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Chapter Thirteen, My Bloody Hands
Time sped up. Amelia's eyes darted to the boxes stuffed with fireworks and messily labeled explosives. Their hurried plan was to fight off the embodiment of Death that had chased after them using stolen rockets and shitty, cheap fireworks from a local grocery store.
It still sounded like a delusion, like some kind of fever dream she couldn't get out of. She'd said as much. Repeatedly. She claimed that they were volunteering for an inescapable fiery death. Those fireworks were literally for the Fourth of July, but there they were, using them as defense against a monster. An actual monster.
But despite her protests, adrenaline surged through her like wildfire, numbing the sting in her limbs. The idea that this could finally end, that maybe they'd make it, was almost dizzying. Doubt clung to her ribs like a disease. The thoughts she tried to bury kept resurfacing—about him. That coffin.
Nancy had quickly shut Amelia down, as she'd later introduced herself, who'd coldly redirected her to second-floor duty with Steve and Robin.
This was real. Very much real. Not just a nightmare.
Her back pressed against a concrete column on the upper balcony. She rubbed her sweaty palms against her shorts and tried to slow her rapid breathing. She didn't want to think. Not about anything. Not even about her mother. She wanted to live. She wanted to get out of there alive. But she couldn't ignore it: this coffin. It waited, and she wasn't sure if it was meant for him or her.
She felt it in her chest before she heard it—heavy stomps thundering up through the floor. The shriek that followed twisted her gut; the inhuman voice vibrated through her. Her eyes flicked to Steve's. The three of them stayed crouched behind the column, holding their breath, waiting for Lucas' signal as the monster lowered itself inside Starcourt.
Amelia's eyebrows pinched as she turned to the pair. "Do you smell that?"
"Smell what?" Steve shook his head, already tensed up.
"Sewage," she muttered. "Like something's rotting. It's putrid." They exchanged glances, frustrating her with their silence. "You seriously don't smell that?"
Robin side-eyed her, trying to crack a grin. "Pretty sure that's just your dirty clothes, Ames. Or the concussion talking."
Amelia didn't laugh. Her arms folded tightly across her chest. She sighed, "I'm serious. It's strong. It's—it's the same smell as before. It's freaking me out. The basement. My—"
"Guys!" Will's voice cut in, breathless as he appeared around the corner, hair sticking to his sweaty skin. He pointed at the boxes before darting back into position.
Steve ran into action, tossing fireworks toward Robin. She caught them with shaking hands. Amelia didn't know how they acted on instinct so fast—she was unmoving, glued to the ground. She always was. Her head was drowned in doubt and fear.
