I look around the room. Across the aisle, I see something leaning against a coffin, a fuzzy gray shape maybe as long as my forearm and hand together. Five steps take me to it. I reach down, grab the shape, lift it and shake free the dust.
I hold a golden bar. Jewels of different colors and sizes dot its length. At the end is a C shape: the stubby prongs are silver, not gold. The bar is heavy and solid.
A weapon. I have a weapon.
Suddenly I am not quite as afraid.
I start to turn back to the girl’s coffin when something catches my eye…the lid of this one, it’s as dusty as the others, but it’s not sealed tight like hers. It’s slightly open, showing a thin line of deep shadow no wider than my pinkie.
I can’t look away.
My right hand holds the weapon. My left hand reaches out. I slide my fingers through the there-but-not-there dust, into that shadow, curl them under the lid-half closest to me. The polished wood feels cool against my skin. I grip tight and pull. It moves a tiny amount, then resists. I broke my lid and when I did it opened; maybe if I can wedge the golden bar in that space, I can—
“Em, are you there?” The muffled voice comes from across the aisle, from the girl. Then, bordering on panic: “Did you leave me?”
I rush back to her coffin.
“Sorry, I’m here. I found something I can use. I’m going to try and break the lid and get you out. It will be loud. Hold on, okay?”
“Okay. Just please hurry.”
I lift the weapon over my head, then smash it against the lid. It makes a dull thud when it hits, denting the dark material, making the whole lid vibrate off a hovering sheen of dust.
It feels good to hit something. Really good. I swing again, harder this time, feel my lip curl into a snarl as the metal strikes home. Again and again, each time harder than the last, smashing a carving of a big cat, crushing a stepped pyramid, chipping away the polished surface to reveal white wood beneath.
Finally, something breaks: the lid splits down the middle. The long halves slide to the coffin’s sides, revealing an older girl with long, thick, curly red hair spilled across her face. Her eyes squeeze shut against the light. Crimson bars pin her down. She’s wearing a white shirt that’s too small for her, an embroidered red tie, and a short plaid skirt.
She’s breathing fast. Her face is wrinkled up and her head is twitching a little, like she thinks someone is about to hit her but she can’t see the blow coming and can’t run away.
“Em? Is that you?”
I take her hand in mine. Her grip is weak, but her skin is warm and soft.
“It’s me,” I say. “It’s okay.”
“Thank you, Em, oh, thank you. Can you undo these bars?”
“I can. Stay very still.”
A couple of carefully aimed strikes from my weapon are all it takes to shatter the brittle old metal.
She lifts her hands to her chest, rubs at her wrists. The skin there is barely scuffed at all—did she even try to fight her way free?
“Hold on,” I say, “let me help you out of there.”
I set the weapon down.
I help her sit up, help her ease out of the coffin. It’s a challenge, because she’s so weak and I’m barely stronger than she is. She puts one foot down to stand, but her legs won’t support her—she falls into me, sending us both tumbling. We land in a dust-puffing heap, still holding each other.
We don’t move. We lie there for a moment, shivering, clinging together, coughing slightly. She holds me tight, so tight that I know we feel the same way: neither of us understands what’s happening, but we are not alone, and for that we are deeply grateful.
FOUR
The red-haired girl squints tightly, making the bridge of her nose wrinkle. So much hair, still draped over her face as if it can shield her from our strange reality. She’s trying hard to make her watering eyes adjust. She trembles in my arms, terrified and confused.
“We’re safe,” I say, trying to comfort her. “We’re alone here. Take it easy.”
She nods, holds me tighter, but I feel her relax a little. Her hand seeks out mine. And we lock fingers.
I look at our clasped hands: our skin is not the same. Hers is pale, a pinkish tan. Mine is much darker; mine is brown.
Our hands are about the same size. That strikes me as strange—she looks older than I do, almost old enough to leave school. Girls that age are usually so much taller.
School…these clothes, did we wear things like this in school? I can’t remember. I have a vague image of a few girls looking beautiful and perfect while I looked ugly and stupid, even though we all wore the exact same thing.
Her short plaid skirt shows almost all of her legs. They are long and shapely, not knobby-kneed twigs like mine. Maybe someday I will have legs like hers. The sleeves of her white shirt end just past her elbows. At her chest, the top two buttons are missing, showing the curve of her breasts. She’s probably embarrassed by that. I’m embarrassed for her; it makes me uncomfortable.