Chapter 23: The Coldest Sanctuary

For a long time, nobody moves. The silence is a heavy, wet blanket, broken only by the rush of the black river past our feet and the ragged, desperate panting of five people who should be dead.

We are huddled on a small, dry(ish) stone ledge, a tiny island of stability in a world of filth and death. The air is thick with the stench of the ghouls, the river, and us. We are, all of us, covered in a sheen of indescribable slime, a cold, second skin that clings to our clothes and hair. My own silver hair is matted, heavy, and smells like a grave.

Hachiro is the first to break the silence. He is sitting up, staring at his hands, which are wrapped in the filthy, soaked remnants of his shirt. The bravado is gone, replaced by a quiet, trembling shock.

"I think... I think... my knuckles are... blistered? Is that... is that normal? For... demonic... acid... burns?"

His voice is small, childlike. Erima crawls over to him, her movements stiff with exhaustion and the biting cold. She pulls one of his hands into the faint grey light filtering through the storm grate far above. The light is weak, barely illuminating the horror.

"You are lucky you have hands left at all, you idiot. You grabbed it."

Her voice is flat, devoid of emotion. It is the voice of someone running on pure, functional adrenaline.

"I... I had to! It was... tickling... Yogawa! It was... undignified!"

"You... are... an... imbecile..." Yogawa groans from where he is slumped against the wall. He is shivering violently, a full-body tremor that seems to shake him to his very core. His face is a pale, sickly green in the gloom. "A... noble... imbecile... but... still..."

Erima sighs, a sound of pure exhaustion, a white plume of breath fogging in the frigid air. She pulls a small, sealed med-kit from a pouch on her belt. It is... clean. Impossibly, beautifully clean.

"How... how is that... clean?" I ask. My teeth are chattering so hard the words are difficult to form. The adrenaline from the injector is gone, a hollow, empty void. The cold is all that is left, a creeping ice that feels like it is starting from my bones and spreading outward.

"I... am a professional, Mizuki. I keep my medical supplies... waterproofed. And... separate... from... everything... else."

She tears open a packet of sterile, antiseptic wipes. The sudden, sharp smell of alcohol is a bizarre violation in this world of decay, a clean scent that has no business being here. It is almost painful.

"This... is... going... to... hurt."

"Wait- hurt? More... than... melting?"

"Yes. Hold still."

Hachiro's scream is a raw, agonizing sound that echoes in the small, damp space, dwarfing the sound of the river. "GAAAAAAH! MOTHER... OF... A... DRAGON'S... TOOTH! IT BURNS! IT BURNS!"

"I told you! Stop wiggling! You want to get... sewer... infection? Do you... know... what... that... entails?"

"IS... IT... WORSE... THAN... THIS?!"

"Yes. Significantly."

Erima works with a grim, practiced efficiency that I find myself envying. Her hands are steady, her focus absolute. She cleans Hachiro's weeping, burned hands, her expression unchanging as he cries, actual tears of pain and misery rolling down his filth-streaked face. He does not pull away again. When she is done, she wraps them in thick, white bandages, turning his ruined fists into useless, white clubs. The med-kit is almost empty.

She sits back on her heels, her shoulders slumping for just a second before she straightens them again.

"Status. Everyone."

The silence stretches, heavy and cold. Kizawa is staring into the black river, his back to us. He is a rigid silhouette, still holding his one remaining sword as if it is the only thing holding him upright.

"Kizawa. Status."

He does not turn. His voice is a low, flat monotone, a machine reporting its damage.

"Ribs... are... cracked. Maybe... broken. Left... arm... is... sprained. My... shoulder... is... weak. I... am... down... one... blade. I... am... operational."

"You... are... not... operational," I whisper, the words barely audible over my chattering teeth. "You... can... barely... stand."

"I... am... standing," he says, his voice dangerously quiet.

"Kizawa, look at me."

He turns. Slowly. And the cold I feel in my bones is nothing compared to the ice in his eyes. His face is a mask of pure, cold fury. It is not directed at the ghouls, or at Yogawa for his idiotic light-show. It is... at me. I flinch, a tiny, involuntary movement that feels like a massive betrayal.

"You... engaged. You... jumped... in. After... I... told... you... to... stay... back."

"You... were... losing! He... was... on... you!"

"It... was... my... fight! My... calculation! You... interfered! You... emptied... yourself... again,... did... you... not?"

"I... had... to! You... were... slow!"

"I... was... drawing... them... in. I... had... a... plan. A... plan... that... did... not... involve... you... collapsing... mid-fight!"

"Your... plan... was... failing! You... are... hurt!"

"And you... are... reckless! You... are... a... liability,... Mizuki! You... are... the... glass... cannon... we... all... have... to... protect!"

"I... am... NOT... GLASS!" I scream, the word tearing from my throat, echoing in the small, damp space. "I... killed... it! I... helped! *Stop... treating... me... like... I... am... a... child!"

"THEN STOP... ACTING... LIKE... ONE!"

He roars, and the force of it shatters his composure. He coughs, a deep, wet, agonizing sound, and clutches his side, his face going pale. Silence. Awful, heavy, cold silence. The only sound is the rushing water, indifferent to our pain. Kizawa hates me. He does not just disagree with me. He hates me. He sees me as a burden. And the worst part is... after the battle with the General, after the drain... I fear he is right.

Hachiro looks between us, his usual grin completely gone. "Guys... come... on... We... are... alive. That is... good,... right? Team... unity... and... all... that...?"

"Shut... up... Hachiro." Erima says, her voice flat. She turns her gaze to me. It is not angry. It is assessing. Cold.

"Mizuki. Your status. Honestly."

I look away from Kizawa's burning, accusing stare. I look at my hands. They are shaking, a fine, uncontrollable tremor. "I... am... empty. The... adrenaline... shot... is... gone. I... feel... cold. Colder... than... the... water. Inside. My... bones... feel... like... ice."

Erima nods, her expression unreadable in the gloom. "And... Yogawa?"

"I... am... useless," the magician whispers. He is hugging his grimoire to his chest like a teddy bear, a pathetic attempt at comfort. "I... am... worse... than... useless. I... am... a... beacon... for... monsters. I... cannot... cast. I... cannot... even... make... a... light. I... am... done."

"No... you... are not... done," Hachiro says, his voice surprisingly firm, even through the pain. "You... are... resting. Big... difference. You... are... our... magic... guy. We... need... you. So... you... get... to... mope... for... ten... more... minutes... and... then... you... have... to... suck... it... up. Okay?"

Yogawa just stares at him, baffled by the genuine, if clumsy, encouragement.

Erima stands up, every movement stiff and pained. She walks to the edge of the rushing river and peers into the darkness, as if she can see what awaits us.

"So. Summary. Hachiro... has... no... hands. Yogawa... has... no... magic. Kizawa... is... broken. And... Mizuki... is... an... ice... cube. And... I... am... almost... out... of... arrows... and... bandages."

She looks up at the storm grate, a tiny patch of grey in a world of black. The light is weak. It could be dawn. It could be dusk. We have no way of knowing.

"This... 'sanctuary'... is... a... joke. We... cannot... stay... here. The... ghouls... are... stupid. But... something... else... will... come."

"Come... from... where?" I ask, my voice a croak.

"From... there." She points up the tunnel we came from, back toward the chamber of horrors. "Or... from... there." She points down the river, into the oppressive, rushing black. "We... are... in... their... home. We... are... trespassing... in... their... toilet. They... will... notice."

"So... what... do... we... do?" Hachiro asks, his voice small. "We... cannot... go... back... up... to... the... city. The... web... is... there. The... Spinner... King... is... looking... for... us."

"We... cannot... fight," Kizawa says, his voice still rigid with anger, but now also laced with grim pragmatism. "Not... like... this. We... need... a... real... sanctuary. We... need... time."

"Exactly," Erima nods. "So... we... go... deeper."

She points downriver, into the pitch-black tunnel the water is rushing into. The darkness seems to drink the faint grey light.

"You... are... insane," Yogawa whispers, his eyes wide with terror. "We... do... not... know... what... is... down... there! It... could... be... a... waterfall! It... could... be... a... grinder! It... could... be... the... ghoul... KING'S... MOUTH!"

"It... is... also... the... only... way... out," Erima says calmly. "The... current... is... strong. It... is... moving... away... from... the... chamber... we... just... left. That... means... it... is... moving... away... from... the... cluster... of... demons. We... follow... the... water. Water... always... finds... a... way... out."

"I... still... cannot... swim!" Hachiro protests, holding up his bandaged hands. "And... now... I... cannot... even... PADDLE!"

"You... will not... have... to," Erima says. She turns back to her pack, which she had unslung onto the ledge. She pulls something from it. A long, thin, coiled nylon rope. And a small, black, vacuum-sealed bundle. We stare as she unwraps it. It is a small, inflatable raft.

"You... have... got... to... be... KIDDING... ME," Yogawa says, his voice filled with a strange, hysterical awe.

"I... told... you," Erima says, pulling the inflation tab. A loud, sharp hissing sound fills the air as the raft expands, taking shape. "I... am... a... professional. I... pack... for... every... contingency. Including... filthy... sewer... rivers."

The raft is small. It will maybe fit three people, if they are friendly. It looks black and sturdy, and right now, it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

"Okay," she says, all business. "Plan. Yogawa, you... are... cargo. You... sit... in... the... middle. Hachiro,... you... sit... behind... him. Mizuki,... in... front. Kizawa... and... I... will... be... in... the... water. We... guide... it. We... kick. We... are... the... steering. The... current... will... do... most... of... the... work."

Kizawa nods, his anger momentarily eclipsed by respect for her sheer, insane preparedness. "It... is... sound."

"I... do... not... want... to... sit... in... the... poopy-raft," Hachiro mutters, his last spark of defiance.

"You... are... sitting... in... the... poopy-raft,... Hachiro,... or... we... are... leaving... you... here... with... the... ghouls," Erima says, not even looking at him.

"The... poopy-raft... it... is."

She ties the nylon rope around the raft's front handle, then loops the other end around her waist. "This... is... for... me... and... Kizawa. We... hold... on. We... do... not... get... separated... in... the... dark. Understood?"

We all nod. A grim, silent agreement.

"Good. Load... up. We... leave... in... two... minutes."

Hachiro helps a shivering, unresisting Yogawa into the raft. I slide in after, my entire body aching with cold and exhaustion. The silence from Kizawa is deafening, a physical presence in the raft. He hates me. He thinks I am weak. Maybe he is right.

He and Erima, without a word, slide back into the freezing, black water. Kizawa grunts in pain as the cold hits his cracked ribs, but his face remains a mask of stone. Erima hands him the end of the rope.

"Ready?" Erima asks.

"No," Yogawa whimpers.

"Go."

Erima pushes us off the ledge. The current catches us instantly, a powerful, invisible hand that yanks us from our tiny sanctuary. We are plunged back into total darkness. We are moving fast. The only sound is the rush of water, echoing loud and hollow, and the faint, rhythmic splashing of Erima and Kizawa kicking beside us.

"This... is... terrifying!" Hachiro yells, his voice instantly swallowed by the dark.

"Be... quiet... and... listen!" Erima hisses back.

We listen. Drip... drip... drip. The rush of the water. And... something else. A low, deep hum. A vibration. I can feel it through the thin skin of the raft, a thrumming in my bones that is not from the cold. It is coming from ahead of us.

"What... is... that?" I whisper.

"I... do... not... know," Kizawa's voice is a low growl right next to my ear. His proximity is a strange mixture of comfort and tension.

"It... feels... like... machinery," Erima mutters. "Or... power."

"Or... death," Yogawa groans.

The raft picks up speed. The tunnel is getting narrower, the sound of the water louder, the hum more intense. We are not escaping. We are being pulled somewhere. And no one is screaming. We are too tired to scream. We just hold on tight to the poopy-raft and plunge deeper into the dark, toward a new, unknown, and terrible sound.