17 – 5
I needn't wait long. The trickle of water around my feet swells into a rush, its turbulent surface shining with the same oily iridescence I saw on the river above. The stagnant air starts move, brushing my face with a touch that stank of mire, mold, and musty earth. That sound, that slime-slick slither that seemed to emanate from behind and ahead of me, grows louder, its source defined: ahead, and closing fast.
It slides into view, this latest horror of Sockeye Bend, pale flesh glistening in the pallid sunlight. The round, corpulent tube of its body jiggles as the muscles within writhe in peristaltic waves, pushing more and more and more of it forward. The stone falls from my nerveless grip as I take an unbidden step back. The pitiful little pebble I meant to be a weapon splats into the clinging, caking mud that fell with me, splashing it up my legs.
No eyes open on its front or along its sides, nor do scar-like seams in its flabby hide suggest a rot-flower mouth, and it doesn't taste the air with a worm-like tongue. I take another step back, this one bidden, and another; my heels dragging through the sodden earth, fear's acrid taste on my tongue. My breath comes harshly, hissing through my nose while my heart pounds. It is like the serpent that chased me here, but it is not one of them.
How did it find me? Did it hear the sound of the collapse and follow it? Did it feel it, through rolls of bloated flesh? I get free of the clinging mud. Chance a look over my shoulder, into the looming dark. Will it follow the splash of my running steps, or their rumble in the stone beneath?
It is closer when I look back, much closer; enough that I could graze it with my fingertips, should I reach out.
I do not.
I turn on my heel and flee, staggering and stumbling into the looming dark. Just before I turn my back to it for good, I catch sight of something in the corner of my eye, something that leaves me with a realization as horrible as its source: at the furthest reaches of what the pallid daylight can touch, its bulk thins, narrows, and splits into at least a half-dozen long, trailing tendrils.
It wasn't a serpent that came from the well, that hunted Clarke and I, and drove us to part ways. It wasn't a serpent that I lured away with taunting words from my mother's lessons, that chased me through narrow, winding alleys, and vanished before I fell through the ground. It was one massive creature, vile and corpulent, that slithered and slid up from depths of dark water to glut itself on all of Sockeye Bend; leaving behind naught but emptied streets, hills of bone, and echoes of water.
Warm, slimy water sloshes around my ankles and slicks the stone underneath. I keep my hand on the tunnel wall, following the smooth-worn scrape of its guidance, and begging help from gods that have yet to answer.
Don't let it get me, when the creature's weight of presence bears down on my nape.
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Don't let me fall, when the ground beneath my feet becomes uneven and threatens to bring me down.
Let me live, when the tunnels seem to stretch forever into the dark, please, let me live!
Tears sting and sobs spill forth; and again my prayers go unanswered. The very edge of the creature's front reaches me, brushes against me. It smears foul, cold slime down my back and catches my heels. I scream as it trips me, tearing knees and elbows bloody in my efforts to stay upright, to stay moving. It may not have a mouth at this end, but it needs only a moment to crush me.
It doesn't get this one, nor does it get the next, or the one after. By then I've my feet beneath me and my hand on the tunnel wall. Warm, slimy water stings in fresh cuts and tastes foul on my tongue. I hack and spit, swiping my blind, burning eyes with the back of my free hand. Follow smooth-stone guidance down a hard turn. The creature pursues, riding a peristaltic wave of writhing muscle.
Fine, then. I'll find my own answers, I'll save myself, and damn You both for your silence.
Another blind turn, and things change: the water turns cold and deepens, climbs above my ankles; there's debris underfoot, clacking, clattering, and crunching as I wade though; the air doesn't smell as foul; and the endless darkness gains a tinge of gray. I blink burning tears from my eyes as the debris tugs at my clothes with sharp, spindly ends.
What is this? Where is this?
The tunnel's curve leads to light, pale and painful on my dark-drunk eyes. I blink the fresh well of tears away, see a frayed rope climbing a shaft lined in masoned stone, and find the answer.
- - -
Displaced water swells up my legs, swirling just below my knees. What little ground I'd gained on the creature shrinks by the heartbeat. I don't know if the rope will hold my weight, nor if I can climb fast enough to escape my hunter's crushing bulk or its questing tendrils. What I do know is that while there may be other chances in the dark, they are so distant and obscure I will not find them in time. The rope will hold me. I'll be fast enough.
The frayed end hangs overhead, just beyond the reach of my outstretched arm. I could jump for it, but I won't get another chance if I miss. The water is up to my thighs now, so I should think I will. I'll have to climb to it, scale the shaft's wall. It's not much wider around than I, and there are gaps where the plaster has crumbled and fallen out; holds for hand and foot. I put them to use, start to climb, and the creature catches up.
It's awful in the light, just as much as before. A jiggling, corpulent tube of slime-slick flesh, pushing water and clacking, clattering debris ahead of it like the prow wave of a ship. Bones, I realize, they are bones; hundreds upon hundreds of them. Enough to bury me, swallow me whole. They scratch my calves and ankles with their sharp, spindly ends and my skin crawls.
The rope brushes the back of my head, frayed ends itching my scalp. I flail blindly for it, wrap it around my wrist, and pull. It creaks. It groans.
It holds.
My body trembles with the effort of pulling my feet from the water. The creature passes beneath in a sliding wall of slick, bone-white flesh, unknowing or uncaring of being evaded. More and more of it passes by, and I kick out at a gap in the plaster until the toe of my boot catches within it. I can't stop. The other end's the dangerous one.
Climb, Zira. One hand over the other, one foot over the other. Ignore the fire in your muscles, the fever in your blood, the ache in your very bones, and climb.
At the hilltop. You promised her, promised Clarke. Meet her there. Keep your word.
Climb.
I crest the edge of the well, wedge it in the pit of my arm, and brace my heel against the far side of the shaft. With what must be the very last of my strength, I heave myself over and out. I land, gasping for breath, in Sockeye Bend's empty, silent plaza. Shards of bone and bucket dig uncomfortably into my back. I roll away, cradling my hands to my chest. They're scraped raw and bloody, filthy and shaking. All of me is shaking; from fear, from exhaustion, from sheer relief.
I'm out. I made it. If only I could stop, if only I could lie here for a hundred years; until I've forgotten what it is to be weary, frightened, or hurt. I roll again, get my knees underneath me. Press my brow to the plaza's cold stone. Breathe. Then back on my feet, staggering north.
If only.