Lenrog said he would contain him.
Lenrog failed.
Or Lenrog lied.
The distinction no longer matters.
Al coughs weakly behind me. “Big man.”
I turn back.
His one good eye struggles to focus. “Don’t… do stupid.”
I kneel beside him.
“You need medical care,” I say.
“You need… brain care.”
Despite everything, a broken sound escapes Maren that might be laughter if the world had not ended below us.
Al grips my wrist with astonishing weakness. “Don’t go Horus on ’em.”
The name cuts through me.
Too late.
Horus has already opened.
I see the flooded chamber and the service corridor. I see Al underwater and Anika in my arms. I see civilians choking on smoke and tunnel residents crawling through sewage because men with power decided forgotten people could be used as message boards.
No more.
I gently remove Al’s hand from my wrist. “Stay alive.”
“Bossy…”
“Yes.”
His eye closes.
Still breathing.
Barely.
Mira’s emergency skiff screams into the alley two minutes later with two clinic workers behind her and Mrs. Pell’s grandson driving a borrowed transport full of blankets. Halo begins to move the way Halo moves when official systems fail: imperfectly, fiercely, without waiting for permission.
Darlene arrives with her bad shoulder wrapped and murder in her face. “Where’s Evie?”
The question strikes like a blade.
“Upstairs,” I say.
“You didn’t call her?”
“No.”
Darlene stares at me. “You stupid, noble, emotionally constipated?—”
