If only Noah disappeared in the sea of the dead. That might have been better, might have been almost all right. At least then Rhonan could pretend that his friend died without pain. A quick snap of the neck. A sharp puncture of the heart. But none of these things happen. Noah screams. His silent, ghost friend screams.
And the sound is like the screams of those that burned. Like the screams of those stuck in hell.
Rhonan can hear Noah as he runs. Can hear the sound of his bones breaking, twigs beneath the weight of the horde. No matter how fast he runs, no matter how hard blood pumps in his ears, he cannot escape the sound of Noah dying. He puts enough distance between then that he knows that the sounds are in his head now. The screaming follows him like the guilt that weighs down his labored, miserable steps.
Every bone in the gold and white boys body screams. He is too young for this, too untrained, too useless. But the sound of Noah’s pain drives him on. He can no longer feel his muscles. They’ve gone numb with exhaustion. Sometimes he’s not even sure he’s still running. He catches glimpses of Azula ahead though, and he keeps going, keeping her in sight.
It’s only the blue hair that stands out anymore. They’ve left the mountain far behind, racing over gray ash and black earth now. It’s hot as hell here; the land hasn’t quite stopped smoldering beneath his feet.
Finally, he can’t run anymore. His legs give way and he smashes into the ground, skin scraping and bleeding. Well, at least he’s not a pretty pretty princess anymore. He may still be white and gold, but he’s streaked black and red, caked in a paste of death and decay.
Noah.
Everything else could be dead. But no, not Noah. The world is empty and wrong and hollow without Noah. He was just a shadow, just a ghost. But shadows are proof of the sun. Ghosts are proof that there is also life. Rhonan doesn’t get up. There is no point. Noah is dead and the world has burned. What did Noah die for? The earth would not grow back. The dead would walk again, but only to consume whatever life the fire left behind.
He stays on the ground, bleeding and sore, until a nose brushes his neck. He doesn’t jump, doesn’t fight, doesn’t care if they kill him.
“Rhonan,” the voice is female, and he knows that voice. He turns his head a hair until he can see her, black and blue. He doesn't get up. Maybe she’ll get the hint and just leave him here. Rhonan will be the next sacrifice. The horde can find him here, and he’ll be an easier kill than even Noah was.
“Rhonan,” she says again, nosing him a little bit harder this time. “Can you get up?” He nods his head, though still doesn’t get up. “Will you get up?” she asks, with an infinite amount of patience for him right now. Even though there’s likely a horde of the undead bearing down on them. Is Noah part of the herd now? Will Noah be the one to kill Rhonan? He sort of hopes so.
Rhonan shakes his head no. His movements are awkward, sending ash into the air. Azula coughs, but doesn’t leave. After a moment, she lays down beside him. Rhonan isn’t sure when, but Gero joins them too. The three of them lay there, heads on the smoldering earth, flesh burning.
The night passes with the three of them there. The horde does not come. Maybe Noah was enough, at least for now.
The sun is high overhead by the time Rhonan finally gets to his feet. He’s soaked in sweat from the heat radiating out of the burnt ground and from the sun that beats down on them. He never knew how useful trees were. Never thought there’d be a day when he missed the soupy, heavy heat of the Jungle. Even that had been better than this, burning from the top and the bottom.
His friends get to their feet as well. Neither says anything. Neither gives him a hard time for staying on the ground or tries to make him feel better about Noah’s death. They must miss Noah too. But had they heard the sounds of him dying? They couldn't have, or they would not have slept. Rhonan had tried, but every time sleep wrapped him in its arms, the screaming echoed in his ears. And sleep ran from him. Again and again. After a while, Rhonan stopped trying.
The three of them start walking, looking for the others. They aren’t far away, huddled together in their destroyed home. Malene seems to be the leader still, though even she has little to say. What are they to do? At least on the mountain, they could pretend to have a purpose, pretend to have hope. Up there, at least there was food, scare though it may have been.
Kav and Tanner are alive, and they glare at him like the horde was his fault. If Rhonan hadn’t decided to get all high and mighty, they’d still be eating like kings. But the horde would have found them. If not when they did, then later. It might be true that the smell of blood drew the horde faster, but in the end, it wouldn’t have mattered.
Tanner looks like hell. He’s cut and bruised and caked in the same ashy blood paste that covers Rhonan. That must be what Rhonan looks like. Like walking death. No. They know what walking death looks like, and it’s worse than Rhonan or Tanner. But the two boys look like they are just biding their time among the living. And of course, it’s true. They are.
They all are.
Malene decides to send small groups out in different directions. No more than an hour away, and then come back. The entire herd would migrate halfway through the day and try again. Maybe there would be somewhere they could live, some small amount of food.
Ger, Azula and Rhonan set off together in the direction opposite of the mountain. Everything is black and gray. A gray sky, a black earth. The horizon holds no promise. Like always, Gero and Azula walk ahead; so close their sides brush. Rhonan walks behind, but without Noah, he feels like an intruder. Like he doesn’t belong.
Unlike before, Gero and Azula walk almost as slowly as Rhonan. Maybe because their muscles hurt as much as his own. Maybe because there’s no purpose anymore, and even they know it. They are almost silent, and in this and only this, Rhonan feels comfortable. They no longer banter, and he doesn’t have to pretend he cares.
The days go on like this. They set out, turn around, and the whole herd moves. Every day, Azula and Gero walk farther and farther apart. Every day, Rhonan trails farther and farther behind. They are too angry and hungry and miserable to find any enjoyment in each other’s company. There’s nothing left but the papery ash on the ground. Not a tree. Not a blade of grass.
One day, while the herd was migrating, Harold collapsed and didn’t get up. For a moment, Rhonan almost felt bad about having laughed at the guy’s name. But then he decided it was sort of hilarious that the first of them to die was the food scout.
No, not the first. The second. Noah was the first.
The next day, Tanner drops to the ground. Kav leaves him behind. Even Rhonan can’t blame him though. His friends would leave him behind too. They couldn’t carry each other, couldn’t spend any more energy than just walking. Most of them could hardly walk. The hour long scouting trips dwindled down to half that. The herd migrated shorter distances each afternoon. One day, they stopped trying altogether.
That night, he wakes to warm breath in his ear. He flicks half an eye open, waiting for death, welcoming it. Kav stands over him. “What if I forgive you? We could still live like Kings, you know. Eat them now, before there’s no meat left on their bones.” And then Kav is gone again. Rhonan shivers, too disgusted by the thought, and too ready to die anyway. He wouldn’t eat his friends.
The next night, he hears screaming. “Azula! Azula please!” There’s more screaming off in the distance, more begging. But his attention is on his friends, and he scrambles to his feet in time to see Azula rear. Her blue eyes are wild, monstrous, not hers at all. Gero tries to back up and falls, legs tangling beneath him.
“Azula!” Rhonan screams, trying to distract her, trying to buy himself enough time to get to Gero. His voice cracks as he screams, his throat parched and raw. Still, he's loud enough that she turns her eyes in his direction, but she doesn’t lose sight of her target. Her feet land on Gero's neck with a sickening crack. Her teeth tear into his flesh, which gives way like grass.
No. This can’t be happening. No no no.
Azula snaps her head up then. There’s more screaming in the distance, and Rhonan thinks that Kav must be out there feasting too. He had turned Azula against them. Maybe it hadn’t been hard. Without Noah, their group had no glue. Without Noah, the three of them were barely friends at all. “Two boys for dinner. I should be so lucky.” She says, her grin feral, blood coating her teeth and dripping from her mouth. The deep, red liquid dots her legs and chest. But her eyes and her mane are still blue. Such a beautiful, cruel blue.
“Azula. Azula it’s me, Rhonan.” But she doesn’t seem to comprehend, or maybe she doesn’t care. Maybe the hunger drove her insane. He thinks about just laying down in the snowy ash. He’s welcomed death every day. But he doesn’t want to die beneath her hooves. He doesn’t want to be her food.
Rhonan rears, meeting Azula in the air. She shoves, and he topples over backward. He tries to scramble to his feet, but the cuts on his side have never healed. His bruised muscles and ribs scream at him. He can’t do this. He’s too injured and broken and weak. Blood drips on his side as she thrusts herself into a rear.
This is it.
But then it isn’t. The world shatters, crack and splinters at the seams. The burned earth crumbles beneath him like the papery ash, falling away into space. Azula tumbles over backward and falls away with the pieces of the world. Her screams sound like Noah's. Like Gero's. He wants to feel pity, wants to miss her the way he misses Noah. But she killed Gero. She was going to kill him too. And he cannot find any pity for her, for her screams that echo in his head. Maybe he’s just immune to the sound of agony now. Maybe he’s heard too much of it.
The world has become inky, dotted with stars that still seem far away, though he’s certain he’s in space now. He’s in the space that earth used to occupy, though he cannot tell if he’s falling or floating or just dead. Maybe Azula killed him, and he’s actually lying on the ground as she tears him to pieces. Maybe this is death.
Then a voice echoes in his ears. Pick a number, it says. The voice is the almighty voice of god, with just a tinge of Noah in it. Noah. He startles, though he can’t control his movements and his limbs just flail in the darkness. A number? What the hell does space want with a number? He shakes his head, trying to clear his mind, sure he’s dead or crazy or both. Can you be dead and crazy at the same time? He has no idea.
But somehow, a number comes bubbling out of his mouth. “Eight,” he says. At first, he’s not sure why. But after a moment, he knows where the thought came from. It came from a dream he had long ago. A dream of Beqanna, of the Valley. His father had lived in the Valley, had served a king named Eight. The number eight. When you tip it on its side, it becomes an infinity symbol. And that is how many lives Rhonan feels as though he has lived, as though he will live. Maybe one of those lives will turn out to be good.
rhonan.