tip of the machete, bracing my foot against her face for the leverage to pull the blade back and strike again.
I clear a narrow path between them. Feel the trace of their fingers along my leg as I crawl past. But I’m not moving fast enough. There are too many surrounding me.
My movements become frantic as I wave the machete in tight circles, warding off their touch, but it’s not enough. Suddenly I hear a high-pitched keen, and then without warning there’s a loud crack and something shifts underneath me. I roll to the side, digging the tip of the machete into the ice and wrenching myself forward.
It takes both my hands to hold on, and I’m forced to toss the lantern aside. It feels as if the ground’s given way, opened up and swallowed the world. Massive sheets of ice tilt and collapse, dumping the weight of the dead into the depths as a wave of frigid water washes over the bottom of my legs.
Kicking hard, my feet connecting with a body and gaining traction, I scramble forward, sliding on my stomach across the rest of the ice until I can finally stand.
The lantern sputters again, out of my reach on a ledge of ice surrounded by the dead. It throws a guttering light over the thrashing bodies, some of whom still fight toward me, fingers reaching. Their moans warble and fade, swallowed by the water.
I don’t want to leave the comfort of the light. But I know that beyond this pocket of dead there are more—hundreds more, if not thousands, spilling into the tunnel. I turn back to the darkness, stumbling into the abyss.
As my numb feet carry me forward I start feeling like the dead behind me are calling my name. Like instead of moans they’re calling “Aaaaannnaaaahhhh” over and over again, like a choir from the end of the world singing for my death. Sometimes bodies will rise in front of me, their steps staggering toward me, and all I can do is flail at the noise with my machete, slicing through whatever bits of them I can reach until they fall silent and let me pass.
For what feels like hours, days, months, I’m in the darkness. I become the darkness; it seeps into me and tries to eat its way out. It lulls me with promises of sleep and rest. It whispers to just give in. That it will protect me forever.
I ache to believe in it. I’m trembling from exhaustion, unable to feel my fingers or toes or knees or ears or lips from the oppressive cold and ice. There’s nothing inside me anymore. I’m just a body that jerks and shivers as time folds and crumples. For a moment I feel as though I’m on the path as a child with Elias. My sister is behind me, crying and begging me to come home to her.
Elias is reaching out a hand to pull me forward, but his fingers constantly slip through my own. I call out for Catcher. For anyone. For help. But the only response is the moaning. The stench of stale air.
I stumble to a stop and turn around. I wonder if this is it. If this is how the world ends. I wonder about all the other people who have faced this moment. I think of Catcher telling me about the night he climbed the roller coaster, when he lost all fear of heights because death was already eating away at him. He had nothing more to lose.
And I realize that’s the difference. I realize that I still have everything to lose. The possibility of my sister and Elias and Catcher and my future. I’d lose sunrises and stars and the feel of Catcher’s heat against my lips. I’d miss the taste of snow and
the smell of the first flower of spring.
I’d miss laughing and crying and all the moments in between.
I stumble back into the darkness and keep walking. Knowing that the pain I’m feeling now is because my body is alive.
I can tell by the echo of sound and the feel of the air when the tunnels open up into stations, when the path branches in front of me. I just keep my hand on the wall and push forward. I fall into such a repetition of steps that I’m stunned when I stumble against a massive pile of rubble.
I don’t even know how to process this information, I’m so surprised, and it takes a moment for me to realize that this is it. I can’t go any farther. I stand in the darkness, the vibration of the air behind me bristling with the ever-constant presence of moans.
I’m sure the Unconsecrated aren’t that far behind me; I’ve barely been able to walk. All I know is that I have to get past this and continue on. I shove the machete into my belt and start to feel my way along the debris, pulling at smaller rocks, when I notice something.
I can hear a slight whistle of air. I lean into it—it feels warmer and smells fresh and clean and like the outside.
A ball of excitement coils in my stomach, energizing me. I run my hands over the cave-in, feeling for loose pieces and prying at them. Sharp corners bite my fingers but I don’t care anymore. I have to keep moving.
It’s agonizing, trying to find a weak spot and dig away at it, and when I’m finally able to clear an opening wide enough to reach my arm through, rubble collapses in on itself. Behind me I hear the Unconsecrated shuffle along the tracks, knowing that soon they’ll stumble around me in the darkness.
I take a shuddering breath and shove my shoulder against a large slab of concrete, trying to shift it away, but my feet slip over the ice-slicked ground and I fall.
It’s impossible in the darkness. I can’t see how the pieces all fit together. Frustration rages through me. I don’t want to take the time to build a fire but I’m afraid that’s my only option. I skitter back down the tunnel, hands sweeping for anything dry, but everything’s still crusted with ice. I press my fists against my temples, trying to figure out what I can burn.
My fingers brush the edge of the hat Catcher gave me and the matching scarf wrapped around my neck. I tear them off and crumple them into a ball by the wall of debris. Over and over again, I strike the flint above it. Sparks dance down but won’t catch.
The moans grow louder, swelling around me. My heart pounds so hard that it feels like the world is pulsing. Quickly, I use the machete to slice a chunk of what’s left of the hair from my head and drop it on top of the scarf.
Breath held, I strike the flint. It sparks but still nothing catches. I strike it again. Nothing. But the third time, one of the sparks falls into the nest of hair and blazes—the flame spreads to the edge of the scarf and ignites. I swallow back the ache of watching Catcher’s present to me burn, the soft bright colors dissolving into ash and smoke.
Once the tiny fire sputters and flares I step back and stare at the debris pile, trying to figure out how to pull it apart. I find a slab of concrete bearing most of the weight and I dive toward it, scratching at the pebbles packed underneath it, digging my way through.
My hand reaches the outside air and I shove harder at the shards of concrete and stone, doing everything it takes to widen the little gap. I just need a bit more space. I squeeze and pry, and then I hear someone call my name.
“You’re kidding me, right?” I ask simply, pulling myself back into the tunnel. In the guttering light of the flames I see Ox standing about twenty feet away. He looks terrible, blood soaking his uniform, bites peppered along his hands and arms. Skin pale. “You’re supposed to be dead,” I add.
He smiles. “Not yet. Soon. And then I’ll Return, of course.”
I drop my chin to my chest, not able to believe this is happening. I take a deep breath before facing him again. “You should have turned around and run back there,” I tell him. “You could have saved yourself.”
He shrugs. “I got infected the moment I stepped off the cable car.” He stumbles over to the wall and slides down until he’s sitting on the tracks. The light of my tiny fire barely reaches him. He removes his shirt and tosses it toward the flames, making them burn even brighter. His chest is covered in scars—some thick and ropy and others tiny flecks of white.
I don’t want to think about what caused them. What the pain must have been like. I don’t want to feel sympathy for this man.
“Stupid,” I mutter. “What a waste. I wasn’t worth the hassle, you know.” I kick at more of the debris to clear it.
He looks up at me, his eyes big and dark. “There are people who believe the undead are eternal life. That they are a higher form of existence.”
“Yeah,” I scoff at him. “The Soulers. You imprisoned them, remember?”
He breathes deep. He’s lost a lot of blood. He may not have long to live but it’s hard to tell. I’m sure he’ll hold on as long as he can.
When I realize he’s not coming closer I crouch back down toward the hole I’ve been working on, shifting and pulling at the rocks again to widen the gap.
“Think about it,” he says, ignoring that I’m not paying attention. “What makes us frail? Stupidity, love, anger, hope. The undead have none of that. All they are is eternal existence.”
“They have no life,” I shout back at him. “Literally,” I add, which makes him smile. His teeth gleam in the darkness and it saddens me that this is what his last moments have come to.
He tilts his head. “That’s the question, isn’t it? What’s life and what’s existence?” He takes another deep breath and another, as if he can’t get enough air. I scramble at the rocks, knowing that once he dies he’ll Return and that behind him even more dead are coming. “Which would you choose?” he asks, his voice gravelly and wet.
I set a rock aside in case I need to use it against him. I make sure my machete’s within easy reach. The sound of the dead approaching rumbles and roars, making my work take on a frantic edge.
“It’s a fool’s choice, that’s what it is,” I tell him. “One brings you pain and the other numbness.”
He smiles wider, enjoying himself. “Isn’t that the question of life?”
I don’t answer. I dig.
“I know you think I’m a bad person, Annah,” he says softly. I glance back at him. He’s rolled almost onto his side. He’s gulping for air. I’m the last person he’ll ever talk to. The last person he’ll ever see—at least when he’s alive.
“I think we all make choices,” I tell him quietly.
And then he stops breathing.
I scramble for the machete and start running toward him, hoping to end it before he can Return, but when I’m halfway there I realize just how deafening the moaning through the tunnels has become. I recognize the beating under my feet, so constant that I’d grown accustomed to it. The air swells around me, and when I look up I see their eyes first.
They’re coming for me, a wall in the distance. I glance back at Ox, my grip on the machete so tight that my knuckles ache. He’s already twitching; his mouth opens and he screams loud before his vocal cords collapse and he’s struggling to his feet.
Terror wells inside me, as frigid as ice water. It threatens to paralyze me but I break against it, sprinting back to the debris pile.
They come after me, shuffling and stumbling and thundering with their moans. I tear at the rock wall, try again to shove myself through the gap. It’s still too narrow.
I can’t stop glancing back, some sick part of me needing to know just how much time I have left. Ox lumbers toward me, the rest of the horde closing in around him. He raises his arms, reaching for me.
I hack at the stones again with the machete. Anything to make this gap a little wider. For a brief moment I even consider taking the machete to myself—cutting off an arm so that I could fit through the opening—but I know it would be useless. I’d bleed to death before I ever made it
outside.
That’s when the last gasping flames of my fire sputter out, plunging me into darkness once again. There’s just a tiny glow of gray light from the gap I’ve made, a shaft of something brighter cutting through the black like a knife.
Something moves next to me and I shout, swinging the machete wildly. At first it only cuts through the air but I swing again and feel it connect with Ox’s flesh.
The moans continue. More bodies stumble along the tracks toward me. They keep coming. There’s no escape. There will never be escape.
They’ll smother me and then I’ll wander aimlessly like them until there’s no flesh left to eat. Trapped here forever.
Screaming in rage at the thought, I slice the machete through the air in a wide arc, feeling it dig into a body. I shove the body back as hard as I can and then I dive through the darkness to the debris.
This time I know it’s my last chance. I either squeeze through the gap or become Unconsecrated. I kick my feet against the ground, not caring about the rocks tearing at my ribs and shredding the skin over my hips.
But I’m still too big. I reach for anything on the other side to hold on to, but all I feel is rock and earth and ice.
Something grabs my foot. Dead fingers wrap around my ankle and I know that any second I’ll feel the hard ridge of teeth and I kick violently, jerking to the side as much as possible.
Around me the rocks shift and give just the tiniest bit. But it’s enough. My hips slide free and I’m pulling myself along the ground. When I get through I run my trembling hands over my body to make sure I wasn’t bitten. To wipe away the feel of those fingers on my cold pricked flesh.
Arms reach after me through the opening—Ox’s arms, with fresh bites still marking the skin—but he’s too big to get out. He’ll be stuck there reaching for me until eventually they all down or the force of so many bodies against the debris shifts it, pushing back the barrier and spilling them out into the world.