The Dark and Hollow Places - Carrie Ryan [131]
The moans grow louder, swelling around me. My heart pounds so hard that it feels like the world is pulsing. Quickly, I use the machete to slice a chunk of what’s left of the hair from my head and drop it on top of the scarf.
Breath held, I strike the flint. It sparks but still nothing catches. I strike it again. Nothing. But the third time, one of the sparks falls into the nest of hair and blazes—the flame spreads to the edge of the scarf and ignites. I swallow back the ache of watching Catcher’s present to me burn, the soft bright colors dissolving into ash and smoke.
Once the tiny fire sputters and flares I step back and stare at the debris pile, trying to figure out how to pull it apart. I find a slab of concrete bearing most of the weight and I dive toward it, scratching at the pebbles packed underneath it, digging my way through.
My hand reaches the outside air and I shove harder at the shards of concrete and stone, doing everything it takes to widen the little gap. I just need a bit more space. I squeeze and pry, and then I hear someone call my name.
“You’re kidding me, right?” I ask simply, pulling myself back into the tunnel. In the guttering light of the flames I see Ox standing about twenty feet away. He looks terrible, blood soaking his uniform, bites peppered along his hands and arms. Skin pale. “You’re supposed to be dead,” I add.
He smiles. “Not yet. Soon. And then I’ll Return, of course.”
I drop my chin to my chest, not able to believe this is happening. I take a deep breath before facing him again. “You should have turned around and run back there,” I tell him. “You could have saved yourself.”
He shrugs. “I got infected the moment I stepped off the cable car.” He stumbles over to the wall and slides down until he’s sitting on the tracks. The light of my tiny fire barely reaches him. He removes his shirt and tosses it toward the flames, making them burn even brighter. His chest is covered in scars—some thick and ropy and others tiny flecks of white.
I don’t want to think about what caused them. What the pain must have been like. I don’t want to feel sympathy for this man.
“Stupid,” I mutter. “What a waste. I wasn’t worth the hassle, you know.” I kick at more of the debris to clear it.
He looks up at me, his eyes big and dark. “There are people who believe the undead are eternal life. That they are a higher form of existence.”
“Yeah,” I scoff at him. “The Soulers. You imprisoned them, remember?”
He breathes deep. He’s lost a lot of blood. He may not have long to live but it’s hard to tell. I’m sure he’ll hold on as long as he can.
When I realize he’s not coming closer I crouch back down toward the hole I’ve been working on, shifting and pulling at the rocks again to widen the gap.
“Think about it,” he says, ignoring that I’m not paying attention. “What makes us frail? Stupidity, love, anger, hope. The undead have none of that. All they are is eternal existence.”
“They have no life,” I shout back at him. “Literally,” I add, which makes him smile. His teeth gleam in the darkness and it saddens me that this is what his last moments have come to.
He tilts his head. “That’s the question, isn’t it? What’s life and what’s existence?” He takes another deep breath and another, as if he can’t get enough air. I scramble at the rocks, knowing that once he dies he’ll Return and that behind him even more dead are coming. “Which would you choose?” he asks, his voice gravelly and wet.
I set a rock aside in case I need to use it against him. I make sure my machete’s within easy reach. The sound of the dead approaching rumbles and roars, making my work take on a frantic edge.
“It’s a fool’s choice, that’s what it is,” I tell him. “One brings you pain and the other numbness.”
He smiles wider, enjoying himself. “Isn’t that the question of life?”
I don’t answer. I dig.
“I know you think I’m a bad person, Annah,” he says softly. I glance back at him. He’s rolled almost onto his side. He