Ian stared at the streets: grey, deserted, desolate. There was nothing left, nothing at all.
He hated Boston—hated cities in general, really, even London, but he'd never tell Dad or Mum that—it was so dirty, so polluted, its inhabitants so poorly dressed and ignorant. Didn't they know that he was Ian Kabra?
The fight was over. Which side won, he didn't know. There was blood spilled everywhere, blood on his own hands, blood running down his face, blood caking his clothes, and he hadn't bothered to wash it off.
Today I killed.
The fight was over, and his opinion of Boston hadn't changed.
::o::
"Ian, keep up," Vikram snapped at his son. "You're going to get lost in this filthy crowd."
"But father, you're walking too fast," Ian whined.
"You walk faster too, then."
They sped up, the older grimly hurrying to a destination and the younger blindly following. "Turn here," Vikram instructed, gesturing at a dark corner. Ian followed obediently.
He came to a halt, so suddenly that Ian almost bumped into him, and muttered something obscene under his breath. A moment later, his son knew why: the road was blocked by an orange barrier.
"Move along, move along! Clear the road, citizens!" came a shout, followed by the loud screeching of a police whistle. Vikram swore and took out his smartphone. Of course—there was a marching band performance today.
"Come on, Ian, let's get out of here," he said, pulling his son along by the arm, not wanting to be crowded in by filthy peasant bodies. Too late—people behind them were crowding in, pressing in. A second later, a loud trumpet sounded. The marching band was here.
::o::
"Mister Kabra?"
The voice was there, but the person wasn't. He whirled around, not seeing anyone. Am I going crazy? Rubbed his eyes.
"You oughtta clean that blood offa yer clothes, young mister," another voice scolded. "Fer shame, the son of Isabel and Vikram, wandering Boston with bloody hands. What'd his modder say?"
"Aw now, don't talk like that," someone gossiped back. "His momma's jailed now, and his poppa's dead. Got stabbed right in the heart he did, n' no regrets. Why do yeh think the son's got all that blood over him?"
"Put up a right good fight he did," a third voice chimed in. "But no match for the younger. Trained 'im too well, n' bets he regrets that now in heav'n."
"Heav'n!" the other two screeched, shocked. "Aw no, any bastard father like that ain't goin' ter heav'n. Ended up in hell, right he did, and so'll this one fer killin' him in the first place!"
SHUT UP, Ian wanted to scream—and found, to his surprise, that they did.
::o::
Ian didn't want to leave.
He hated the numerous bodies pressing in on him, of course, but there was something about the music of the marching band that was just…comforting.
He didn't say anything to his father, because he was smart enough to predict his reaction.
A lone baritone player was marching down the street, the low rumbling notes of his instrument warbling up and down the scale. His solo sped up, played faster, more vigorously. And then he melted back into the band as trumpets and clarinets echoed his solo.
"Come on, son," Vikram snapped. "Let's get out of this brouhaha."
Ian deliberately took his time, not wanting the music to fade away. A new band was playing now—a banner read "Demons and Non-Believers"—and Ian turned away to follow his father. He was right, of course. Parades like this was for peasants.
::o::
"You're dead now, Ian."
"Not anymore," he snapped back. "Vikram is. I killed him. I KILLED MY FATHER!" he screamed to the sky, somehow finding it funny, and began to cackle hysterically. He gasped for breath, panting, on all fours on the cold pavement.
Ended up in hell, right he did, and so'll this one fer killin' him in the first place!
A cold tremor ran through him. Could it be that he was dead and didn't know it? Impossible. He shook the thought out of his mind. How many were dead? How many had died?
Ian replayed the scenes in his head. He saw Madison fall into that deep chasm the earthquake had opened up. Saw her hanging on to the edge, hand gripping Ted Starling. Swinging him up to safe ground, letting go at the same time, Reagan screaming no!
Saw Dan, kicking a man in the stomach, knocking him to the ground. About to kill him. Atticus running by and tackling him. His eyes, so pained, saying how could you? Dan trying to explain, the man getting up, Dan warning his friend, refusing to budge, and Dave Speminer swung his fist and the boy with dreadlocks crumpling to the ground—
Saw Sinead, holding something almost invisible in her hand—a pistol, she claimed—whirl around, shoot Fiske in the chest. Amy screaming, knocking it from her hand, pushing her friend, punching her, killing her. Staring in shock at what she had done. Running to Fiske, crying.
Saw so many deaths, injuries, losses. Hamilton trying to protect Jonah, dragging both of them to safety. A bomb going off, Phoenix losing his hand, Natalie losing her leg. Isabel, grinning wickedly, shooting her other leg, saying it's time I finished the job. And Vikram himself, standing over his daughter. What a loss of a Kabra. Too weak to fight back. And Ian beside himself with rage, just raised that knife and—
And, and, and. He couldn't think anymore. Sank to the ground. I really am going insane, he observed…
::o::
"AMY!"
Dan sprinted toward his sister. "AMY, WATCH OUT!"
She spun toward him, eyes wide. "No, you watch out," she exclaimed, sending a roundhouse kick right into her attacker's stomach. Dan turned and ducked at the same time, his martial arts training kicking in. A masked figure had swung the butt of his gun at him. Dan grabbed two stones and whipped them simultaneously: one at his head, one at his chest.
And then he remembered. "Fiske…"
"Gone," Amy choked. "Erasmus, McIntyre, Fiske. Why is it that everyone we love—"
The thought hit them both at the same time. "Nellie!"
She was fighting five at once. And failing. Her arms were drooping, her stance was weak. And she was injured—
She couldn't make it. "Look out!" Amy screamed. Another crack had opened in the ground, heading right—toward—Nellie—
Too shocked to move, Dan could only watch as the Vespers rolled out of the way. But Nellie was directly in its path, and there was no way she could make it.
Colours blurred before his eyes, and the next thing he knew, Amy was launching herself through the air and—
::o::
What had happened to Amy? Ian had watched her kill Sinead, but after that…was she dead or alive?
One way to find out.
He wandered the streets, only mildly surprised at how fast the bodies had been cleaned up. Only weapons and blood stains and the chasms and cracks in the grey cement showed that here had been a war, an earthquake at all.
"I'm not the only survivor," Ian said aloud.
"There are others out here. Alive. I know Dan's alive, I know Hamilton and Jonah are alive…"
Or are they? He found the spot where Natalie had been lying. He knew it was there, could almost see her body, the position it was in and then Isabel and Vikram—
Don't think about it.
A pistol was lying nearby. Isabel's. Repulsed, he kicked it with all his might. It bounced to the edge of a nearby chasm and fell. Thook.
Next spot. Bits of flesh were lying on the ground, and then bones—Ian realized it was Phoenix's hand. He turned away, disgusted. Rounded a corner. Ted's glasses, cracked and shattered, lying on the ground. And then, huddled beside a building was—
"Alan?"
It's Evan.
"So I get the name wrong sometimes," he said irritably, then shut up, realizing he was talking to himself. "Evan?"
He approached the figure, not bothering to hide his dislike. But a survivor was a survivor, and he was glad to see him nonetheless. Only a bit.
Evan turned his head slowly and opened his mouth to say something.
::o::
Dan shut his eyes as Amy fell, knocking right into Nellie.
The au pair rolled away at the same time, but now Amy was in the path, and the crack was opening—
But Nellie was still rolling, and grabbing Amy at the same time. They pulled each other to safety, and on the other side of the crack was
"DAN!"
Separated. Again. Not since China. They were never separated.
"Go!" he screamed. "I'll meet you on the other side! FIND JAKE!"
"C'mon, kiddo," Nellie croaked weakly. "If you want to meet your brother alive, you better do as he says."
"And you're staying here, out of harm's way," Amy said sternly, pointing. Then she ran off.
A thought struck Dan suddenly. Has anyone seen Ian?
But of course. He killed Vikram. And after…
::o::
Ian blinked. Hallucinating now? Evan had been about to say something, and then he'd just—just disappeared. Wait, no. Flickered had been the better word. He flickered back now, croaking, "The Parade is coming."
"What does that mean?" Ian demanded. "What Parade?"
But Evan had flickered away again, and Ian was left standing there feeling very foolish.
::o::
"We're coming, you Cobra idiot. Get out of the way."
"Dan?" he said hesitantly. But he was met with silence.
Another voice, laughing. "He said, get out of the way, Ian!"
"Natalie!" he said, relieved. And then retreated a few steps off the road, just in case.
::o::
They were coming now. Finally, he could see them.
Marching, marching. Not looking anywhere but ahead. Faces expressionless.
"I'm right here! I'm over here! Damn it, can't you see me?"
He could see their faces.
Natalie, Madison, Atticus, Fiske, Sinead, and there was Vikram—he swallowed the feeling in his chest—and there were more. The Vespers he and everyone else killed. Numerous other Cahill agents he didn't recognize. Collateral damage. The words were in his head before he could get them out.
The faces were overwhelming. Now he saw them all: Jake, Hamilton, Jonah, Alistair, Reagan, Nellie, the Starling twins. Isabel. They blurred before his eyes and he tried to call out to them but they didn't seem to hear him.
And last of all…last of all were Dan and Amy.
On impulse, Ian walked over and kissed Amy on the lips. They were cold, ice cold, and as they touched he realized that she and Dan and everyone else were black and white and grey, mostly grey.
As they kissed, Ian realized he was turning grey.
Ended up in hell, right he did, and so'll this one…
"I'm coming!" he yelled. Kissed Amy one more time.
He realized that the Parade had been brought to a halt, and a feeling said that he was disrupting it. That it shouldn't be stopped. That this was all unplanned for.
So he kissed Amy all the more, even harder, fitting his mouth against his, in the desperate hope that it might bring them all back to life.
He was all grey now, except for his mouth.
Ian looked at his wrist. The scar was still there, from where Vikram had tried to cut off his hand but failed.
He groped around on the ground for something, anything, and found something cool and sharp. Opened his scar.
Ian Kabra joined the Parade.
Black, black Parade.