Their argument stops instantly.
Suddenly I’m not quite as tired. I pick up the pace, walking so fast I’m almost jogging. I don’t care if this new hallway is like the last one—dim, maybe even dark—but we’re going that way because I am desperate to see something different.
For the first time since Yong died, I find O’Malley at my right side.
“Em, maybe we should take it this time.”
“We’ll see,” I say.
I don’t know why I said that, because I’ve already made up my mind to do exactly what he wants.
The sound of our footsteps fills the hall with a soft thudding. We close in, kicking up a trail of dust that hangs behind us.
Then, over the sound of our running, I hear something else.
I slow quickly, plant my feet and slide to a stop, my arms out to the sides to keep anyone from running past me.
“Em, watch out,” O’Malley says as he stutter-steps to avoid the knife blade that almost touches his belly.
I start to apologize, but Aramovsky runs into me from behind. He grabs my shoulders, keeps me from falling forward.
“Sorry,” he says. “You stopped so fast.”
Bello is on my left, hands wringing. “Em, what’s going on?”
I glare at them all, hold a finger to my lips.
They fall quiet.
We stand still. No steps, no words, not even breathing.
In the silence, I hear the noise again. Faint at first, but quickly growing louder. It’s coming from the intersection of the new hallway.
It is the heavy sound of footsteps marching in time.
FOURTEEN
I want to run, but I stop myself because it won’t do any good. There are no doors, there is no end to this hallway, nowhere to hide. As soon as the marchers turn the corner, they will see us.
The sound draws closer.
(If you run, your enemy will hunt you….)
That phrase again, rolling through my thoughts. Whose voice is it? One more thing I can’t remember.
And yet I know the voice speaks the truth. As exhausted as we are, as thirsty and as hungry, I don’t think we could run very far or very fast. Whoever is coming can either see our backs and know we’re afraid, or see the knife and know we are dangerous.
I press close to the right-side wall, knife out in front of me. O’Malley stands a step behind me, at my left shoulder, holding the scepter like a club. I instantly understand he is not behind me because he is afraid, but rather because he is following my lead, staying close to the wall so we are a little less obvious. If danger comes, I know he will try to step out front and face it first, because he is so much bigger than I am.
Maybe he isn’t any good at fighting, but that doesn’t stop him from standing with me. He’s so close I can sense him, feel his body heat. He is sweaty and stinky. His scent, it’s new, something different from the way boys smelled back in my limited memories of school. It’s distracting—almost as if I like it, but he doesn’t smell good. I feel my heart in my throat, pounding all the way into my stomach. Is that because of the danger, or also because of him?
I clench my teeth and readjust the knife in my hand. We’re in trouble, I need to focus.
Bello pulls at my left arm.
“Em, let’s go! What if it’s the Grownups?”
I yank my arm away. I don’t have time to explain to her that a voice in my head—a memory—is guiding me, and I know its words are true.
“We don’t run,” I say. “Whoever is coming, we face them.”
Bello starts to cry. Of course she does. She moves behind O’Malley to stand with Aramovsky and Spingate.
The marching footsteps sound so close, like the steady beat of a big drum.
A thought grips me: what if Aramovsky is right, what if there are monsters? Spingate doesn’t know for sure that monsters don’t exist. No one does. Visions of claws and fangs and wild eyes flash before me, a horde of beasts flowing down the hall, searching for helpless children to carry away and devour.
But I’m not a child anymore.
And I’m not helpless.
The marchers come out of the hall and turn to their right, away from us.
Not monsters…people.
Two columns of beautiful people dressed like us, led by the biggest person I’ve ever seen. They all turn to their right, away from us, so focused on matching their steps that they don’t even look our way.
The sense of relief is so overwhelming I almost laugh at myself for believing in Aramovsky’s nonsense.
The leader carries a long stick and marches with precise, loud steps. His skin has only a little more color than pale Bello’s. Gleaming blond curls cling to his head so tightly they don’t move when he walks.
I count nineteen people: two lines of nine, with the big blond in front.
We stay very still. Maybe the marchers won’t see us at all.
I almost have time to turn and tell everyone to be quiet, but before I do Spingate shouts out.
“Hey! Over here!”
My heart sinks.