“Same as yours and Okereke’s,” Bishop says.
I would give anything to know what our symbols mean. Do they define who my people were? Maybe my “tribe,” as Bishop would say? Was this room for my tribe?
Alone, I walk deeper into the dark room, leaving the cracked archway behind. I still feel a slight pull against my legs—I’m walking uphill. As it has been from the beginning, that pull is very small, so tiny it’s barely noticeable, but step after step, minute after minute, hour after hour…it’s getting to me. It’s driving me nuts.
I led us here. I led us to nothing. I hoped so badly those doors would open to the surface and we would be out. This is all too much…my decisions haven’t produced anything good.
You tried, Em, but you failed.
“Shut up, Yong,” I whisper. “Please shut up.”
I want to cry, but just like before the tears don’t come. Crying doesn’t fix anything, isn’t that what the voice in my head told me?
Have to focus. Everyone is counting on me to keep them safe.
There’s something off to my left, by the wall. A few steps take me to it. It looks like a column of white stone, cracked in the middle, the top half lying broken and crumbled on the greasy floor. I recognize it from Gaston’s story about the haunted room—it’s one of the chest-high pedestals he talked about.
I wonder what rested on the flat top before someone smashed it to bits.
A boy approaches. I sense him before I see him: O’Malley, there in the dark beside me.
“Em, the others are getting upset,” he says quietly. “They want to know if they’re supposed to come in or if we’re going back.”
I’m upset, too, but does that even matter to him?
“Go back to where?” I say, unable to hide the frustration that drips from my voice. “To our hallway of bones, or to Bishop’s haunted room?”
I can barely see O’Malley’s face.
“Well, we can’t go forward,” he says. “It’s too dark.”
No, we’re not going back. Not while I am the leader. All this effort can’t be for nothing. Sooner or later, going up will take us out.
“We go straight.”
O’Malley pauses, perhaps trying to choose the right words.
“The others aren’t going to like it,” he says.
I laugh, an evil, dark-sounding thing that would make me doubt any leader who made it.
“O’Malley, I don’t like it. But we don’t have a choice.”
We hear a commotion behind us, back by the broken archway.
“Em! Come here!” It’s Spingate, silhouetted by the hallway’s light. Gaston is with her. He’s holding the scepter, but that’s not what he’s looking at.
“Hey,” O’Malley says. “Is that little guy staring at Spingate’s—”
I grab O’Malley’s arm and pull him along, cutting him off. “Come on, let’s see what she wants.”
Careful steps along the greasy floor bring us back to her. Spingate’s face is alive with joy. If we could turn her excitement into light, there wouldn’t be a shadow in the place.
“Look what Gaston and I found,” she says. “Gaston, show her!”
He holds the scepter upside down and touches a series of gems. A tiny cone of flame suddenly hisses out the end, so bright I hold up a hand to shield against the powerful light.
He shuts off the flame. Ghost images dance in my vision. The room is pitch-black once again.
“It’s a torch,” Gaston says. “For welding things, I think.”
Spingate again jumps and claps. I’m going to have to have a word with her about that. The way her…her parts bounce around when she jumps, it’s distracting even to me—I can’t imagine the effect it has on the boys.
“So we can use the scepter to light the way,” I say. “That’s great.”
Gaston gives a wincing half-shrug. “Well, I don’t know if that’s a good idea. The fire has to burn fuel, and we don’t know how much fuel the scepter holds. We shouldn’t use it for light, or it might burn out and we won’t have the flame if we need it.”
I sigh. This is so annoying.
“Then what are we supposed to use it for, Gaston?”
He purses his lips. “To set stuff on fire? Maybe the grease on the floor will work as fuel. If we soaked our clothes in it, found some sticks or something, maybe we could make torches.”
Spingate crosses her arms. “What, and have all of us be naked?”
Gaston grins. “If that’s the only way, that’s the only way.” He gestures around the room. “Do you see any other fabric around here?”
There is a pause, then I look up. Bishop and O’Malley do the same.
The flags.
“Bishop,” I say, “do you think you can get those down?”
He nods.
“That tall boy in your tribe,” he says. “What’s his name?”
“Aramovsky?”
“Aramovsky,” Bishop repeats. “Will he let me and Visca lift him up? We’ll have to get our hands under his feet. He might fall a couple of times, but hopefully it won’t hurt him too bad.”