When The Last Star Dies

“Vaelith, don’t you dare let me die in here!” Syraeth’s scream cut through the laboratory as the security shutters began their slow, grinding descent, trapping her on the wrong side of the corridor. The metal groaned like something alive. Vaelith threw himself beneath the narrowing gap. Metal struck his shoulder hard enough to send a bright shock of pain down his arm, but he shoved forward, caught the bottom of the shutter with both hands, and forced it upward just enough for her to crawl through. “Move!” he shouted through gritted teeth. She dragged herself toward him, one hand pressed hard against her stomach, the white of her shirt already dark with blood. Behind her something heavy slammed into the shutter, rattling the metal above their heads. He caught her wrists and hauled her through. The shutter crashed down between them and the infected with a final, ringing finality. For several long seconds they lay tangled on the floor, both struggling to find air. Syraeth pushed weakly against his chest, her voice thin but still carrying that familiar stubborn edge. “I’m not going anywhere. You can stop crushing my ribs now.” He released her at once. “Sorry.” “You should be. I had plans for those ribs.” He almost smiled. Then he saw the blood still slipping between her fingers, and the almost-smile died. “Where are you hurt?” “It’s nothing.” The lie was soft, almost gentle, as if she were trying to spare him. He moved her hand aside. Four ragged marks crossed the skin beneath her ribs. The flesh around them had already begun to darken, the edges taking on that unnatural violet shade he had learned to dread. His fingers went still. Syraeth watched him examine the wound, and whatever she saw on his face wiped the last of the humor from hers. She caught his wrist, her grip tighter than he expected. “Hey. Look at me.” He kept staring at the bite. “Vaelith.” Her voice cracked on his name. “Look at me.” He lifted his eyes. She pressed her thumb into the center of his palm three times—their old signal. Three presses meant I’m still here. They had invented it years ago in a crowded underground shelter during a blackout, strangers pretending not to be frightened. She had reached across the darkness to find his hand, and she had kept doing it ever since, even on the nights when neither of them wanted to admit they were afraid. Now her thumb trembled against his skin. “I’m still here,” she whispered, and the words carried a quiet desperation that settled in his chest like cold water. He closed his fingers around hers. Then he lifted her into his arms. “I’m getting you to the lab. The inhibitor is there.” “And if it doesn’t work?” Her eyes searched his face, already bracing for an answer he refused to give. He adjusted his grip beneath her knees and started running. He could not afford to answer her. The treatment chamber smelled of disinfectant and overheated machinery. Vaelith laid Syraeth on the medical bed, secured the monitoring leads with hands that refused to stop shaking, and retrieved the final vial from the refrigerator. The glass nearly slipped between his fingers. Syraeth watched him prepare the injection, her gaze soft and steady in a way that made his throat tighten. “Do you remember what you told me when we first met?” she asked. “You’re really choosing now to bring up our first date?” He tried for lightness and failed. “You told me you weren’t afraid of anything.” A small, almost fond smile touched her mouth. “You said you could survive three days without sleeping.” “I was nineteen. I was an idiot.” “You fell asleep during the movie.” “It was a terrible movie.” “It was a documentary about the ocean.” “Exactly.” Her quiet laughter still sounded enough like the woman he loved that he had to turn away for a moment. When he faced her again she was watching him carefully, as though she already knew what he was trying not to show. “I’m scared,” she admitted, the words barely more than breath. “I don’t want to forget you. If I turn, if I stop knowing who you are, I don’t want the last thing you remember about me to be what happens afterward.” He rubbed his thumb over the faint scar on her knuckle, a little white line left by the kitchen knife he had once convinced her he knew how to use. “I remember you trying to cut a pineapple with it,” he said, voice rough. She gave him a watery smile. “You promised never to mention that.” “I’m making an exception.” “Vaelith.” She caught his sleeve and held on. “Don’t make me beg you to let me go if there’s nothing left of me.” His jaw tightened. He reached for the injector before she could see his expression change. “Hold still.” She did not let go. “Whatever happens,” she whispered, “you were my favorite part of the world before it ended.” For once he had no clever answer. He pressed the injector against her arm and delivered the inhibitor. At first nothing happened. Her breathing steadied. The tremors in her hands subsided. The dark veins spreading beneath her skin appeared to stop advancing. Vaelith watched the monitor, afraid even to blink. Then her heartbeat slowed. “Come on,” he whispered, the plea raw in his throat. The monitor beeped once. Her pulse vanished. He lunged for the resuscitation equipment, pressed the paddles against her chest, and triggered the first shock. Her body jerked upward. The second produced nothing. He administered another dose of medication and tried again. “Come back, Syraeth.” The words came out broken. He barely recognized his own voice. “Please.” He triggered the shock. Electricity surged through her body. The portal opened. It appeared above the medical bed, enormous and soundless, its circular edges shimmering like light on deep water. Beyond it stretched a darkness filled with stars so immense that the laboratory seemed to shrink around him. Vaelith stumbled backward. Three enormous circles hung within the portal, each turning independently. The first was golden. Its surface showed a world untouched by the apocalypse—children racing through sunlit streets, buildings standing whole beneath a blue sky. Then the images shifted. A little girl appeared beside an old observatory, wearing a yellow dress and holding the hand of a small boy in a red coat. Vaelith stopped breathing. He knew that boy. The missing front tooth. The crooked collar. The little silver star hanging from a cord around his neck. It was him. He had been eight years old when his mother took that photograph. He remembered standing alone. But in the golden circle a little girl stood beside him, her fingers wrapped around his hand. Syraeth. He had not met her until eleven years later. The image moved, and the little girl turned her face toward him. Even at that age she had the same tiny scar beside her left eyebrow. “No,” he whispered. He had seen that scar a hundred times. She had told him the story on their third date. But the girl in the golden circle already had it. The image vanished before he could see anything else. The second circle was silver. It showed the world as he knew it—streets drowned in smoke, the infected wandering through ruins. He saw himself kneeling beside Syraeth’s lifeless body, the same blood on his hands, the same helplessness on his face. Then the scene changed. In the silver circle Syraeth opened her eyes. Her pupils were black. Vaelith spun toward the medical bed. Syraeth’s fingers twitched. He rushed to her side and felt the faintest beat beneath her skin. Relief hit him so violently that his knees nearly buckled. “Syraeth?” Her fingers curled around his. For one beautiful second he thought she was coming back. Then her eyes opened—completely black. She seized his wrist and dragged him toward her, teeth snapping shut against his skin. He tore himself free, struck the emergency release, and watched the restraints close around her arms as she thrashed. “Syraeth! It’s me!” She did not recognize him. Behind them the third circle began to turn—black around its edges, deep red light burning at its center. Cities collapsed. Oceans rose. Then everything slowed. A man stood in a field of ash, older and hollow-eyed, holding a woman whose face was hidden against his chest. The woman lifted her head. Syraeth. Not the infected creature fighting the restraints, but another version of her, blood on her lips and a terrible sadness in her eyes. She looked directly at him. The circles stopped. In the golden circle the little girl still held his childhood hand. In the silver, the woman he loved was becoming something he could not recognize. In the black, Syraeth stood beneath a sky without stars, and Vaelith was nowhere to be seen. Her lips moved. He could not hear her, but he understood the words: You came too late. The portal began to close. Vaelith lunged toward it, but the darkness folded inward before his fingers could touch it. The chamber fell silent. Behind him the restraints snapped. He turned as Syraeth rose from the bed, her black eyes fixed on his throat. He could not shoot her. He could not leave her. And he could not stop seeing that little girl holding his hand eleven years before they had supposedly met. Syraeth had been there before he knew her. And somewhere inside the dying world, he had a terrible feeling that she remembered.