The Line

A special kind of hollow

The day was unnaturally dark.

Rain escaped grey cumuli and fell in heavy, hard sheets. It, too, was an unnatural shade: deep red, like the sky was melting and dripping, dropping. His skin was sticky with it.

Whether he would survive the storm once it moved past infancy was a gamble he'd rather not make. As for whether Flynn was--

No.

Hollow. Juan was hollow.

It was a hollow the Line could have been famous for: the hollow that appeared when your own hands tore your own heart out. A hollow that emptied the insides of the entire world, making the ground a little thinner and his stance a little shakier.

///

A wall of water overtook him--and the shock felt like hard fire. He wanted to run and hide somewhere, but he was too cold to move and there was nowhere to go.

This is Hell.

His breaths turned to shallow pants that did little to relieve the craving in his chest.

He was right--this is Hell.

Warmth and wetness filled his eyes. He could barely stay upright--something kept tossing him this way then that. And the deck was slippery, so slippery, turning the wheel into more of an anchor than a navigation tool.

He was right.

Juan allowed himself to think the unthinkable name.

Flynn was right.

How long until he reached someplace he could take shelter? Too long. He wouldn't make it. At least, he wouldn't make it alive. The water was already angry; it would only get angrier.

Better questions. How long could he keep on going? Could he keep on going? Something told him no. That he would die. That he had to. That the storm would chew and gnaw him to dust before he reached the forcefield and way before it opened. He felt much like he had during that first storm, hearing the screams, outside.

A special kind of hollow. Feeling your heart die in your chest.

Knowing the screams belonged to you now.

///

Juan felt the change in the air, like it was suddenly denser, thicker. Felt it rub against his skin with painful friction.

Darkness turned to ink.

Lightning would be coming soon.

His hands gripped the wheel so tightly he could barely feel them. When a line of saliva fell from his mouth, he didn't feel that at all.

Everything was a whirl. He couldn't leave the Line, he knew that. He couldn't leave it, not alone. Not without Flynn.

He needed to go back.

Decided now, Juan gave the wheel a spin, heading back the way he'd come. Although the world still appeared to have been swallowed by a shadow, he leaned onto the metal circle with heavy breaths and drew respite from a calmer stretch of sea, allowing his shaking legs to steady.

This calm was short-lived.

The whoosh was barely noticeable amidst the crashing of waves and the roar in his head, but he heard it--he was attuned to the sound, conditioned to be hyper-aware of it.

He looked up, then around, and saw.

There were three of them. Zooming toward what could only be him, though the rain seemed to slow them somewhat. Poised to sting.

This is Hell, Juan thought.

Pluggers.