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“Then do something about it, Quinn,” Dugald huffs.
“Right. I’m on it,” I say, shaking my head. As if I haven’t been trying?
There is a wall of gray dust ahead. The end we’re being funneled into is approaching. This is going to be it and no matter how I try to clear my head, no matter what happy thoughts I attempt, the zombies keep coming.
My pulse is galloping like a runaway horse. Every inhale burns like liquid fire. This is it. I’ve failed. I’m sorry, Duncan.
“Quinn, now would be a good time to do something, anything,” Dugald says as all three of us come to a stop before the swirling wall of ash.
Against every survival instinct screaming in my head, I glance over my shoulder. Regret is immediate. The zombie horde is behind us, beside us, surrounding us completely except for the wall of dust directly ahead. And there are so many of them. It must number in the thousands if not more.
They growl, moan, and shuffle closer. Desiccated arms reaching, jaws clacking, milky eyes staring at nothing. My stomach clenches tight as cold chills race over my skin. I close my eyes and will them to be gone. I try to imagine a blank slate, the same gray emptiness we emerged into, but I can’t.
Fear causes my imagining to stutter-step. I’m going to die. We’re all going to die. Dugald draws his sword and I hear the echoing of steel as Moira also produces one from somewhere. I’ve got nothing, yet it’s all on me. They know it. I know it. This won’t stop until I make it stop.
I can’t. It’s too much. This is what I get for everything I’ve done wrong.
I sneak a peek through squinted eyes and the zombies are too close. Any moment cold dead hands will grab me. This can’t be it though. I can’t die here. Duncan is waiting for me.
“Why?”
A new voice speaks. I don’t recognize the sound coming from behind me but something about it rings with familiarity. In one of those moments like happens in the worst nightmares when you know you don’t want to look, that the absolute worst idea in the world is to look, but you can’t not I turn. Slowly, eyes clenched shut.
“Why? Why me?”
I force my eyes open and gasp.
“No.” I shake my head. This can’t be. It can’t be him. “I didn’t mean to.”
Those eyes. I know those eyes. Every night, before I fall asleep, I see them and their accusatory stare. The empty eyes of the young man I killed. He startled me and I lashed out with magic. His head is broken where I slammed him against the boulder. He points a pale-white and blue finger at me.
“Quinn, why?” he asks.
“I didn’t mean to,” I say, my knees quavering.
“Quinn, it’s an illusion,” Moira says.
“No,” I say. “It’s my punishment. I did this.”
The dark thoughts fill my head like a million voices whispering. Every doubt, every fear, every moment of nerves is a rising cacophony that fills my mind with noise. I shake my head, trying to clear it or deny what I’m seeing, something, I don’t know what, anything.
The young soldier shuffles closer. Dugald swings his blade, and it glitters as it arcs through the air. I tense as the blade impacts with the boy, not ready to see him die yet again, but the blade passes harmlessly through, not making contact.
“Damn it, Quinn,” Dugald shouts, “stop this. This is your creation.”
“No, it’s not,” I argue.
Mine. My fault. My friends are going to die because of me. Duncan is going to die, screaming my name.
“No,” I say, balling my hands into fists. “No!”
I shout, finding a depth of courage I didn’t know existed inside me. This isn’t my creation. Not directly; at least not consciously. This is my fear.
The soldier boy shuffles closer. His rotting hand is close enough that in a heartbeat his fingers will touch my chest. The zombie horde closes in. In moments we’ll be overwhelmed. There is no escape except one. Through them.
I look at the boy. Stare into his milky white eyes and face him. Face my fear. My regret. My pain.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. The soldier stops. His pointing hand quivers, not coming closer but still reaching. I shake my head and tears burst free. “I am truly sorry.”
