Molly - Part 1

Chapter 7

Morgan coughed up blood. Shaking, she looked up. She saw the same kid who had gutted poor Bobby King approach the altar, then she looked away, too afraid to see.

She crawled along the stone, hands wet with blood, coming to one of the bodies and taking his jacket, ripping the sleeve and wrapping it around her arm. Her heart was beating so fast she was afraid she might have a heart attack.

"God," she whispered, "please help me."

She got up, forcing herself to take a few steps.

She went over to the edge of the mountain and looked down. There, Bobby King lay. His fine clothes didn't seem to matter too much anymore.

How she managed to get to the bottom of Holy Mountain, Morgan didn't know. She went in and out of consciousness. At one point she thought she remembered fending off a scorpion, but mostly all she remembered were the bodies.

Morning. She'd managed to crawl behind a dumpster, the refuse now making her choke as she tried to reorient herself.

There was a dog. When it noticed Morgan, it flared up, flashing its teeth.

She stumbled into steam rising up from the cracks of the city, the faded red lights which had once been beacons now chipped, broken, or faded.

She looked down at her rushed bandage. Blood was already seeping through. She would die soon. She knew this because so many had already died, and why should she be spared?

There: a police station. It was surely abandoned but Morgan had no choice. She set forth, screaming, crying out for help. The windows were tinted, the entire world staring back on her.

Morgan dropped to her knees and wept, wishing she had been taken by the madmen and their guns.

A boom, followed by fall debris, and there turning from one of the giant blocks that fell towards the sky were crawlers, mechanical beasts, slug-like, drawing up on thousands of legs each clicking below.

Morgan scrambled out of the way. She saw two heads appear from amidst that swarm of machinery. They had goggles on and wielded torches like the kid who had killed poor Bobby King. She rose up, then fell, gasping in pain as her leg trembled. Each step was agony, and soon Morgan was forced to crawl.

Morgan threw out her hands, bloodied.

"Please!"

For an incredible second, Morgan was sure that they would take her. Instead, they went back into the crawler and the beast went forth, its march resolute.

She wept, then when she couldn't cry anymore she turned. A bridge. She hadn't even noticed it before. She could only witness so many treasons, so many breaches of humanity's own. She realized she was dead, as were they all, and with a great weary sigh she threw herself into the river.

Inside the crawler, Yeltsin closed the hatch. Gordon was manning the helm, a thousand lights bleeding forth. It gave Yeltsin a headache to stare at the lights for too long. He'd complained about it before but no one ever listened to him.

"We might have helped her," he said, choosing his words carefully.

"One more mouth to feed. You know better than that, Yeltsin."

"Perhaps at one point. Now I just do not wish to see anyone else die."

Carla leaned over and shoved him. "Don't be so soft. Gordon isn't letting us ride with him 'cause he's charitable. You really are stupid sometimes."

"Enough," Gordon dronned, flipping a latch and settling back in his seat.

Yeltsin checked the clip of the torch they'd given him.