I can’t believe he’s dead. It’s hard to imagine a world without the ancient magician. He’s been mankind’s saviour for longer than anyone should have to serve. What will we do without him? I doubt the Disciples can repel the waves of Demonata attacks by themselves. Beranabus believed our universe created heroes in times of need. If that’s true, perhaps someone will replace him. But it’s hard to picture anybody taking the magician’s place. He was one of a kind.
We hit another level. I’m about to lurch up the next set of stairs when I spot Kirilli Kovacs tussling with a gaggle of zombies. He’s in bad shape, bitten and scratched all over. A dozen of the living dead surround him.
I should leave him. He doesn’t really deserve to be rescued and I can’t afford to waste any of my dwindling power. But I can’t turn my back on a man just because he’s a coward. Kirilli didn’t betray or undermine us—he simply gave in to fear, as many people would have.
Drawing on my reserves, I mutter a spell and gesture at the zombies packed around Kirilli. They fly apart and a path opens. “Run!” I yell. Kirilli doesn’t need to be told twice. He stumbles clear of the zombies and is by my side moments later. Blood cakes his face, but his eyes are alert behind the red veil. He starts to say something.
“No time for talking,” I snap. “Get up those stairs quick, and if you fall, I’ll leave you.”
Kirilli flinches, draws a breath, then darts ahead of me, taking pole position, staggering up the seemingly endless flights of steps towards the upper deck and its promise of escape.
As we’re forcing our way up another staircase clogged with zombies, Dervish gasps and collapses to his knees. One hand darts to his chest. I think it’s the end of him, but Sharmila presses her hands over his and channels magic into his heart. She pulls a stricken face as she helps—the magic she’s directing into his flesh means she has less to ward off the pain in her legs. But she has no real choice. Without Dervish to carry her, she’s doomed.
Kirilli is struggling with the zombies. He’s weak and afraid. He lashes out at them wildly, not preserving his energy or channelling it wisely. I’ve tried warning him, but he either doesn’t hear me or can’t respond. He knows only one thing—he has to go up. That’s tattooed on his brain, driving him on.
Thankfully the walking corpses are moving more like regular zombies now. Their magic is fading. The attacks are clumsier, less coordinated. But they’re still on their feet, our scent thick in their nostrils, licking their lips at the thought of biting into our soft, juicy brains.
As we hit the last step of another flight, Kirilli screams something unintelligible. I’m exhausted, but I push forward in reply to his cry, fearing the worst. But when I clear the step, I realise it was a yell of exhilaration, not dismay. We’re back at the upper deck.
The ship is lurching at a worrying angle, and the deck is littered with hordes of zombies. But we get a fresh burst of hope when we breathe the fresh, salty air.
Dervish lays Sharmila down and squats beside her. “I need… a minute,” he wheezes, face ashen, rubbing his chest.
“We can’t stop,” Kirilli shrieks, knocking over a zombie in uniform who’s either the ship’s captain or a highly placed mate.
“Shut up,” I growl and crouch next to Dervish. “Let me help.”
“No,” he mutters. “Save your magic… for yourself.”
“Don’t be a fool.” I shove his hands away and rest my left palm on his chest. I pump magic into him, enough to keep him ticking over.
“Do you know the way back to Kernel?” Sharmila asks, wincing from the pain in her thighs. They’re bleeding at the stumps, the flesh we knotted together in the demon universe coming undone.
“Yes.” I grin at her. “Perfect memory, remember?”
She returns the smile, but shakily. “Perhaps you should leave me here.”
“We’re not leaving anyone behind,” I say firmly. “Except maybe Kirilli.”
He stares at me with a wounded expression. “I hope you don’t—” he starts.
“Not now,” I stop him. My cheeks are dry. I must have stopped weeping at some point coming up the stairs. The ship is slipping further into the water. The angle of the deck to the sea is increasing steadily. Kernel’s at the end of the ship which is rising. If we don’t act quickly, we won’t make it.
“Come on,” I command. “One last push. We can rest once we slip through the window.”
Dervish sighs wearily but staggers to his feet. He reaches for Sharmila. “Wait,” I tell him and glance fiercely at Kirilli. “It’s time you proved yourself worthy of rescue. Carry her.”
“But I have a bad back,” he protests. “I never lift anything heavier than—”
“Carry her,” I repeat myself, “or I’ll cut your legs off, glue them to Sharmila and let her walk out of here on
Kirilli gives a little cry of horror. He suspects I’m bluffing, but he’s uncertain.
“I am not that heavy,” Sharmila chuckles. “Especially without my legs.”
“We’re nearly there,” I tell the stage magician. “You won’t have to carry her far.”
“Very well,” Kirilli snaps. “But if I throw my back out of joint, I’ll sue.” He flashes me a feeble grin and picks up Sharmila. I help settle her on his back, then push through the zombies converging on us, lashing out with both my small fists, praying for the strength to stay on my feet long enough to guide us all to safety.
I’m almost fully drained. Only a sheer stubborn streak keeps me going. I refuse to fall this close to the end. It happened before, in the cave all those centuries ago. I almost made it out. I could see the exit as the rock ground shut around it. It was horrible to come up short with freedom in sight. I won’t taste that defeat again.
Deckchairs and unbolted fixtures slide down the deck. Some of the zombies topple and slide too. Extra obstacles for us to dodge. The end of the ship continues to rise out of the water. A few more minutes and the angle will be too steep to climb. We’ll slip backwards to perish with the zombies when the ship’s dragged under.
We catch sight of the swimming pool. The window’s still open and Kernel’s in front of it. But he’s struggling with a zombie. There are dozens around him and the window, separated from them by a circle of magic. But one has pierced his defences and is wrestling with him.
“Kernel!” I cry. “Hold on. We’re almost with you. We—”
Kernel shouts something in response. He tries to tear himself away from the zombie, then reaches for its head to rip it loose—it’s only attached by jagged strips of flesh to the neck. There’s a flash of blinding light and we all cover our eyes, Kirilli dropping Sharmila out of necessity.
When I open my eyes a few seconds later, it’s like looking at a bright light through several layers of plastic. I blink furiously to clear my vision. When I can see properly, I look for Kernel. The circle where he was is still in place. The zombies around it are all momentarily sightless, stumbling into each other, rubbing their eyes. But the window is gone. And where it stood—where Kernel and the zombie were battling—is an ugly swill of tattered flesh, clumps of guts, fragments of bones and several pints of wasted human blood.
THE ONLY WAY
Stunned, I stare at the spot where Kernel and the window were. I’m not sure what happened. Where did the explosion of light come from? Are those the remains of Kernel and the zombie, or just one of them? Did Kernel slip through the window before it closed or did he perish here, the window blinking out of existence along with its creator?
“Is he dead?” Dervish roars, smashing the nose of a zombie which was about to sink its teeth into my skull.
“I don’t know.”
“Sharmila?”
She shakes her head uncertainly.
Dervish doesn’t bother to ask Kirilli. He glances around, desperation lending a wild look to his already strained features. “The lifeboats,” he mutters. “We have to get away from here or we’ll be sucked under.”
“But—” I begin.
“No time,” he barks, staggering towards the nearest lifeboat. “Come on. Don’t stand there gawping.”
