Chapter 44
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
BAD AUGUST
A WORLD AWAY
By the time we find our way down to ground level, I’ve learned to hide my fears a bit better.
For all the world, I don’t want August to think that I doubt him.
Because I don’t. I believe he means every word he says.
I believe he loves me. I know we have a bond that goes beyond anything naturally formed in the universe.
Something better. Something only the two of us have or could ever make.
If the world hadn’t ended back there, I never could have stopped.
I don’t understand what this is, some strange drive that feels as if it’s taking over me.
He’s in my blood. Even now, his pull is so strong I have to fight to keep my hands off him.
And maybe now it’s even worse because I know I’m so close to losing him.
But given the choice, August won’t choose me. He can’t. I’m resigned to it.
I don’t want to put that decision on him, but I won’t, for a second, let him think I’d ever choose anything but him.
But that’s how it goes, isn’t it? I’m Bad August. I’m the one who ends worlds on a whim.
Or I was.
Maybe I’m not anymore, considering I’m thinking this through. Considering I’m not trying to steer him away from ending this trail of death. No longer lying to keep a grip on him.
And it turns out, honesty has a better grip on him than any lie ever could. That’s what hurts the most. He’s seen me, my darkest parts, and he loves me anyway.
He has a romantic heart. A loving heart. All his music, his unerring forgiveness of everyone who hurts him, his belief that we could overcome this…
But love can’t overcome fact. The inevitable yes or no, the good or bad, the live or die. It’s coming for us. And it’s just a matter of time.
We come down from the overpass into a throng of people, milling back and forth along the street. The street signs are in English, which is an enormous relief. They’re in several other languages too, but that suggests maybe we can find someone to give us directions.
Things aren’t so different here. The fashion’s changed but not unrecognisable. We walk past what looks like a posh hotel, and when the doors slide open, a familiar hotel-scent of calm, cool air reaches us. There are cafes and food stalls lining the road, hawkers yelling about their goods.
We try to stick close, the crowd weaving between our pairs. August’s within reach, but he let go of my hand when we stepped down, maybe to be on the safe side in case these people are less modern than we’d hoped, or maybe it’s just easier to navigate the crowd like this.
I miss him. And he’s right here.
He looks handsome under the flashing coloured lights.
He always looks handsome, but he’s got that excitement about him that made me fall for him that very first night.
Chin up, scanning the tall buildings, he draws my eye to a line of brick several stories above us, spanning the length of the block.
Buildings I recognise.
They’ve dug down.
The street level we once knew, in our world, has been demolished, the very buildings that lined it bolstered from beneath, maybe five or six storeys down, then the remnants of the past left on display above, like paintings hanging on a gallery wall.
Above them, skyscrapers soar into the heavens.
God knows what they used to fortify them, to keep their form.
God knows what they used to do any of this.
This sort of growth, of a city like this… It must have taken a very long time.
I turn to the first local at hand, a man who’s occupied trying to get people to eat in his restaurant. “What year is it?”
“How many people?” he asks, dead-eyed.
“No, I don’t want to come in. I just can’t remember what year it is. Can you tell me?”
He frowns beneath heavy-lidded eyes. “Twenty-five, twenty-five.”
“What?” I stare at him blankly, trying to process the leap. Five hundred years? And four hundred years into the past yesterday. More or less. Which means we’ve traversed nine hundred years in the space of a day.
“I’ll throw in a bottle of wine for the table?” he shouts, but his voice fades with the crowd, lost in the throng of people.
I look for August to tell him what’s happened. But he’s gone.
“August!” I call out.
I can’t see him anywhere. Or anyone else from our group.
I shove forward through the crowd, looking into shop entrances in case they’ve wandered into one. Cafes, in case they’ve stopped. Trying to see over the people who seem en masse taller than in our time. “August!”
Alarm sets in. I know they can’t have gone far. I know he wouldn’t have, not without me. But I’m stuck in this future time, in this foreign world, and the one reason I’m here has disappeared.
A loud bang cracks down the street. People scream, the crowd surges. I’m thrown to the ground in the panic. Legs, bodies, a jumble, the rough concrete ripping into my skin, then a flash, everywhere and all at once.
Silence. People falling, the sound of their bodies dropping, but not a peep from them. Asleep. Like on the train. Like at the concert.
Asshole August.
Why would he—
“August!” The shout comes from up the street, and that’s my August. I recognise him, and I feel the fear in his voice like it’s my own.
I shove the bodies off, dragging myself from under them. I gasp in a deep breath, palms bleeding as I use the rough ground for purchase, trying to free myself.
His shout echoes off the buildings. “Stop! Don’t do this!”
One set of feet pounds the pavement, another after them.
Asshole August can’t have turned on us. Was he only waiting for this? The first opportunity to tear us apart?
My instinct is to yell out for August, tell him I’m here, but if I have a chance of getting the drop on that asshole, I have to use it.
Breaking free, I clamber over fallen bodies, leaping to the rare empty spots of pavement where I don’t have to feel guilty using a leg as a walkway. I stumble and fall, clamber up, scramble as fast as I can, listening for their footsteps.
“August!” he shouts. “Don’t. Please.”
I chase the sound of his voice. He’s close. I can’t make out the words of the voice that replies to him, but I recognise the tone. It is that bastard Asshole August. What’s he saying to him? Apologising for crossing us like this? For gaining our trust, then betraying us?
My August’s voice comes clearly. “You don’t have to do this. There are other ways.”
An alley opens on my right, dark and stinking, strewn with garbage. There, in the middle of the mess, is my August, hands up, terrified.
And standing between us, holding a gun, is that bastard double-crosser, who says only, “I’m sorry.”
“August!” I scream.
The fucker stops, dips his head, and it takes a moment for him to turn and look back at me. He keeps the gun on my August the whole time, but there’s something in his stance, in the darkness of his face…
The clothes only register after the gun and the danger. He’s wearing a long navy coat, enormous black boots that I’ve never seen before.
That’s not Asshole August.
It’s a new August.