The Dark and Hollow Places - Carrie Ryan [129]
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