Page 87 of Our Last Echoes


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“He’ll kill you,” I said.

Mikhail rumbled a laugh. “I am long past due to die, Sophia Novak. I thought for a long time the reason I lived so long was to save you, that day on the water, and I wondered why I persisted still. But now I know. I was not done saving you.” I could only stare helplessly, words a tangle in my throat. “But after this, you will have to save yourself.”

Then the door burst open, and the monster came in.

Sometimes when terrible things happen, time blurs. Sometimes it slows, every moment crystallized and indelible. This time it stuttered, chaotic smears of movement and panic interspersed with shards of clear memory:

The Warden in the doorway, eyes fixed on me. I had time to think that he looked nothing like Mikhail, and wonder how that could be, and then he charged me.

Mikhail, pushing me out of the way.

Liam’s hand in mine, both of us sprinting up the gravel pathtoward Mrs. Popova’s old truck, my laptop, still hot, in my hand.

The cabin framed in the rearview mirror as Mrs. Popova floored the gas pedal. A man stood in the doorway, backlit and obscured by mist. I could not tell which man it was.

The truck jolting over a pothole halfway up the hill, throwing me against the window, and a woman in a gray dress standing at the edge of the road, her eyes blackened sockets.

Time untangled itself at the top of the hill, as we threw ourselves free of the truck and pelted toward the LARC. We were hardly three steps from the truck when a large woman staggered out of the mist toward us. Her blonde hair stuck to her cheeks under a crust of salt, tears, or sea spray dried to scales. She reached for Mrs. Popova.

The rifle crack came before my alarmed shout could even leave my throat, and the echo toppled to the ground. Mrs. Popova’s face was a mask, but her hands shook.

“There’s more,” Liam said.

Shapes in the mist, moving with clear purpose. Mrs. Popova moved backward as we crossed to the entrance, sweeping the rifle left and right. Spectral shapes drew toward us through the mist. Liam fumbled with his keys, dropped them. He swore and bent down, his nails raking across the concrete as he scrabbled for them.

“Hurry up,” I said, grabbing his shoulder. “They’re coming.” The echoes moved in short bursts, violent grace interspersed with stumbling confusion. “Liam!”

“Got it,” Liam said. His eyes were wild and his breath thin between his teeth. My heart galloped in my chest. Liam flung thedoor open, and we piled inside, Mrs. Popova taking up the rear as the nearest of the echoes cleared the mist. A man this time, his face overgrown with fleshy mushrooms. He took a dragging step and then leapt forward, graceful as a dancer. Mrs. Popova slammed the door behind us, and Liam turned to me. My eyes were wide, my breath quick. “Sophia? Freakish calm would be useful right about now.”

Trying to keep control was like trying to keep my grip on an eel, but I didn’t want the calm. I didn’t want to be that person. “Promise me you’ll—”

He pressed a kiss against my lips, a rough, half-wild thing, and he leaned his brow against mine. “You’re you,” he said. “You’re real. And I’ll remind you every time you forget.”

It was like carving away a piece of myself—the fear was so deep, I had to cut to the core to get it out. And what remained was a cold knife between my ribs. Cold, and still, and calm. “I’m good,” I said. I blinked away the last haze of emotion and pulled away from Liam.

Mrs. Popova was staring at the door. She gave a sudden, jerky nod. “Right,” she said. “That will hold most of them off, but some of them can still think and reason. Especially the newer ones. They might find a way in.” She winced. “I hope Mikhail found his way to safety.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I didn’t feel it beyond the surface level, but I knew it was true.

“None of this is your fault, dear,” Mrs. Popova replied with a sigh.

“I’m still sorry it’s happened,” I said. “I’m sorry this came to your island at all.”

Fists thumped against the door. It didn’t give, but we all drew away from it.

“They’ll hold. I’ll go check the rest,” Mrs. Popova said. “You two stay put.”

I almost protested, but then I saw Liam. He was pale. Exhausted and running out of adrenaline to keep him moving. He needed to sit down, and in my frigid clarity, I recognized the importance of rest. I didn’t have panic and desperation to convince me we needed to keep moving whatever the cost. I sank down onto one of the benches in the foyer as Mrs. Popova headed off, letting my own exhaustion be Liam’s excuse to rest. He sat beside me, shoulders slumped.

The thudding against the door stopped. They must have gone to find another entrance.

“We should...” Liam started, but I covered his hand with mine. I tried to think of the right thing to say, but that was the trouble with being empty. I knew what was practical to do, but without feeling anything myself, I couldn’t tell how to soothe his emotions.

Then my hand tightened over his. We weren’t alone.

My echo was standing down the hallway. Her hair was soaked, the golden strands darkened to brown. More water dripped from the hem of her skirt—one of Mikhail’s wife’s—and the cuffs of the LARC sweatshirt half-zipped over her thin frame. She smiled. It was a fragile smile, half-broken, tangled up in hope and in sadness. “Hello,” she said softly.

“Hi,” I replied, managing a small smile of my own. I tried to remember her, but every time I got close, my thoughts filled with dark water and my lungs began to burn.

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