Nemesis: Book Five (8 page)

The strands stopped their feast and immediately began reversing, fear and shame running through them as thick as any emotion they ever felt. She didn't know if it was too late, didn't know how much damage had been done, and she didn't have time to probe. Time wasted here was time she wouldn't get back. All she could do was get to him, and then—
Makers, please
—perhaps help.

Morena flew, her past intentions forgotten. The world turned into a blur, a blue one with not a single shape jumping out at her.

Her husband was here, and hurting.

* * *

T
he blood stopped pouring
.

Michael stood neck deep in it, sure that he would have to start swimming soon in order to keep from drowning, but knowing that it wouldn't matter—he would die in here the same as his body died in the white, alien field.

But then it stopped. Not even slowing down to a drip, but just completely shut off—no more exiting the vents above.

He looked out from his eyes and saw the strands retreating, pulling back from the endless holes they had dug, exiting muscle and fat at the same speed.

Is it her
? he wondered. His mind could still think somewhat calmly, because the pain wasn't reaching him in the same way it did Briten.

Dad?
was the next thought that shot through his mind, pushing the question about Morena away.
Oh God, are they leaving him too?

TURN AROUND!
he screamed.
TURN AROUND AND LOOK AT HIM!

Could Briten hear him? Could he hear anything or had too much blood left his body already? Was it too late?

TURN THE FUCK AROUND!

Michael's eyes slowly moved, casting his vision across the bloody but clearly active life around him, until they stopped on his father.

He was on his knees. Strands growing into him, connecting with every part of his body all the way up to his head, as if they were electrodes in a science experiment. Blood flowed from him, creating his own massacre scene twenty feet behind Michael's. His father was dying, and yet he remained upright, as if only Michael mattered. As long as he could see Michael, he would be okay.

Make them stop. Please make them stop,
Michael whimpered. Michael couldn't stand it; blood draining from his father, and yet his eyes open, pleading with some unseeing God to allow him to reach his son.

Briten could hear him, but could he do anything besides barely turn his head?

The blood inside Michael's library was draining out, opening his shoulders and chest to the air, revealing skin slick with red.

Please,
Michael said, knowing that nothing would happen, that no one would save his father, on his knees with his eyes still open, looking at Michael's prostrate body lying across the bed of bloody aliens.
He came for me. He came twice for me. Please save him.

* * *

B
riten saw
the same thing as Michael. He looked at a man resembling himself, with white strands hanging off his body like some kind of moss and blood covering it all.

Briten heard the boy asking him to save the man. They both were dying out here on the same field; Briten didn't have the strands inside him now, but it didn't mean he wouldn't bleed to death. They left him, though he didn't know why. He only knew that he couldn't go forward anymore. This body's strength had finally given out, and with it any chance of him meeting Morena.

And still the boy pleaded.

Begged.

Cried.

Briten saw some of the same things in this kid that were in himself. And the father? He went out into this field of death the same as Briten, chasing something very similar to what Briten chased. The person he cared about.

I can't,
he answered the boy.

And he couldn't. He didn't control these things; perhaps the strands had enough of his body, perhaps they thought more nourishment would come from the father. It didn't matter. They would all die out here, and was that so bad? Briten did his best, did everything he could to reach her, and he could die knowing that. That knowledge didn't come close to fulfilling Briten, nor to giving him what he wanted—but what else was there when you lay dying?

Just the knowledge that you tried.

The green color embraced him all at once, enveloping everything from his feet to his eyes, so that the world appeared as if he looked through a green film. That green, he saw it in his dreams, he had seen it when he woke back on Bynimian; nothing could fake that green, nothing could substitute for it.

"Morena," he whispered, understanding now why the strands relented.

The blood surrounding him began moving, drawn back by the green aura wrapping around him. It moved across the tendrils, heading straight toward his body. The bloody pools turned into tiny trails, nearly invisible, as it flowed back into him. Filling him, giving back what was taken. Briten didn't move, didn't try to find Morena with his eyes; it didn't matter what was happening around him, his body was still close to death.

The boy was pleading again, screaming now, begging him to ask Morena to save his father the same way he was being saved. Briten couldn't lift his head to Morena yet, couldn't see her, only the man a few feet away. And why not? Why not save him? He had been willing to die the same as Briten, and if he didn't try, what would it do for the relationship inside his head?

"Morena," he whispered again. “Him … save him."

The boy was quiet, staring out anxiously, waiting to see if Briten's lover would listen to him.

Nothing happened, though. Only the blood slowly climbing back into Briten, the green aura purifying and keeping the cells alive as much as it could.

I'm sorry
, Briten said, still staring forward at the dying man.

NO
! Michael shrieked from inside his head.
NO! IT'S NOT FAIR! IT'S NOT GODDAMN FAIR!

Briten heard him, but it was too late.

He closed his eyes so the boy didn't have to see what came next.

* * *

B
lack was beginning
to encircle the edges of Wren's vision.

He blinked slowly, as if falling asleep.

He could still see Michael, lying in his own blood, his head turned to Wren. He lay under one arm, the other sprawled out to his side. Michael's knee bent outward, his foot pointing down.

That can't be comfortable
, Wren thought almost at the same pace as his blink.

He felt calm now, felt ready to die. The pain still echoed through his body, but was no longer the original shout. Only the echo, a memory of the pain that brought him to his knees. And he was still here, was he not? Still on his knees and still watching his son.

If he had to die right now, he would watch his son while he did. Even if it meant watching Michael die.

Thoughts floated through his head while his blood drained out. They came and went like small gusts of wind, sometimes pleasant, sometimes chilling.

And then Linda was there.

Standing next to Michael.

So beautiful. So intensely beautiful.

I was lucky,
he thought.
Luckier than I ever should have been.

I love you,
he thought.
Both of you.

"We love you too," Linda said, her voice somehow carrying the distance without her needing to shout.

It's my fault,
he said.
All of this
.

"Maybe, but fault doesn't matter right now, does it?"

She said nothing else and neither did he. Wren only looked at her, glad to see her with their son again, even if Michael was dying. Maybe she was right, that fault didn't fit right now—that it didn't fit anymore. Fault perhaps didn't matter when you were passing from the world.

We'll all be together soon,
he thought, and it felt nice. That's all he ever wanted. Just for himself, Michael, and Linda to be together, but the universe conspired against it. For a long time, he thought the universe conspired against
him
. Now, seeing the two of them together, he saw no conspiracy. He saw everything that meant anything.

He heard, somewhere in the distance, someone shouting. He didn't know who it was though—couldn't remember who rode in the car with them. He really just wished the person would shut up, would let him have this moment with his wife and child. His last moment.

What's it like?
he asked.
Where we're going?

"I don't know," Linda said. "I've never been. I've been with you the whole time."

Except she hadn't been, because Wren hadn't let her. He couldn't take her voice; his heart had broken every time he heard it, and every time he looked at their son, he thought of her. So he pushed her away with the most powerful force he knew—a bottle of vodka.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Linda said, and he believed her.

Wren closed his eyes because they felt too heavy to hold open any longer. He would rest them for a little while, and then when he woke up, he would be with Linda and Michael. No more alcohol. No more pain. No more of this world which he fucked up so badly.

Wren fell down face first onto the strands.

* * *

M
orena looked at the mess
. She would have laughed if Briten wasn't lying on the ground, her aura trying to save his life. Briten's body wasn't here, for sure—this kid … Thera's friend. And the man lying on his stomach, blood splattered around him, who was that? The kid's father. Michael and Wren. Thera's memories of them told her some of what she needed to know.

How?

How had Briten done it? Because she knew Briten lay at her feet, in the body of a human, but Briten regardless.

The strands were retracting from the man as well, and a kid stood behind him. Not quite inside her domain yet, but he wasn't running away either. He stood with his hands at his sides, staring at her with an intensity that she hadn't seen any human match yet.

Bryan…,
she thought as his face became to clear her.
Bryan … why are you here?

"Morena," Briten said again from her feet.

She looked down at him, her aura tightening its grip, not wanting to let him go, not even a single drop of blood.