Disclaimer: I do not own Percy Jackson and the Olympians

A/N: Like before, description can be somewhat graphic.

Chapter 28

"So tell me," Chuck started, settling down on an ancient rocking chair. "How did they die?"

Grover looked up from discreetly trying to chew the cheese platter. "Eh?"

"The bill collectors. How did they die?"

Unlike other people who would cringe or have a pokerface when they talked about death, Chuck looked positively gleeful about it- fascinated by it all. Grover gave one of his signature trademark bleats.

"I think they got eaten," the satyr deadpanned.

Chuck gave a roaring laugh, his shaggy beard flailing about like a duck that couldn't swim. "Eaten! That's classic!"

The more Grover spent more time with the man, the more he wondered if he should make a run for it. He inched backwards, but miscalculated as the metal of the chair screeched painfully. Instantly, Chuck's eyes zoomed in on him, like a traffic enforcement camera.

He gave a grizzly smile. "Would you like some rum?"

Cinematically, four heavy pounds on the door echoed across the spacious room.

"Chuck it!" a person's voice yelled, followed by gales of laughter.

He frowned, scrunching his eyebrows in furious anger. "Always hated that pun. Why did they have to name me Chuck?!"

"It's a nice name," Grover reassured, before glancing at the door which was slowly becoming pieces of wood on the polished floor. "Who are those people?"

The raging man finally focused his attention on the advancing group of people. He scratched his head in confusion.

"We're here to collect something long overdue, Chuck!" A guttural voice came forth.

Smoke rose up in wisps of transparent rope as a smoke bomb triggered on the floor. Bullets shot through the roof threateningly as the neon sign outside powered down. The power was finally dead.

A man stepped forward in delight of the destruction- a gleaming Swiss Army knife in his hand. Dollar signs shone silver in his murky green eyes and his lips curved upwards.

"Where's my money at?"

With Annabeth:

Even if she wasn't a child of Hades, she could feel herself about to die soon. She inhaled the pungent breath smell in front of her face as she stabbed it right in the gut. Contents of blood and flesh spilled out as the hole was made but it didn't stagger at all.

Hands and amputated stumps reached out for her as she pushed and shoved her way through the others side. Sweat trickled down her forehead and her breathing was heavy- pure adrenaline running through her veins.

An arm blindly slammed down on the front part of her cap and her eyes widened as it went flying like a cannonball. Judging by the strange noises they were making, she could tell they would be cheering at their victory.

A great sea of dead people crowded around the now visible her. She started to scan her surroundings wildly before going with her instincts. Gripping her dagger tightly, she started to go on a rampage- slicing and leaving bloody stumps attached and body parts on the crimson ground- no limbs attached.

Her eyes dimmed at the sight of drunken staggers. Stragglers still moving to the beat of earth' shuddered breathing- growing stiller by the day. Yet the more energy she wasted, it seemed that more kept on coming like a whirlwind of leaves.

As she thought about it, she should've known that the chances looked bleak from the start. One demigod without any physical super power of sorts against an entire army of unwanted miracles. The chances of survival were low while the chances of dying were high. Friendly, friendly, world, she thought in disdain.

Her world was tipping to the brink where she could feel the earth actually spinning. Her vision was blurry and distorted like a scratched tape. She felt herself being picked up by someone.

All of her energy left her as she was carried somewhere. Its huge hands placed weight on her stomach and she struggled to breathe properly. Flickering eyelids opened and closed like the speed of a hummingbird's wings.

Annabeth could faintly hear quiet talking before the world's darkness enveloped her like some dramatic damsel in distress.

With Rachel:

The Olympians kneeled to no one in particular, chains and dangles harshly attached to their wrists like prisoners. Sullen and sorrowful expressions seemed to permanently reside on their faces as a huge monitor rested on the slightly bloodied floor.

A gleeful voice ghosted around the unfamiliar depressing Throne Room. Its whispers reassured death and loneliness and fading and...

Whoever the host of the voice was seemed to sense something. A faint aura swished around as if looking for something.

"What is it? What do you sense?" a slightly hopeful voice asked.

Hermes.

The whispers changed to voices. A single voice.

"A mortal," it hissed.

Intense brown eyes appeared out of thin air, narrowing as facial features became more prominent.

No.

With Clarisse:

For the first few seconds of being in a new area, she thought that the Infected had gotten lucky and managed a swipe at her eyes- for she could see nothing. All that surrounded her seemed to be silence and darkness while she kept on falling.

And that was all for a while. She refrained from doing a sound check with her vocal chords. In pure darkness, one could never be too sure of what lurked. She could still remember her mother's nighttime stories- bloody and gruesome tales about monsters and slain heroes. Stories that lacked happy endings and provided tears- yet they all shared the common concept of being in the dark.

But back then it was alright. Her mother would smile at her afterwards, and tuck her in bed with a knife on the nightstand. Life was sugar and spice and her life wasn't gambled like dice.

Monsters. The dice tumbled and rolled out on an empty blank, while the wind currents were whistling a sharp tune in her ears. She reached out her arm before retracting quickly. Even though she couldn't see much, the texture felt sticky and cold. She grimaced as she thought about where exactly she was.

Clarisse thought she could see a faint glow of red somewhere. Her spear was still in her hands and she shifted uncomfortably, her spirit of war running low. Her breathing got more ragged as the air changed to a musty smell and she choked as the air got to her throat.

A faint voice whispered merrily, "I spy with my little eye something called death..."

And Clarisse could finally see the bottom- a ground covered with glowing red eyes and stretched out hands...

With Michael and Will:

The familiar path of high grass came into sight. Michael's eyes scanned the surroundings and nearly lit up when he saw a hill. Sure the tree was starting to droop and its usual proud branches were like saggy muscles- but the sight of home brought a smile to his face.

"Come on, Will, we're nearly there," Michael yelled enthusiastically as he dragged his half-brother towards the hill.

Will tugged away, his eyes the polar opposite of his half-brother. The usual shine was replaced by dread and foreboding. Yet it seemed that ignorance was bliss, because Michael seemed to disregard the worried expression.

"Our dad is the god of medicine," Michael explained as if it cleared everything up. "If we could find the vial that started it all, maybe we could-"

"Become infected ourselves," Will finished sourly.

"Yeah!" The older sibling exclaimed. "Or we could figure out the root of the problem. I'm doing this with or without you."

Without waiting for a reply, he made his way up the hill. Will stared for a few seconds before trudging along beside him.

Up above on the 600th floor, Apollo watched with anguished eyes.

A/N: So, it's probably been around three or four months since I updated and I'm truly sorry about that. There was simply no inspiration and I've finally decided to rewrite 'The Return of Perseus Jackson,' so I don't have to worry about constant updates with that anymore. Since I've updated now, hopefully I'll become more constant with writing. Thanks for all the support!

slayer1002: Well, Clarisse isn't dead so far. And thank you!