Words to Tie to Bricks (13 page)

Of course it does. How could it not?

But something’s wrong.

‘Isn’t it ... bad?’

I don’t have words. I’m sorry.

‘I’m not going to let it slow me down. I can forget it. I can keep on walking.’

I know you can. That wasn’t what I was trying to say. ‘I don’t want you to forget.’

What was I trying to do? I was just talking. What do these words even mean? Pain is everywhere, all the time; it’s a necessary part of life. Why should it be any different? Give pain too
much power, it’ll slow you down. I know that. We remember it from somewhere, both of us do. I appreciate that you don’t say it.

‘Never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s nothing important.’

‘We need to turn left now.’

We do.

‘What you think is important, you know. I want to hear it.’

I have a lot to say and no way to say it all, but you’re here, and you’re listening, and that’s as good as it gets. ‘You don’t have to forget. We forget so much. If
you hadn’t survived the fall ...’

I don’t know what I’m trying to say. But I think, somehow, you do.

‘Pain is different. It’s not useful. It’s better to forget.’

‘It’s not about what’s useful. It’s about what’s important.’

‘Living is more important right now. We need to keep on walking.’

There’s a silence. Not a bad one. Comfortable. Room to breathe. A quiet, comfortable cave to sleep in, rather than a dead, barren, barely-survivable desert.

There’s the wind. There’s the sea. There’s the scuttling. There’s the shifting of the gas. And there’s the oddest hissing noise, too, seemingly coming from my mic.
Again, the readings say I’m fine, and if the readings are wrong, then there’s no point in worrying. It’s too late by then.

In the distance, there are shadows moving on the hills. Big, fearsome things, things that dive for the weak and devour the defenceless. We aren’t worried. We are not strong, and we are not
defended, but they’re at the hills.

We keep on walking.

We’re walking, but not together. Talking, being with one another, but apart. Our hands are held, but not. The air rustling through my open fingers is ruining the
illusion. I need you again soon.

We walk past a hill and suddenly the sea is behind it, and the tunnel is leading to a small island. It’s not on the way to where we need to be, but we’ve got time, and no other real
choice, so we walk along the narrowing path to where we’re sure the old mining tunnels would have been.

This bridge is no more than fifteen metres across at its widest, and it’s made of jagged rock; sharp, brittle shale that’s tough to walk on. We’re not walking overly quickly,
so I break a few pieces off and toss it into the sea. The second it’s out of my hand it’s black rock over black sludge through black gas, and it may as well be invisible. The sea
swells.

‘Were there other people with us, before?’

You don’t break the silence forcefully, but I still jump when you do. ‘Sorry?’

‘Did we set off with just the two of us, or were there others?’

I shrug. Then, realising you can’t see, I say: ‘I’m not sure. I don’t remember.’

‘Me neither, but that isn’t exactly worth much.’

‘No. Not really.’

A stupid question eats at my head. I try to drown it, but I remember what you said earlier, about being important. ‘Why do you ask?’

And the second I say it I know for sure it’s stupid and worthless and that you think less of me, but before I can do anything self-destructive about it, you talk: ‘Your scream,
earlier–’

A pause. A long one. You never pause.

Something’s wrong.

‘What is it?’ I bark.

‘Something big, and scuttling, and –’

Your voice is getting fainter. You’re running to the tunnel’s exit. I follow.

And as I do, I notice something.

The ocean doesn’t roll, and the waves don’t break, not like our language and the metaphors we end up using seem to imply that they once did. The ocean is toxic and acid and unstable
and bubbling. But not now. Something’s in it. Stirring.

And then, like a mole sticking its head above the surface of the earth, there’s a shiny black carapace in the waves.

And then another.

And another.

And then they constitute an ocean all of their own.

Big things, fearsome things, things that thrive on weakness and fear and pain.

Why here? Why now?

I turn to look at the mainland.

Oh.

I can’t remember what a dawn looks like. No one can. But I know what it’s supposed to look like. The sun, a great ball of fire, would creep over the horizon, and
all its light would spill over the hills and bathe the green countryside in amber and red and everything would be alright and the forces of evil would scream, scatter, steam, melt, and the heroes
would rejoice and it would be
glorious.

Well, this is like that. Except, instead of the sun, there’s black, and instead of the green countryside, there’s black, and instead of amber and red rolling into view there’s
black. Like the hands of an angry god, reaching for me, the ant it could never crush, the disease it could never purge, the stain it could never remove, and I can see its face in this hellish
sunset and I can see it smile in triumph.

I am not in awe. There is never a time for that here. Awe is just waiting for death.

I turn on my heels and run.

You’ve already left. The things wouldn’t let you wait.

I keep running.

It’s a rock. It’s a high, steep rock, in the middle of the ocean, with a thin shale bridge. That’s what we’re on. And all around us is a sea of toxic sludge, or a sea of
sleek, strong, hungry things. It doesn’t look good. It looks like death.

I think about what brought them here. What could have been loud enough, alluring enough, to attract this amount of these things? Whatever it was, it must have sounded horrifically wounded. Easy
pickings.

I don’t curse my luck. I don’t care enough to. The worst that can happen is I die.

Not quite.

The worst that can happen is that
you
die.

And then I’m off the bridge entirely and I’m shouting in my Com for you and I don’t see you or hear you and there isn’t any exit in sight and then there
it is, just a hole in the ground and you run out and you twist and then there’s that thing in your arms, I remember, from so long ago, that long, thick, heavy metal thing, I can’t
remember what it does.

And then there’s a flash of red and the hole is collapsing in on itself and I remember.

And then I’m running to you.

And then I’m screaming for you.

And then you turn to see me.

And then I’ve run to you.

And then I’m staring at you.

And your gas mask is staring back.

I want –

I want a lot of things. And all of them are you.

But there aren’t words for this, there aren’t actions, there isn’t any way to convey and if there ever has been I can’t remember and you get one chance
to make your gesture down here, and I want to make mine count, but I don’t even know how to begin.

‘
You
,’ I start.

You shake your head. ‘No.
You
.’

And then there’s death behind us and we’re running, and you’re limping and you’re turning and slowing and I grab your hand to pull you along but you’re just aiming
and then there’s red and the things scream as they die and you throw your weapon away and I’m guessing it’s either empty or you know that we can’t fend off this many and
then we come to the edge of the island, the edge of the rock, the end of the rope and the end of the line and the end of the end of the end.

We stop.

And we look down.

And there are rocks below that would kill us before we could dissolve in the sludge. A painless death, that. As painless as they come, anyway.

I look at you.

I don’t want to die.

I don’t want you to die.

But – ‘Looks like this is it.’

You nod. You’re staring at what’s coming. I can almost see your face through the visor of your gas mask. I’ve never tried before, but if I focus, I can almost see your
–

I look away. ‘We were so close.’

‘Close to what? Why can’t this be it? Why can’t this be where we were headed?’

‘This?’ I shake my head. ‘How can
this
be it?’

‘Neither of us can remember, anyway. It may as well be here. This is as good a place to end up as any.’

A pause, before you continue.

‘You do realise why they’re here?’

I don’t.

‘Your scream.’

And it makes sense.

And it hurts.

It does.

Screams never go unanswered here.

But before I can say anything: ‘No, don’t be sorry. I’m glad. It made me remember.’

I’m still holding your hand, from before.

I’m not going to stop.

‘Do you remember my name?’ I ask you.

You shake your head.

‘I don’t remember yours, either. It doesn’t matter. Names aren’t important.’

And I close my eyes. And I breathe. This. This is important. This matters. This, right here, is the moment where everything falls into place. This is where everything becomes defined. If someone
picks up my gas mask in the distant future, long after my body has rotted away, and they wonder, briefly, who I used to be, then I want this to be the answer.