The Dark and Hollow Places (11 page)

We just have to keep going.

As we continue, the sound of dripping grows louder, more
insistent, like a tripping heartbeat. Murky water starts to splash under our feet, cresting over our shoes and eventually up to our shins. Our steps become loud sloshing sounds that drown out everything else.

My skin tightens into goose bumps, the heavy weight of sodden pants dragging at my hips. On the surface thin slivers of ice fracture and disappear like eggshells cracking as we pass. The water keeps rising—it’s up along my thighs and then I’m standing on my tiptoes to keep it from brimming over my waist, my body jerking with the cold.

“Wait,” I call out to Catcher, my breath whispery and shaking through chattering teeth. He stops a few paces in front of me and turns, the low burn of his torch throwing an orange glow over his cheekbones.

I gesture at the water, a darkness swallowing my lower body. “What if there’s Unconsecrated in there?”

He holds the light closer to the surface as if it could illuminate what’s below. “They’d be downed,” he says. “You should be okay.”

“Should?” my voice squeaks. After the close call from before, I’m not willing to take the chance of being bitten by some plague rat floating underwater.

“They can’t smell or sense the living in the water,” he says but I’m shaking my head.

“Unless I bump into one of them,” I protest. “That’s not a risk I really want to take. Even if
you
brush them they won’t …” I wave my hand at him, thinking about earlier when he stood in the midst of the crowd of dead as if he were one of them.

He looks at me for a moment, his forehead furrowed, and then he frowns as he realizes what I mean.

It’s freezing and my muscles won’t stop cramping. Ripples
bloom in the water around me as I shift and jolt to keep the blood moving through my body.

“Carrying you won’t be easy with my arm,” he says. “You could float but in this cold and with your hair being so long …”

I cringe at the thought of Unconsecrated hands twisting through my hair, winding it around their fingers until they’d pulled me under to feast.

Catcher sloshes closer, his movement kicking up waves that pulse around my hips. He turns away from me and leans over slightly, gesturing toward his back. “Can you climb on?”

I stare at him a moment, the expanse of shirt pulled tight over skin. I hate that I need his help like this, but I’m not stupid enough to shrug off his offer. The best chance I have of making it through the water is to rely on him.

Inhaling a sharp cold breath, I bend my knees, sending the frigid water level cresting up to my waist. Then I jump, my momentum so slowed by the sludge that I sort of fall and slide against Catcher’s back, scrambling to grip his shoulders and wrap my legs around his waist.

He stumbles a little, my extra weight throwing him off balance, and then tucks his hand under my thigh to help settle me into place. I sink into him, laying my cheek on the smooth spot between his shoulder blades. His body is so warm it causes me to shudder, the heat spreading along my legs and up my stomach and chest.

I sigh, threading my arm up over his shoulder to pull myself closer. He still smells like the outside, like the Forest. As he trudges through the darkness the water sloshes around us both and his body rocks. I squeeze my legs around him tighter, linking my feet together just below his abdomen.

“This okay?” I ask and my mouth hovers next to his ear. I sense more than feel the hairs along his neck prickling, almost brushing against my cheek. He grunts an answer and keeps walking, the slushing sound of his legs cutting through the water echoing around us.

I feel the twitch of his muscles and the beat of his pulse thrumming just under his skin. He rests his arm on my knee, the wound from the bolt tied tight and the blood washed away. I can’t stop my mind from being hyperattuned to every detail of this moment. Wondering if he’s aware that his fingers trail along the narrow band of skin between the bottom of my pants and top of my sock. They drum lightly against me like drops of water falling to the ground.

I feel like I should say something. The silence is too familiar. I’m not used to touching people, to having them touch me. But anything I could say would be either too mundane or too personal. And so I let my cheek rest in the crook of his shoulder blade and allow my body to mold to his as he plows forward.

I close my eyes and imagine the sun. I imagine a field of flowers and no sounds on the breeze other than the call of birds and hum of insects. No death. No running and hiding. No fear. And then I imagine Catcher next to me, the steady drum of his touch around my ankles, moving up toward my knee.

I draw a sharp breath, startled at the direction of my thoughts. My neck flushes, the heat of it creeping up over my jaw and along my cheeks. I’m glad Catcher can’t see me.

He tightens his grip. “Stop squirming,” he says, which mortifies me even more. “It’s getting shallower,” he adds as he stumbles from the water up toward the higher and drier ground of a station.

He lets go of me just as the surface clears his knees and I wriggle down, splashing when I land. I scramble toward the platform and hoist myself up, keeping my back turned the whole time so he can’t see my blushing face.

Suddenly, I feel awkward. As if I should say something about what just happened, but I’m not used to talking to people so all I can muster is “Thanks.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see him grimace as he uses his injured arm to help lift himself up. “Whatever it takes to survive,” he says, pulling himself to his feet.

It’s stupid of me to want him to say something more, to acknowledge the intimacy of the last few moments, and I realize he’s right: we do what it takes to survive. His carrying me wasn’t a tender moment, it was simply what needed to be done.

I should know better than anyone that this life isn’t about feelings; it’s about making it through alive.

I wrap my arms around myself again, digging my fingers into my shoulders to conserve what heat is left from his body. My pants are sodden and heavy, my feet almost numb. “This should be far enough into the City,” I say, and nod my chin toward the stairs ascending into the darkness.

He starts walking toward them, the light still gripped tight in his hand.

I follow, pulling the machete from my belt. “When we get outside we’ll need to find the closest fire escape and climb up to the bridges,” I tell him. “Judging from what we saw in the Neverlands it might not be long until they breach the Palisade wall if they haven’t already.”

He says nothing, just nods again and takes the steps two at a time, so I have to scramble after him to keep within the
meager light. My thighs quickly start to burn, my body exhausted and starving as I struggle against my heavy waterlogged clothes.

But at least the physical strain is almost enough to overpower the thoughts spiraling through my head, the remnants of what it felt like to press against his back and the smell of the crook of his neck and the fact that he’s barely said five words to me since he let me go.

Finally, by the time we reach the metal door barring the street, I’m ready to leave all that behind and face whatever lies outside. I have to be.

C
atcher eases through the door first, and I can see around him that there’s panic in the streets. He pauses and I dash past him to the closest fire escape, jumping for the ladder that’s just out of reach. He nudges me aside and pulls it down before shoving me up it.

Around us I hear the City in uproar: people shouting and bells ringing. The wind smells like smoke, and I’m almost terrified by what I’ll see when we reach the roof and can take in the full scope of what’s going on around us.

Fetid water trails down my legs with each rung I climb, and I’m pretty sure it’s dripping on Catcher as he follows me up to the landing. I pause to readjust my grip on the machete and start up the stairs before Catcher pushes me aside, taking the lead.

“I can take care of myself, you know,” I snap at his back as I follow him up, our steps reverberating through the rusty metal stairs.

His shoulders tighten in response but he keeps going. At the top he hesitates, peering over a once-elaborate but now-broken stone cornice circling the building. “It’s clear,” he says, struggling only slightly this time as he uses both his arms to haul himself up and over onto the roof.

I follow, landing beside him with a squelch as water leaches from my shoes. That’s when I get a clear view of the Dark City around us and the Neverlands beyond. Or rather, what’s left of them.

At night when I couldn’t sleep I used to imagine what this city was like before the Return. There are a few artifacts left over from the before time. The Protectorate once used an old building as a museum of sorts, as if seeing what life was like before would be an incentive for us to work harder toward a similar future.

One year for my birthday Elias gave me a pass to the museum. I remember taking care the night before to wash my hair and braid it so that it would frizz around my head like a golden crown when I awoke and unwound it. I was nervous going into the museum—I was alone since Elias wasn’t going to spend the credits for two tickets, and I remember tugging the ends of my hair while I waited in line.

I still believed in the Protectorate back then. Believed what they told us about what was best for us and our way of life. Recruiters stood at the doors to the building, their black uniforms so clean and crisp against the grime of the City. This was well before the Rebellion so they were our regal protectors then—respected and trusted.

They marched us past the exhibits quickly, nudging me along when I wanted to stop and gawk. And then some girl started screaming about something, throwing a tantrum, and
it distracted everyone else and held up the line so that I suddenly could take all the time I wanted wandering from room to room, examining what existed before.

The walls were covered with photographs: shiny bulletlike machines that sped through the tunnels called subways, sloping parks with families picnicking while kids clutched balloons. Buildings that stood tall, the glare of light bouncing off them so bright that even from the dingy picture I wondered how people back then didn’t go blind.

Every detail of the museum awed me. After that visit I became obsessed with trying to understand what this city had been. I wanted a museum of my own—artifacts to decorate our flat’s bare depressing walls. But most of all I wanted to know what happened to this place when the Return hit. What did it smell like? What did it sound like? How did any of it survive?

That was when I first went down into the subways, hoping there’d be clues of what came before, lost in the darkness. I pushed farther and deeper than I had any right to go—than was reasonably safe if you could ever call the tunnels safe at all.

The pit of barbed wire was a trap from the Return—a tangle of razor-sharp wire strung up to catch and maim Unconsecrated, not a little girl so many generations later.

I shudder, remembering the penetrating bite of each keen edge. The sound of Elias’s panic when he came searching and found me bloody and broken.

Now, standing on the roof and looking down, I understand just a taste of what the Return must have been like. The fires that gutted rows of buildings and tore a gash through the old park. The sound of terror as people screamed and the dead
moaned. The sight of people running through the streets that could never be safe again.

Without thinking, I slip my hand into Catcher’s. Just needing something human to anchor me in the horror of the moment. His fingers wrap around mine, squeezing tight.

The north end of the island, the Neverlands past the Palisade wall a few blocks away, is almost impossible to see through the haze of thick roiling smoke. The wind twists and pulls flames into the sky, trailing dark clouds out over the river. The bridges leading to the mainland are stuffed with what must be Unconsecrated—so full that bodies tumble over the railings, careening down onto the river below.

But they don’t strike water because the river is a frothing mass—dead churning and sinking only to be replaced by another and then another. The bodies packed so tightly they form almost a solid platform for the ones behind to walk across. They crash against the shore, the walls on either side of the bridge breached and crumbled, not even slowing the onslaught. The far mainland shore writhes with them all, trees snapping and crashing under the barrage of so many arms and legs and hands and feet.

Streams of the living force themselves south along the bridges strung from roof to roof. Even from here I can see how they push and shove, trying to make it to the Palisade wall so they can cross into the Dark City where Catcher and I stand.

Except the bridges aren’t meant for so much weight—for such panic. They sway, some of them snapping, and spill their occupants into the rolling sea of dead below.

And that’s what it’s like in the streets: an ocean of dead. Bodies tumble over and around each other. In some places
they pile against the buildings, trying to push their way toward the people they sense inside. Others group under the bridges, their arms raised, waiting for the living to rain down.