“This isn’t good,” Pete says. “We need to get out of here.”
He leads the way, splashing through foul, murky water. I take Mole by the hand to ensure he doesn’t fall behind. The knee-high muck seeps into my boots as I follow. From a nearby tunnel, something growls and then splashes into the water. My pulse quickens.
“What is that?” I ask.
Pickpocket places a hand on my back and urges me on. “Trust me, you don’t want to find out. Keep moving.”
I trudge forward in the sludge, taking two thick steps, but halt when a reptilian hiss travels up the brick tunnel.
“They’re getting closer!” Doc says, looking over his shoulder, his face white with panic.
“They? There’s more than one?” I shift uncomfortably. “And who exactly are they?”
“We’ve got to pick up the pace,” Jack says, passing Pete.
Taking Jack’s lead, the group starts to jog, grunting as they struggle to lift their water-soaked boots. I glance behind me, making sure that Mole and Pyro are still close. While Mole is right on my heels, Pyro stops at a brick archway and rips a stick of dynamite from his belt.
“We’re not going to make it. We’ve got to blockade them,” Pyro says. He runs his fingers across the stones until he finds a crevice in the archway.
“Pyro! Get back here!” Pete shouts.
Pyro ignores him and pulls out a box of matches. “Give me thirty seconds!”
Doc holds a hand up. “Do you hear that?”
The sewer is eerily quiet. Even the rats seem to have gone into hiding, sensing danger.
“I don’t think they’re gone,” Mole whispers.
Pete takes Jack’s lantern and sidles through our group, taking a few steps toward Pyro. “Pyro, I command you to rejoin the group. That’s an order!”
Pyro nods. “Ten more seconds. That’s all I need!” As Pyro lights the fuse of the dynamite, something slithers in the dark, cloudy water behind him.
“Pyro, run!” Pete shouts.
It’s too late. Sharp, serrated teeth clamp down on Pyro’s leg. His bloodcurdling scream shatters the silence as the crocodile drags him under the water. A second reptile, larger than the other, snaps down on Pyro’s arm as he reaches out toward us, pleading for help.
“No!” Pete screams. He starts to run through the water as the crocodiles drag Pyro farther down the tunnel. Pickpocket holds him back.
“It’s too late! We have to go!” Pickpocket says, staring at the dwindling fuse. “Go! Go! Go!”
We rush forward, our waterlogged boots splashing through the murky sludge. Pete struggles in Pickpocket’s grip, fighting to break free. Jack takes Pete’s other arm, and the two Lost Boys drag Pete away as he screams for Pyro.
“No! We can’t leave him!” Pete yells. “Pyro! Come back!”
“He’s gone, Pete. We have to get out of here,” Jack says.
Pete refuses to look away from the crimson-tinted water and thrashing reptiles as the Lost Boys encourage him to duck around a corner.
“Hurry, take cover,” Doc says, pushing everyone ahead, into another passageway.
Pickpocket and Jack shove Pete to safety, and he collapses onto the ground. He leans up against the wall, his expression contorted into grief-stricken agony. Pete snatches up a stone and hurls it across the tunnel. As an explosion rocks the tunnel, sending shards of brick and plumes of dust hurtling through the tunnel opening, Pete hardly flinches. When the dust settles, I bolt to the entrance and look back at where Pyro had lit the stick of dynamite. All that’s left is a pile of rubble. Stone, brick, and dirt pile neck-high, blocking the archway.
Pete maneuvers around me. He races toward the rubble and places a hand on the pile of rocks. He drops his chin to his chest, giving a slight shake of his head.
Mole sniffles next to me as Pickpocket joins Pete, throwing an arm around him.
“You okay?” Pickpocket asks.
“He was a good Scavenger. The best of the best of all of us Lost Boys,” Pete says weakly. He picks up Pyro’s derby hat from the debris and brushes off the dirt. He places the hat on top of the pile of rocks. “Godspeed, Lost Boy.”
“Come on,” Pickpocket says, gripping his shoulder. “That won’t hold them back for long. We need to get out of here and into Everland.”
Pickpocket leads Pete back to our group. The sorrow in Pete’s expression is overwhelming. It’s the same expression my brother and sister had when they realized our parents weren’t ever returning home. As Pete passes by me, I reach out a hand to him.
“Pete?” I say, his name catching in the lump within my throat. I want to take his hand, to hold him and absorb even a little bit of the pain etched in his face.