The End is Never Final

Even before he opens his eyes, he is painfully aware of the silence. It crushes down on him, filling his ears and lumping in his chest. It was so thick that it is almost tangible. When he coughs up steady streams of tank water, he is almost tempted to look for it.

Beside the Moon Pool, head still resting against the wet tile, Lucas waits until his stomach stops heaving before attempting to rise. Later he’ll discover that Darwin saved his life, pushing his limp body out of the pool after the threat had passed. For now, Darwin is no where to be found and looking only results in horror. His hands are stuck, numbly, to his sides and he is suddenly light headed. From his vintage point, with no mammal to block the sight and where the pumps couldn’t reach to eradicate evidence, Tim O’Neil, foot caught on some unseen latch, floats upward. His face half gone and brain matter peeking through the remaining tuffs of dark brown hair. His hands, suspended above his head, the dead man looks to be in the midst of some escape attempt gone terribly wrong.

Lucas Wolenczak stands, feet rooted to the spot and jaw slack with shock. He tries, but he can’t seem to pry his eyes from the sight. When he blinks, his mind changes the scene. O’Neil’s lifelessly floating hands twitch. Shaking away any traces of developing rigor mortis, they grasp the tank’s ladder. Fingers close around the steel cylinders and he grins at Lucas with sick satisfaction. His foot frees itself and he pulls himself up the ladder, rung by rung. Legs dragging as the hands methodically work. The foot that was stuck is horribly twisted, but it does not seem to be slowing him down enough and Lucas is sure that any second he’ll break this paralysis and start running. He is equally sure that his friend is gone and that this monster coming for him, looking at him through one glazed eye, is going to kill him. Yep, this new Tim O’Neil is going to drag himself out of the tank and rip open his throat. And while he is standing there garbling blood, this new Tim O’Neil is going to rip greedy handfuls from his body. His dying image is going to be O’Neil’s remaining teeth chopping down on chunks of his flesh. A scream builds up within him and, for one long second, he believes that the scream is too big to contain.

His eyes close tight, as if twisting his eyes shut will shut the well of emotions. A surge of guilt crawls up from his groin. It’s hot and uncomfortable. This discomfort prompts him to open his eyes and he forces himself to confront his friend’s body. And Tim had been his friend. Had been a good friend and he did not deserve to be turned into some fucking nightmare. He moves closer to the Moon Pool, trying hard to conjure a sense of grief. One hand reaches out to touch the dead man, his mind screaming at him not to do it and another mental voice insisting that Darwin didn’t need this anymore than he himself did. The reaching hand, fingers outstretched and hovering near make it to their destination. Just before any of his digits could make contact, his resolve broke. His heart pounding, he runs.

Sneakers hit the ground, leaving puddles from the tank with every beat of the water-clogged material. Each puddle drips off the memory of Tim O’Neil and his ruined face. Shudders wrack his frame, throwing off his balance and he falls. Knees hit the floor with the meaty slap of wet denim. The sharp tang of blood explodes with the sudden flare of pain in his tongue and he cries out. HE stands, his hand to his mouth as his body breaks contact with the floor, leaving behind a much larger puddle. Staring through wide, unseeing eyes, he runs again. Inside, where the noise is all consuming, a mantra can be heard above the fear: if he just keeps running, everything will be okay. After a few more of the mental repetitions, he believes it.

His foot slides, a puddle of his own making throwing him into Tony Piccolo. Tony’s arms grasp him, just under the arms, pulling him straight and keeping him upright. Tony’s face is ashen, except for an ugly gash just over his left eyebrow and Lucas stares at this in stupid fascination. Dimly aware of his actions, he reaches out to touch the other man’s face. Pulling his hand away, he stares mutely at his blood-stained fingers.

“Ow.” Tony Piccolo almost drops the young man. “Don’t. What are you trying to do?”

Lucas looks up at the voice, uncomprehending. After a moment, a flash of recognition sparks and his eyes reveal a floodgate of emotions. Under the assault, the blue eyes darken and when he speaks, the sounds are calm and rational, “Are you okay?”

Piccolo watches him wipe his fingers, two fresh stains near the growing collection of similar streaks, “Luke, it’s you that I’m beginning to worry about.

Footsteps echo in the corridor behind them. Although distant and steady, both men feel their faces pale. One ashen face turns to the other, wordless communication clear: move. They run, passing quietly through corridor after corridor.