End of Days (21 page)

“Don't . . .”

I wasn't actually doing anything. He must have been worried that I might move him. I stood up to give him some breathing room and stared through the hole in the top of the elevator. I could see the entrance to the next floor—sliding doors that led to the hall above. They had been torn back. Light from the upper corridor spilled into the dark space, illuminating the claw marks Hyde had scratched into the steel and concrete. I listened for sounds of a scuffle, but all I could hear was the pop and crackle of the still-burning wires that sparked around us, filling the small space with a nauseating odor. I felt weak, and my ankle was burning. I wondered if I'd landed on it funny when I'd fallen to the floor. I looked down and spied the knife lying beside my foot. I picked it up. Blood was on the blade. Perhaps I'd cut him after all.

Don't celebrate yet,
my mind told me.
Get moving.

I looked at the mess above, uncertain. I didn't know what to do. Mr. Entwistle was up there by himself. If I jumped and grabbed a cable, I could shimmy up to the floor above, but it meant I'd have to leave Charlie behind.

The floor tilted and I lost my balance. My ankle was definitely burning. Something was wrong. I heard the sound of steel grinding, and the elevator jumped down a foot. Then another. My first thought was that it was going to drop. Then I heard a loud bang beside me and the doors shifted apart. A slender ribbon of light appeared between them. I could see a shadow moving beyond. Someone was prying the doors open. Whoever it was, he was snarling through clenched teeth. I raised the knife in my right hand and got ready to move quickly. My head was surprisingly dizzy. A fire was spreading up my calf. I fell into the doors. The end of a small crowbar appeared between them and the ribbon of light widened. Then
the smell of wine and lighter fluid mixed with smoke and Mr. Entwistle stuck his head through.

“Going down?” he asked.

He was standing below me. He'd somehow pulled the elevator closer to the floor he was on, but it wasn't quite level.

“Here, let me just”—he put his back against one door and pushed so the gap was almost shoulder width—“finish this. . . . There!” He dusted off his hands, then reached for his backpack.

My heart was frantically beating. I started forward in a daze. The burn in my calf was spreading up my leg. My whole body began to sweat.

“What is it? Did he bite you?” Mr. Entwistle was looking up through the hole Hyde had made in the ceiling. “He doesn't mess around, does he?”

I fell past him into the hall, then slipped to a knee. My balance was off.

“Watch that!” he said.

I felt him pry the knife out of my hand, then I reached forward and tumbled to the floor. Standing was impossible. It was easier to roll onto my back. Not as dizzy that way.

Mr. Entwistle was standing over me. The knife was under his nose. His face twisted in revulsion, then he crouched and set the blade on the floor. In a blink the backpack was off his shoulder and he was sifting through it, his hands a blur.

“Did you get cut? Did he cut you with the knife?”

I was having trouble speaking. The liquid fire was spreading to my chest, making it hard to breathe. Pins jabbed inside my lungs and ribs. I looked down at my leg. A small cut was on the side of my ankle. It must have happened when the knife dropped. That explained the burn. There was poison in my body.
Sixty thousand times stronger than cyanide.

Mr. Entwistle pulled out a hatchet. My tongue was paralyzed, but I turned enough so that I could see the cut on my ankle. The edges of it were black.

“Dammit!” he snapped.

He grabbed the end of my shoe in one hand and pulled it down so that my toes were pointed. Then he put his knee on my shin and raised the hatchet. “Don't move.”

Was he crazy? He was about to cut off my foot. I wanted it left where it was, thank you very much. I shifted as he swung. The head of the hatchet sparked and a chunk of tile popped out from the floor.

Mr. Entwistle swore again. “Stop squirming.” He was glaring at me. Then his head started shaking back and forth. “No, no, no, no, no.” He repeated it over and over. The ax clattered to the floor. His hands slid under my legs and shoulders. “No. No, you don't. Don't you dare . . .”

I wasn't about to do anything. I could barely breathe.

He stood with me in his arms and started running. I felt myself shaking. Burning. Pain froze the air in my chest.
Don't leave Charlie behind,
I wanted to say.
He's helpless.
But I couldn't talk.

Mr. Entwistle stopped. I shifted in his arms, then heard a loud bang as he kicked open a door. He turned sideways and stepped through. Then he was airborne. He didn't go down the stairs, he dropped from landing to landing. Each one rattled the air from my chest. I was suffocating. Then he stopped again. I could sense something was wrong even before he set me down. It might have been in his body language. The way his eyes widened when he looked up. It might have been the smell of fear. And something else. Something feral.

Hyde was waiting for us. I sensed him before I heard him. Another growl echoed up and down the staircase. I was lying on my back. Burning. I raised my head to take a look around. All I could see was darkness. Then suddenly, everything was on fire. My body must have been playing tricks on me. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, the stairs. And me. All of it in flames. I started to convulse. Orange, red, and yellow blurred into a smear of light. Then it got quiet. At least inside. Outside it was noisy. Like two dogs fighting
over a bone. But that quickly faded. I listened, knowing I should have been able to hear something. Anything. The sound of the fight. Of air leaving my chest. My heartbeat. But they were gone. So was the burning. It had faded, too. Only the light remained. It was far off, down a long tunnel, but I knew if I was patient, I would reach it. That it would welcome me back. So I left the vanishing world of sound and fire and sped toward it.

People generally regard dying as a downer. I assume it's because they've never tried it. Of all earthly phenomena, death is probably the most underrated. Imagine not having to worry about anything. How do I look? Where did I leave my wallet? Why do I get so many pimples? All that vanishes in a snap. So does your pain. Aches and bruises and burns. They all disappear. In the end, there is only the light. And the light is full of hope and love and all things good. And it was receding. A terrible sense of isolation came over me as I slipped away. As if I was being disconnected from something much greater than myself. I reached out so I wouldn't get separated, but it was too late. The light was gone.

I heard a faint voice. It was familiar. The person was right beside me, but he sounded light-years away.
“Clear.”

A shock went through my body. It made me want to scream. My mouth was too dry. I needed more air.

“Did it work?” asked another voice. It was also familiar. The words were packed anxiously together.

“Not yet. . . .
Clear.
”

It happened again. A powerful jolt. My eyes opened. The light was blinding, with no warmth in it. I sucked in an icy breath. It stung.

“It's working. His pulse has steadied. That's all we need.”

I felt a sting in my elbow. Nothing happened, then a warm rush crept up my arm. A feeling of heaviness followed. A man stepped into the light. His shadow fell over me. I saw black hair streaked
with white and gray under a hat like a chimney pipe. “Get some sleep, boy. You've had a busy night.”

His advice seemed reasonable, so I slept.

When I woke up, it was dark. I came out of my sleep slowly. Comfortably. My arm was a bit numb. It was tied to the metal rail of the bed I was in. I was alarmed at first. The thought of being tied up scared me, then I realized it was only surgical tubing. It was to keep my arm from moving. A machine beside the bed hummed quietly, pumping blood through a needle and into a vein near my elbow. Something brushed against my cheek. It made me jump. I heard a quiet laugh.

“Sorry. I couldn't help it.”

It was her. Luna. She was crouched over my bed. “It's you,” I whispered. My voice was hoarse, my throat dry.

She left her hand on my cheek and smiled. “Yes. It's me.”

I felt the floor shift. Then a door opened. It made an odd metallic sound. Cool night air rushed inside the room. It smelled of concrete and wet paint. I heard city sounds. Distant feet on pavement. The hum of cars. The creak of trees nearby. Then Mr. Entwistle appeared. He had to take off his top hat to step inside. The ceiling was low. I realized why when he closed the door.

“Are we in a truck?” I asked.

“No. An ambulance,” he said. “I borrowed it from the hospital.”

“Borrowed?”

“Well, I'm thinking of it more as a trade-in. The hospital lost an ambulance, but the police got a pretty good aquatic car out of the deal.” A stool was beside him. He handed it to Luna, then slumped down to the floor and let his head fall back against the wall, which was actually a medicine cabinet of some kind.

“Thanks.” She slipped the stool beside the bed and sat down.

“How did you get here?” I asked her.

“Charlie called and said you'd been poisoned. I had my sister drive me up right away. The two of them are inside with Ophelia.”

“So he's okay?”

“Charlie? Yeah. He's going to be fine. He was in here until a few minutes ago.”

I felt the air rush from my chest. A breath of relief. My face stretched into a comfortable smile. Everyone was safe. And Luna was here.

“I can't believe your parents let you come.” I wasn't one of their favorite people. It wasn't hard to understand why. Thanks to me, one of their daughters was a vampire and the other was in therapy.

Luna eyes flicked nervously over to where Mr. Entwistle was sitting, then she looked back at me. By the expression on her face, I would have bet a stolen ambulance that her parents had no idea where she was.

“We're just sorting that out now.” Mr. Entwistle smiled, spinning his hat in his hands. I'm not sure why he found this so amusing. If Luna's parents found out that she and Suki were here, the Beast of the Apocalypse would be the least of my problems.

“They already hate me,” I said.

“Who hates you?” Luna asked.

“Your parents.”

“
Hate
's a strong word, boy. They might dislike you—”

“No, they hate him.” Luna was smiling now, too. I couldn't see what was so funny. “Don't sweat it. You have enough to worry about.”

This was true. And lying around here wasn't going to fix anything. “Why am I not inside?”

“Ophelia didn't want to risk moving you,” Mr. Entwistle explained. “And I wanted to be mobile if Agent X raised the alarm and we had to split in a hurry.”

“Who is Agent X?” Luna asked.

“Someone from the Underground. He's helping with security. Zack knows him. He's walking the perimeter. I'm sure he'll want to talk to you, boy, once you're feeling better.”

I was feeling better, and I said so.

Mr. Entwistle laughed. “Zack, you were clinically dead. Anything else is generally considered an improvement.”

With Luna beside me, I wasn't going to argue. “How did I get here?”

“We drove,” he said.

“No. I mean, how did we get out of the hospital?”

“We ran.”

“Helpful, isn't he?” said Luna.

Her tone was playful, which surprised me. She couldn't have known him more than a few hours, and he looked like Jack the Ripper. If I'd seen him coming down the sidewalk, I would have crossed the street.

“My guess is, Ophelia kicked him out of the house for being a smart aleck,” she added.

The old vampire smiled. “Well, at least you said
smart.
” Then his smile vanished and he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “She wasn't happy with me for dragging you out of the house last night.”

I remembered the note she'd left me, advising me to stay home. I should have listened. “Was she angry?”

“Angry!” said Mr. Entwistle. “Men get angry. Women get something else. I don't think they've invented a suitable word yet. . . . But I settled her down eventually.”

“What did you say?”

“That I'd made a mistake. And that I was sorry. And that we were recruiting help from Agent X—which she appreciates.”

Agent X.
The alias made me think of my father's journal. He always referred to people with letters. Only Maximilian and Mutada were mentioned by name. Everyone else was Dr. Q, or N, or C. I guess it was to protect people's identities.

“Aren't you going to tell me what happened?” I asked.

“At the hospital? Sure. Just let me fuel up.” Mr. Entwistle took a bottle of red wine from inside his coat and downed a good mouthful. “So . . . where did I lose you?”

“You were about to chop off my foot.”

“Right.” He took another swig. “You would have grown it back, you know. It only takes a couple of weeks.”

“How comforting.”

“I didn't want the poison to reach your heart.”

“Poison?”

“Yeah. From the knife. You're lucky. Not every guy is fortunate enough to stab himself in a hospital. How did you get it, by the way?”

“The cut? I think it happened in the elevator. I dropped the knife. It might have nicked me on the way down. Or maybe I fell on it.”

“No,” he said. “I meant the knife. Where'd you get it?”

I had to think. My memory was usually dependable, but my brain was still warming up. “It was a gift from Agent X.”

Mr. Entwistle took another sip and nodded. “Should have guessed. . . . That was bad luck, getting cut like that. But that knife is our best protection right now.”