I hesitate a moment over the next words. Only a moment.
I love you,
R.
Simple. I can’t give away too much. Almost none of the younger brothers can read, but should an elder get hold of it, at least they won’t know too much of the plan.
If found, I would certainly be in trouble. Marston would know that it was I sending the message.
Yet, no matter the risk, no matter what Adolphine says, it’s important that Lazlo know something of what is about to happen. She doesn’t trust him. She doesn’t know him.
I do.
After the afternoon meal, I find Brother Dormer heading to the fan room. That’s where I corner him, when St. John and the other brothers are nowhere to be seen.
He’s about to protest, when his eyes widen at the pouch I’m carrying.
Even more surprised when I place it directly into his large hands.
He bounces it, hears the rattle.
In the speechlessness that follows, I lean in.
“Inside is something I need for you to give to Lazlo. A folded-up bit of parchment. Don’t let anyone else see it. Don’t talk about it with anyone. Just give it to him.”
Brother Dormer looks positively torn—such a bounty in his palm. He opens the sock and begins to inspect. “I couldn’t…”
He stammers.
I see images of extra helpings of stew, of sweet cake, should there ever be sweet cake again, swim in his eyes. “What does it say?” he asks. “This message.”
“It says that I hope he is okay… that I miss him,” I say.
He nods, silently, weighing the teeth in his hand against his morality.
“Just make sure he gets it, and I’ll give you any teeth I get traded for as long as I live,” I say.
He cracks half a smile. Less teeth than anyone on board, Brother Dormer. Black gaps broken with yellow and brown borders. “We in’t going to be living that much longer, yeah?”
His voice carries no humor. If anything, it is fear. Uncertainty, at least. The same uncertainty that presses down upon all of us.
Perhaps it’s that we survived the last attack when so many thought we wouldn’t.
Some stroke of real humanity, coursing through all of us.
“Right,” I say.
He nods, solemnly, bounces the tied sock full of teeth in his palm again.
“Okay,” he whispers. “I’ll do it.”
I nod. Take a breath. “Thank you, Brother.”
He doesn’t know how to react when I embrace him, wrap my arms around his middle.
“He doesn’t look… good, you know,” he says before I take my leave. “Lazlo. He isn’t well. Looks sick. He’s sick like the others get when they work in the reactor compartment.”
My heart drops. I try not to show it. I can’t, lest I look too suspicious. “Just give him the message. Please.”
I can’t breathe, even though the boat has surfaced and vented, and even though Brother Ernesto got the oxygen generator operating again.
The sensation lasts throughout the whole day—me, singing, trying to take a deep breath, but it’s as though my bindings are made of iron chains, keeping me from taking in a proper breath. My voice comes out weak, strained. If anyone notices, and I’m sure they do, they say nothing to me about it.
It’s not until just after Vespers the next day, when I find the moment to break away, informing Brother Ernesto that I am going to check on the pumps in the battery room.
As soon as I climb down, I remove my robes, still damp and reeking from the attack the day before. Then I unwrap myself, release my chest from the itchy bindings. Take in a deep breath.
Cry.
I let myself, key in my hand.
My shoulder aches from being jarred when the sub bottomed out. My head throbs where it struck the beam.
Only one more day.
One more.
There might still be time to save Lazlo. The radiation might not have gotten to him yet. It might just work. This dangerous, insane plan.
And then, Topside. Sunlight. Fresh air.
“Who would have imagined?” a cold voice calls out. “Here, at our final hour, I find our brave Cantor, so broken…”
I whip around to find that St. John has followed me down into the battery well. I didn’t even hear him.
He seems about to continue with whatever biting words he had begun when he sees the silver key in my hand.
Confusion. But then his eyes widen. And that wide gaze falls upon me, upon my chest. I close my robes, but it’s too late.
He’s seen.
The light of realization dawning on his face, fallen heavy as a hammer.
The smirk disappears. In its wake, shock.
Not now. Not so soon! Not when everything is at stake.
“St. John,” I say, trying to find the words.
His confusion bends quickly to a fierce, cold malice.
“What secrets you’ve been keeping, Remy,” he says.
He’s closed the distance between us in a few steps, snatching the key from my hand before I can even react.
“Give it back,” I say, reaching for it.
“And what is this?” he demands, gripping it tight, dodging my darting hand. “Something you stole from the caplain… like the sinner you are… like the impure creature that was cast from the garden…”
“Not stolen,” I say, angry now. “Given to me. Entrusted to me. By Caplain Amita.”
“Lies! Tell me what it is. What does it open?” he demands.
“It’s… it’s the key that will launch the Last Judgment,” I blurt out. It might be the only way to convince him. Or at least, it might surprise him. Take him off his guard. “Caplain Amita entrusted it to me.”
St. John’s mouth grows slack. He squints down at the key. Confused. Disbelieving.
“The key? To the Last Judgment? He… he gave it to a… to a female?” he says, almost hissing. “You bewitched him. You’ve bewitched us all…”
“He knew all along,” I say.
“Lies.” His eyes positively glow. “How Caplain Marston will reward me…”
“Give it back,” I warn.
“I don’t think so…” he says, beginning to back away. “No, you’ll swim for this, Remy. For this deception.”
I lunge forward but am met with the hard back of St. John’s hand across the cheek. I’m knocked to the deck, stunned.
He turns, already climbing up from the well, but I push myself up, lunge for his legs, yanking him down. He topples hard against the bank of batteries. Rolls off, down to the deck. I am atop him before he can spring to his feet. Even though I am slighter than he, he cannot push me away. No matter how much he thrashes, struggles.
I think of all he has done. What he did to Lazlo.
I bring my fist across his face.
And again, with my other fist—more vicious, stronger than I intended. The wet smack. Tears bead hot on my cheeks, down my chin. I can barely see him for the tears. I sling my other fist at him, and then again, each blow stronger than the last. My knuckles sting. They ache. Lazlo’s face swirls in my mind. With it, a white-hot rage. It is this bastard’s fault that Lazlo is back there, dying. It is all St. John’s fault. His nose spouts blood.
Finally, I stop myself and look down at him, almost as dazed as he. Tears stream down the sides of his face. He tries to roll me from atop him, weakly, one last time, but I pin him down by the shoulders with all my might.
“You’re wrong. About everything,” I say through gritted teeth. “We’ve been wrong all along!”
I’m not sure if he even hears me. His eyes are open, but it is as though he’s blinking away a fog. I take the key from his loosened grip.
Then, with all the strength left in me, I flip him around and, using a length of rope from the tool kit, I bind his hands, his feet. Stuff some of my binding linens into his mouth. Then I drag him to the far corner of the compartment, so that he won’t be seen from the hatch.