Chapter 8.2: Lamentations of the Damned (continued)
Dead Boy hikes up the hill into the red sky, following the lilting sound of the mournful song. The incline has become quite steep, but crests just ahead in a deep pink peak that he is sure he can reach in only a minute or two if he keeps pushing on.
He stumbles and catches himself with both hands gripping the cold ground. His whole body aches fiercely. Pausing for a moment to catch his breath, he looks around and realizes all the others have already moved on ahead.
Wait a minute—I’m all alone.
He looks slowly from left to right in a dreamlike stupor, feeling like a bug on a rock listening to an ethereal voice sing just for him. The thin crimson fog is darkening, but he can see far enough to know for certain that he is completely alone now—the only other sign of life is the wordless song beckoning him onward.
It dawns on him that this might be his last opportunity to run for it. Slim chance of making it, sure, but it’s still technically possible. Maybe he can find a way to throw off the hounds’ scent? Roll in some mud or something?
The sunset fog swirls about his feet in playful eddies like crimson flames licking his calves. The song changes in tone, sounding so beautiful now. Enticing, even.
Who is that singing?
He starts moving again, cutting to the right to skirt around the hill. Maybe I can at least approach from a different direction, scout out the location and see what’s going on before they see me. I’ll assess the situation and make a break for it if things look unsafe.
But with every five steps to the side, he inexplicably finds he is one step closer to the crest of the hill. Within less than a minute, he’s almost at the top—and he’s sure the singing is coming from just on the other side.
He turns away with a grimace to retreat down the hill, only to find the ground at his feet completely obscured in thick blood red mist. It’s as if a solid bank of fog has blown in right up to his heels. He drops to his hands and knees, tries to feel his way down, but the ground is so incredibly cold and clammy in the wet condensation that his fingers immediately go numb.
The singing intensifies, trilling louder, tugging at his heartstrings with a nostalgic chord sequence. Jamar can’t be too far ahead. What is going on over there? Maybe just a quick peek?
Against his better judgment, Dead Boy stretches out his prone body so he can just about see over the crest of the hilltop. The fog seems thinner on the other side. Weird, wasn’t I crawling downward just a moment ago? How am I facing uphill now? He crawls forward and sees where everybody went.
The other side of the hill rolls gently down into a little valley. Rows of bleachers line the hillside, where a group of some thirty-odd people sit watching a young woman sing on an outdoor stage at the bottom. Behind the stage, around twenty cement pillars rise from the ground, pointing like fingers into the sky to form a resonant backdrop that amplifies her song to unearthly volumes.
It’s an amphitheater.
As Dead Boy walks down the hill toward the stage (why the hell am I coming down here?), the woman suddenly stops singing, the sound of her voice echoing out in a startling crescendo that dies off all at once. Dead Boy looks around, spots Jamar in the crowd nodding at him with an approving smile. Everybody is staring at him.
Dead Boy’s standing in front of the stage now (how did I get here so fast?), staring bewildered at the singer. She’s much younger than he originally thought, maybe even close to Garden’s age, although he’s sure the dusky fog is playing tricks with his eyes. She’s wearing some sort of theatrical getup, all leotard and feathers, and has long flaming orange hair that cascades dramatically around her shoulders.
“Who are you?” is all he can manage to say.
“My name is Siren,” the girl answers.
She steps forward and kneels down so she is eye-level with Dead Boy, then reaches out a hand and lightly touches the side of his cheek. Her fingertips are like ice. She smiles broadly.
“How nice of you to join us.”
Dead Boy’s mouth drops open in awe, his eyes wide circles. For the only thought reverberating in his mind now are the last two words Siren spoke:
Join us.
She parts her lips and begins lilting another sweet melody, low and sad.
Join us.
Her song envelopes him, cradling his head lovingly in her lap.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Join us.
She gazes softly into his eyes, her frozen blue irises cold and soulless.
Join us.
Dead Boy turns and flees back up the hill, running straight up the center aisle of the bleachers. The silent audience turns their heads in unison to watch him with dead eyes, grinning as he goes.
Join us!
###
Soda sits on the flat rooftop of a one-story strip mall, the fog deep and impenetrable all around him. He can’t see much farther than his own two hands.
Suits me just fine.
Guilt weighs heavily on his heart. So many things got messed up today. He was only summoned to the Council meeting this morning to explain what Elvis had told him—how the hell did this end up with Garden getting exiled and almost killed? And then, at least two guys did get killed. And now Garden’s basically living like a prisoner in a dirty hole in the ground.
He knows that none of it is exactly his fault, but he can’t deny he played a part in it. Especially the two guys who were slaughtered as Soda, Jazzman and Garden made their grand getaway. He dials his memory back to the big escape again, replays the scene pace by pace. Did anyone else see what happened? What about Jazzman’s two friends who ran the other way as a distraction—is it possible the other guards caught up with them and made them talk?
He has no idea, and the lack of any real answer is digging a gnawing pit in his stomach.
Even if there were no witnesses, the Council might still point their finger at him next if he can’t convincingly fast talk his way out of trouble when he returns home. They’re gonna wanna know why he ran off with the prisoner, how those guards got killed, where Garden is, the whole shebang.
Best to keep my story simple: I took her directly to Twin Peaks, dropped her off, the end. I don’t know anything about the attacks, must have run the other way. With no other runners in commission besides me, there shouldn’t be any conflicting stories for a long time.
Who knows if they’ll buy it. But for now, who cares? He’s tired, lonely and lost in the fog. And very, very cold—it’d be the death of him if he slept here on this rooftop.
The fog’s thick enough he’s pretty sure he can break into the strip mall without any Frozen spotting him. Maybe he can find a secluded maintenance room to camp in for the night. But he’s not moving anywhere just yet—something more important is finally coming to him:
Tiring of endlessly worrying about everything, his mind has wandered back to the dream he had the night before. No, not a dream—a memory.
The recollection of when he started drifting down the hill last night is slowly materializing in his mind, finally clarifying to the extent that he can almost feel himself in the moment again. He was running away from the wraiths… He had dodged that ice snake’s attack… And then poof, just like that, it felt like he was floating down the hill nice and easy the whole rest of the way home to the NBAZ.
And now the same feeling is crawling over him again.
Soda stands up, wobbly on his feet. The sensation is intensifying, a tingling full body pins-and-needles that he has no explanation for. He stumbles forward, steadies himself on an aluminum ventilation duct. His head is spinning, his brain is fuzzy.
A little whimper escapes his mouth and then his voice cuts out entirely. He raises his hands in front of his face and is astonished to find that he can see right through them, like looking at a reflection of his arms in a window. He stares in astonishment and horror.
His semi-transparent arms lengthen, drift away from him, and then disappear altogether. His legs are next, dissolving painlessly into fog-stuff, leaving his torso floating in mid-air. Then his whole body and head snuff out at once, leaving the physical world behind completely.
Now one with the fog, having become a part of the mist itself, Soda drifts out into the void.
###
Dead Boy lies helpless on the ground, stubbornly clinging to the last remnants of his life like a wounded animal bleeding out its last. He’s certain he must be dying—he can’t feel his body anymore.
His cheek is pressed flat against cold hard cement, a bike trail that snakes along the ice-bound coast of what was once the San Francisco Bay. He lies there feebly staring out at the still ice plain that covers the ocean, that no-man’s land where even the bravest dare not tread.
He wishes he could will himself to step out onto the ice—what’s the worst that could happen, another alien snatches him up? But no. He can’t move another step. His limbs do not obey. He’s done.
Join us.
Siren’s voice still echoes in his mind, calling to him ever more and more irresistibly. He finds it hard to think about anything but her words. He knows he can’t hold out much longer, feels the sheer strength of her hold on him, the intense gravitational pulling sensation that is drawing him back to her. Even through death, she is claiming him, her song an impervious virus that has infected his very soul.
He feels so stupid. Stupid! He stares sadly at the expanse of ice and tries to lose himself in its purity.
Join us.
Nobody had bothered stopping him as he ran out of the park. Even the wraiths and other monsters had stepped aside, offering him a clear path—he’d screamed all the way, but he’d been unable to drown out their chittering laughter.
They all knew what was coming for him. They knew he couldn’t fight this invader. That he’d be back.
Join us.
He tries to think about home, but can’t even remember where he lives. It’s all a jumble. Some people are important to him, right? Who? Mom, dad. Garden. Car … Carlita. Jamar. That last name fills him with a confusing sense of loss and hope mixed in one. He’s found Jamar, yes. Together again.
Join us.
He closes his eyes, wishing tears would come, but they don’t. They never will again. He exhales softly, his soul shuddering between his teeth.
Join us.
Dead Boy opens his eyes, frosted completely over now, and gazes hopelessly out at a world turned to shades of gray, a vista he’s seen so many times before through the eyes of the Frozen. Funny it should come to this, in the end.
Join us.
Jamar … together again, he thinks and gives in at last, succumbing completely as his consciousness winks out into nothingness.
Together again.
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