A silence caught and held. Then:
“I see from your expression that I appall you. Believe me, I appall myself sometimes. But the truth is the truth. There’s no one watching over us. That’s the cold heart of it, the grand delusion. Or if there is, he’s the cruelest kind of bastard, letting us believe he cares. I’m nothing, compared to him. What kind of God would allow her mother to die like that? What God would let Liz be all alone at the end, not the touch of a hand or a single word of kindness to help her leave her life? I’ll tell you what kind, Amy. The same one who made me.” He turned toward her again. “Your friends on the boat will be back, you know. Don’t be surprised—I know all about it. I practically watched them sail away from the pier. Oh, maybe not soon. But eventually. Their curiosity will get the better of them. It’s simple human nature. All of this will be dust by then, but here I’ll be, waiting.”
Do it, Alicia, she thought. Do it, Michael. Do it now.
“What do I want, Amy? The answer is quite simple: I want to save you. More than that. I want to teach you. To make you see the truth.” His expression darkened. “Hold her tightly, please.”
The clock had run down. Michael glanced at Alicia. “Ready?”
She nodded.
“You might want to cover your ears.”
He shoved down the plunger.
“What the hell, Circuit?”
He drew up the bar and tried again. Nothing. He pulled the positive wire, touched it lightly to the contact, and pressed the plunger a third time. A spark leapt.
He had current; the problem was at the other end.
“Stay here.”
He unscrewed the second wire, grabbed the plunger box and lantern, and tore down the stairs.
The strength of the virals’ grip increased with a hot jab. The pain was eye-watering; bits of confettied light danced in her vision.
“Bring him in, please.”
Peter.
Two virals dragged him from the direction of the tunnels. His body hung floppily, facedown, the tips of his boots skimming the floor.
“It’s the only way, Amy. I wish there were another, but there simply isn’t.”
Amy could barely think. The slightest movement ignited shrieks of agony. It felt as if the bones of her upper arms were about to shatter under the pressure of the virals’ hands, to crumble into dust.
“Ah, here we are.”
The virals halted, still holding Peter by the shoulders. Blood was dripping from his hair, flowing down the creases of his face. Fanning stepped toward him, sword extended. Amy’s breath stopped in her throat. He positioned the flat of the blade beneath Peter’s chin and, with cruel slowness, tilted his face upward.
“You care about this man, do you not?”
Peter found Amy with his eyes but seemed unable to focus. His mouth was moving soundlessly, with what might have been a sigh or groan.
“Answer the question.”
“Yes,” she said.
“So much that you would do anything to save him, in fact.”
Her vision swam. To be undone so easily; that was the cruelest thing.
“Say it, Amy. Let me hear the words.”
Her answer came out with a choking sound: “Yes, I’d do anything to save him.” Her head rolled forward in defeat; she had nothing left. “Please, just let him go.”
One flick of the wrist and his throat would open like paper. Peter’s eyes were closed, preparing for death. That or he had slipped back into a merciful unconsciousness.
“Let me show you something,” Fanning said. “It’s a little talent I’ve discovered. Jonas would get a real kick out of this.”
He did something strange: he began to undress. First the suit coat, which he folded in half and lay neatly on the floor with the sword, then his shirt, unbuttoning it to reveal a fan of downy white chest hair and a smooth, leanly muscled trunk.
“I have to say, it’s good to finally get out of these clothes.” He had knelt to untie his shoes. “To put aside these trappings.”
Shoes, socks, pants. The air around him had begun to change. It fluttered like waves of heat above a desert road. He rocked his head toward the ceiling; a sheen of oily sweat appeared on his skin. He licked his lips with a slow tongue and began to roll his shoulders and neck, his eyes half-lidded, lost in sensation.
“God, that’s good,” he said.
With a bony pop, Fanning arced his back and moaned with pleasure. His hair was ejecting in clumps; fat, throbbing veins pulsed beneath the skin of his face and chest, tatting a bluish web. He rocked his jaw, showing his fangs. His fingers, from which long, yellowish nails now protruded, flexed restlessly.
“Isn’t it … wonderful?”
Michael hit the tunnel, Alicia shouting his name behind him. Rats were suddenly everywhere, an undulating wave of them, flowing toward the bulkhead.
The screw had torn loose; the pack lay in the water. The fuses were soaked and useless.