(While working on the bit where Hersh gets skewered, I finally understand how some writers can rewrite the same page 40-odd times.
In fact, this whole fic went through a LOT of revision. This is the most painstaking I've been with anything in a long time…)
"Hey, hold on, what's that up ahead?"
The ruined tunnels above Randall and Hershel's heads disappeared as they walked, and a new ceiling shot up for what seemed like thousands of meters. Hershel gaped up at it, amazed; he trailed behind Randall, whose eyes were on the door on the opposite end.
"I bet this means we're close," he said excitedly.
Hershel grabbed Randall's sleeve. "Wait…"
A faint sound of shifting stone grew as ancient mechanisms sprung to life. Hidden doors opened all over the walls, and the clockwork mummies spilled out of them. They spun like giant tops, the rusty blades at their sides becoming one single blur. Hershel and Randall froze in place.
Then the machines advanced, and they were forced to retreat—a mummy came between them, and for a second Hershel panicked, but as his back hit the wall he saw the sword.
He had no idea how to use a sword. He took it in hand and knew that it was definitely not a fencing foil. But, there was just enough familiarity and just enough desperation for him to pretend.
Across the room, Randall had the same idea. They caught each other's eyes, and Hershel couldn't help the smile that was spreading across his face, the pounding in his heart. This was real excitement, as he thrust a blade into something that could kill him and felt it fall away. When the mummies were pushed off their tracks they were helpless, plowing into the ground like crashed helicopters or toppling stupidly over like statues—and he figured that out all on his own, in the heat of a battle. As he dodged the waving blades of an ages-old machine he reveled in how quick he was, how a small-town kid like him had turned into an action hero without any warning. The more he moved, the more it really was just like fencing.
Randall was brilliant too. They maneuvered towards each other and before they knew it they were back-to-back, protecting each other, and Hershel had a feeling of glorious unreality, like this was a movie they were starring in. He saw an opening that was barely even there, and darted under one spinning mummy and past another, driven by a plan.
"Where're you going?" Randall called, then dodged another attacker, nearly tripping backwards.
"The tiles are loose," Hershel shouted back. He paused and turned to explain. "And if we shift them around, we can make the mummies move, maybe into that hole—"
"Hersh—!"
He heard Randall shout and saw the horror on his face. It was another moment before he placed what was wrong. He looked down.
The tip of one of those ancient rusty blades was protruding from his chest.
For that moment everything around him seemed to stop. He watched the red splotch spreading across his shirt, so quickly it horrified him. He opened his mouth but only whimpered.
The mummy teetered on the tiny point it had spun upon. Hershel felt its huge weight behind him.
He searched for Randall, trying to call to him with only his eyes. The blade shifted, and he tried to stand his ground, but in a sudden stab of pain he lost his balance. The blade slid further through him and inch by inch it emerged, bloody red, from his skin. In shock, it didn't even occur to him to scream.
Hershel staggered as the blade twisted this way and that, the dead weight of the automaton behind him weaving as it tried to fall, and blood seeped down from the wound into his pants. He could only stand for another second before it won, fell sideways, and brought him to the ground hard. His face smashed into the stone tiles. The blade twisted in him again and he screamed for the first time: Randall's name.
It seemed like an hour before Randall actually arrived. Hershel was paralyzed by agony. Everything was fuzzy, but he saw Randall's shoes in front of his face, and he felt wetness all over him—whether it was blood or sweat or tears he didn't know. He made a few ineffectual sounds.
"Hersh, hold on," Randall was saying, "we'll get you out of this, don't worry, I—I'm just gonna have to get this sword out—"
"You can't," Hershel squeaked.
"—Yes, I—"
"I-it'll hurt," he sniveled.
"I can't just leave you here!" Randall shouted. His voice wavered.
"...I'm scared…"
Randall grasped the sword where it was joined to a metal arm. "…I'm gonna pull it out, ok? I-I have to." For an excruciating second, he said nothing, did nothing. "Just…hang on."
Then he wrenched the huge blade out, and Hershel screamed again, a long ragged inhuman wail he had never known he could make. Fresh blood splattered onto the tiles. He curled in on himself like he was holding himself together, then pain arched his back. Randall dragged him away into the quiet closeness of the tunnel and Hershel watched the crimson trail stretch behind him, warm blood that had been inside him and wasn't anymore.
Randall laid Hershel down on the cold floor and ripped off his ruined tie, unbuttoned his shirt. His hands were trembling and cold with sweat. Hershel was sobbing.
"It's a good thing I brought first aid stuff," Randall was babbling, pulling away the fabric where it stuck to the wound—Hershel looked down and saw a red hole in his chest in vivid surreal detail, and nearly fainted. "Hersh, don't worry, we can get you fixed up and then we'll just get out and go home. And then we can take you to hospital, and you'll get a really good doctor, and you'll get better and we won't have to come back again until you're ready—we'll even bring Henry—we'll tell people this time, we'll be really safe. Does that sound good? Nod if that sounds good to you, Hersh—come on, just do something. Shut up. Say something!"
He couldn't. He tried, so hard, to stop crying and stop shaking, but it was too much, all of this sudden pain. Everything had happened too fast, because he had been stupid; and now he would never see the sun again, never read another book, never see his parents. Randall would have to leave him down here in the dark all alone and he'd just turn into another skeleton like the other ones that littered the floors. He could feel the life leaving him as he shook and shuddered on the ground, and it had all happened so fast. So he just cried. It was the only thing he could do. It was a pathetic way to die, and he was so afraid.
In his last moments, Randall grasped his hand. Hershel gripped it like a vise. They twined their fingers together, held on for dear life like somehow it would keep him alive, but Hershel felt himself fading. His heartbeats slowed down, his blood drained away. It was amazing that it was still coming. Faintly he heard Randall screaming his name, pleading for him to not let go, to say something or look at him or something, but he didn't have the strength anymore. He was half-dressed, drenched in blood and streaked with tears, loathing himself and sick with fear; but at least, at the end, his eyes were closed. It would have been too horrible to die with open eyes.