All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [245]
“We’ve got to move.” Mr. Welmann pointed down.
The lava in the chasm boiled and churned. Geysers showered molten rock into the air. Waves rebounded and crashed against the plateaus, crumbling their bases.
A whirlpool formed beneath Amanda, following her as she moved along the bridge; the swirling lava glowed hotter until it hissed silver vapor and blazed a blue-white too painful to look at.
Eliot had to play her something, a song to cool her spirit.
How had she managed to keep all that heat inside for an entire year? She should’ve told them.
Or had been his fault? Eliot had been so wrapped up in his own problems, that he’d never really been a friend for her.
He focused, thought about her, and started to strum his guitar.
“No way, man.” Robert grabbed him and pulled him back.
“Don’t,” Eliot growled. “I can do this.”
Fiona shook her head. “Not this time,” she told him. “Go! Before you get us all killed, you idiot.”
So he ran, half pushed along by Robert and Fiona, and he didn’t look back until he got to the other side of the bridge.
When he finally turned, he saw the damned running along the bridge toward Amanda.
They couldn’t get close. The ones in front screamed and burst into flame, floundered, and blasted back into dust. The ones in back kept pushing forward, though . . . dooming those ahead of them.
Amanda blazed like a sun fallen to the earth.
The bridge melted and fell apart. She hovered in midair.
The lava under her erupted—plumes and gouts of molten rock and metal exploded. A tidal wave of lava surged in all directions, consuming the mesas and plateaus in its path.
Eliot turned and ran.
He no longer wondered how, or if, there was a way to save Amanda. He just ran. The encyclopedia part of his mind had nothing to say. Faced with a towering wall of pure fire, the only thing left was animal instinct.
They ran over the broken land, scrambled up dunes of ash, and crunched over a dry lakebed . . . until he and the others were out of breath and his legs felt like lead. (Even dead Mr. Welmann was panting and exhausted.)
They stopped and looked.
A volcano pushed upward where Amanda had made her stand. It spewed fire and rock upon the land and hissed clouds that blackened the sky.
Nothing would get through that—dead or alive.
As Amanda had promised.
Eliot watched for a moment. Lightning flashed among the clouds, but there was no rain.
He wished he’d been there for her at school. But he’d just complained about her and treated her like a weakling . . . when in fact, she had been just struggling to contain a power that, if she’d unleashed it, could have killed them all.
The words Eliot spoke not an hour ago echoed in his head: “It’s my responsibility. And my fault, if anything goes wrong.”
He’d gotten her killed.
Coming here and bringing her along had been his idea. But worse, even if he had known about her unstable power, if he’d had a choice to make between Amanda and Jezebel . . . he still might have made a choice, and it would’ve been Jezebel, not her.
That made him, what?
Was he like his father? Evil?
Eliot sank to one knee. He was dizzy . . . and unsure of everything.
He threw up.
Fiona came to him and set her hand on his shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault,” she whispered.
She didn’t understand. Yes, he felt guilty over Amanda’s death, but what he really felt terrible about was that along with Amanda dying, something had been burned out inside him, too.
Eliot hunched over and threw up again.
Coughing, he stood up straight. “I’m okay now,” he told them, and then pointed. “That’s the direction I saw the train tracks.”
And then, one foot in front of the other, he started moving again.
72
THE TOWER GRAVE
Eliot walked down the center of the Night Train tracks.
He had Lady Dawn slung over his shoulder, and the instrument banged along his back. For the first time since Louis had given him the instrument, he didn’t feel like lugging it around.
It was quiet here and merely hot (compared with the furnace temperatures elsewhere on the plains). Occasionally