Suspected Terrorists

《19.B》

"When we'd reached the edge of the cliff I was sure I'd signed our death warrants," she continued ignoring my protests and questioning looks.

"The cliff dropped more than eighty feet. At the bottom stretched a nightmarish version of the Grand Canyon: a river of fire cutting a path through a jagged obsidian crevasse, the glowing red current casting horrible shadows across the cliff faces. Even from the top of the canyon, the heat was intense. The chill of the River Cocytus hadn’t left my bones, but now my face felt raw and sunburned. Every breath took more effort, as if my chest was filled with Styrofoam peanuts. The cuts on my hands bled more rather than less. My foot, which had been almost healed, seemed to be reinjuring itself. I'd taken off my makeshift cast and was starting to regret it. Each step made me wince. Assuming we could make it down to the fiery river, which I doubted, my plan seemed certifiably insane. Percy seemed to agree but he didn't say it aloud, in fact, he sounded hopeful as he pointed out the easiest way down. Though I was grateful for that, I felt like I was leading him to his doom.

Of course if we stayed here, we would die anyway. Blisters had started to form on our arms from exposure to the Tartarus air. The whole environment was about as healthy as a nuclear blast zone.

Percy went first. The ledge was barely wide enough to allow a toehold. Our hands clawed for any crack in the glassy rock. Every time I put pressure on my bad foot, I wanted to yelp. I’d ripped off the sleeves of my T-shirt and used the cloth to wrap my bloody palms, but my fingers were still slippery and weak. We kept going, one step at a time. My eyes stung with sweat. My arms trembled. But to my amazement, we finally made it to the bottom of the cliff.

When I reached the ground, I stumbled but Percy caught me. I was alarmed by how feverish my skin felt. Red boils had erupted on his face, so he looked like a smallpox victim. My own vision was blurry. My throat felt blistered, and my stomach was clenched tighter than a fist. We had to hurry. We staggered over slick glass ledges, around massive boulders, avoiding stalagmites that would’ve impaled us with any slip of the foot. Our tattered clothes steamed from the heat of the river, but we kept going until we crumpled to our knees at the banks of the Phlegethon. I told Percy we had to drink it but he was sceptical."

"Well, DUH!" I yelled.

She just glared before saying, “The Phlegethon flows from Hades’s realm down into Tartarus. The river is used to punish the wicked. But also…some legends call it the River of Healing.”

“Some legends?”

She swallowed. “The Phlegethon keeps the wicked in one piece so that they can endure the torments of the Fields of Punishment. I thought it might be the Underworld equivalent of ambrosia and nectar."

"Wait...what?"

"I thrust my hands into the river. Stupid? Yes, but I was convinced we had no choice. If we waited any longer, we would've passed out and died. Better to try something foolish and hope it worked. On first contact, the fire wasn’t painful. It felt cold, which probably meant it was so hot it was overloading my nerves. Before I could change my mind, I cupped the fiery liquid in my palms and raised it to my mouth. I expected a taste like gasoline but it was so much worse. Once, at a restaurant back in San Francisco, I'd made the mistake of tasting a ghost chili pepper that came with a plate of Indian food. After barely nibbling it, I thought my butt was going to implode. Drinking from the Phlegethon was like gulping down a ghost chili smoothie. My sinuses filled with liquid flame. My mouth felt like it was being deep-fried. My eyes shed boiling tears, and every pore on my face popped. Percy said I collapsed, gagging and retching, my whole body shaking violently. He grabbed my arms and just managed to stop me from rolling into the river.