A/N:

Y'all are gonna hate me.

Time was still as they searched the labyrinth. Every few moments, Stan took a struggling breath that created a snag in Kyle's own heart.

"You okay?" He slid an arm around his waist. "You sound like you can't breathe."

"I'm fine. I'm just not used to being up and about like this. Sometimes it got so cold that I couldn't move."

The image of Stan alone, cold, and shaking ensnared him.

"I'm worried we're going in circles," Stan added.

"There's no way this place is that big."

Kyle wished he had shoes on. Parts of the ground were wet and his socks soaked with mud.

"I don't know. It could be."

Above them was chaos, Kyle imagined. Cops should be at his house, arresting Cartman. He would be hard to catch at first, but with Kenny there, they would get him. They had to. No one else needed to die. For half a second he wondered if he should have stayed, not let them coax him back here. Stan's sighs, soothing like a tranquil ocean, flipped his mind backward.

First, he thought his dreams were warning him. Now he swore the woods had been calling to him.

(trees dont whisper)

The night terrors that plagued him as a child came hurtling back: eating apple seeds and growing trees in his body, fingers, and toes becoming branches. Then his parents, his friends, tried to shove him down into the fire.

After everything, he still wanted to believe in a logical explanation. Believe that all of this was backed up by confusion. Tricks of the eye. Smoke and mirrors. But then there was Kenny. He had diffused the smoke and shattered the mirror of what Kyle thought reality to be. This was reality.

Stan had said something about voices. Conversations with a dead rabbit, he admitted, but Kyle was questioning if Stan only said that to divert him away from the subject. He'd done similar things before to get away from the emotional truth of things. But Stan had to have seen and heard the things Kyle was seeing and hearing. He just had to.

There was a crunch, then Stan tripped. "Shit, shit."

They stepped to the side. Another crunch. A hard object struck Kyle's ankle.

"What the hell are we stepping on?" Kyle spun them around. Stan lowered the candle to reveal skeletons. A row of human skeletons laid side by side, arms across their chests in an x's.

"Why… why are they just lying like that?" Stan whimpered.

Kyle searched them over. Their clothes looked new. It couldn't have happened that long ago.

"They look mostly intact," Kyle said, kneeling over one in a black blouse, "It could have been poison."

Stan was quiet, looking over their discovery. He had stumbled upon many bones and skulls over the past few weeks, but not these whole bodies.

"Why would they do this to themselves?" he whispered.

"You think this was a suicide pact or something?"

Stan nodded.

"Maybe it was sacrificial."

"Does that make it any better?"

"No. No, it doesn't."

Kyle touched a medical ID bracelet on the wrist of the body he kneeled over.

"Kelly Turner," he read aloud.

"I thought she moved away."

"Yeah, they said she was missing at first but that was a rumor-" Kyle stopped, remembering how not long after Stan went missing, his posters were being torn down. Even before they found a body.

"I'm so sorry, Kelly," Kyle murmured.

"Kyle… do you think that could have happened to me?" Stan asked, shaking.

Kyle nudged him. "I'd never let that happen. But these people were probably brainwashed. I wouldn't be surprised if there was some underground society all this time."

He couldn't bear the thought of a cult pulling the strings here, but mob mentality absorbed people here every day. And the evidence had found them.

"I want to get the hell out of here," Stan said hoarsely.

"I'm with you. Fuck this place."

…

Ike watched as uniformed workers in blue gloves and masks wheeled his parents out of their house, the white sheets like snow caps on mountains he'd never see again.

Karen touched his shoulder, "I am so sorry."

Ike said nothing but patted her hand.

Charged chatter surrounded them. The police lights burned through the already hot, dry air. An officer appeared behind them.

"Are you the Broflovski kid?" he asked.

They jerked, turned around to see a tall, toad-faced man with pointed ears.

"Yes," he mumbled, reading his nametag. Bael.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"A piece of shit killed my parents."

"We know that, son. I'm sorry."

His "son" felt degrading, reminding him what he would never be called again. Karen squeezed his hand as if to say it's just police vernacular, he didn't mean it.

Sparky bounded from the yard over, in front of Sharon who brought out water bottles. He stood in front of Ike and leaned into his legs, fur bristling up like the crest of a dragon.

Karen looked up to Office Bael. "His name is Eric Cartman. He broke into the house and murdered Mr. and Mrs. Broflovski. He would have killed others if my brother hadn't stopped him."

"Where's your brother now?"

"I don't know. He went after Eric in the woods over by Stark's Pond."

"He should have left that to us," Bael's eyelids lowered, zoning in on Karen's face, her gray-blue eyes and freckles. "Who's your brother?"

"Kenny McCormick."

"Figures."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. That kid is always trying to play the hero. Getting involved when he shouldn't. Like he's trying to take work from us-"

Ike cut in: "Well, maybe that wouldn't happen if you were better at your jobs."

"Is there something I can help you with, sir?" Sharon prodded, staring at the back of his head.

He ignored her, grimaced, then squatted eye level with Ike. Sparky growled.

"I understand that you're upset, but you don't need to…"

Ike stopped listening. He could only see the officer's mouth. Every time it opened a little bigger he stared. The tongue. The tongue was bifurcated like a lizard's, like the woman at the funeral home. He shot his arm across Karen and pushed themselves back.

"Stay away from us," he said, "Stay the fuck away from us!"

"Something I said?" Officer Bael stood up. With one long step, he grabbed Ike by the shirt collar, breathing hot, sour milk breath in his face. "It doesn't matter if you run. We own this place now."

Karen's stomach twinged. With a quick turn, she vomited on Bael's arm.

"What the fuck!" he dropped Ike and pulled at the maroon-soaked sleeve. "Fuck this, fuck you people. I'm out."

He stomped off behind them and disappeared down the street, leaving Karen on her knees, retching earth and blood while Ike and Sharon held her shoulders.

…

They had been crawling on their elbows and knees for what felt like hours.

"This has to be the same tunnel I found before," Stan had said, but he felt as if he were outside of himself. The tunnel expanded and narrowed like a throat, sucking them in.

"It stops here," he said as they climbed into an alcove, "It's all compact and hard."

Kyle pawed above him. Clumps of dirt fell into his eyes and mouth. He spat, squeezing his eyes shut with stinging tears. "Fuck! It's like fucking acid!"

"What? You okay?"

"Yeah, just give me a sec," Kyle spat again. "I think I felt wood."

"No comment."

"Stan."

"Let me feel," Stan reached up and scratched, feeling smooth oak. He pushed with his palm and his wrist bent too much, but whatever it was - a door, maybe - moved. There was a little flame left. He could set it on fire. But they were in such a tight space, they would suffocate before it burned away. It felt like they were suffocating already. And there was no telling how long it would have to burn before it was clear to leave.

Kyle pushed up. "I think we can move this. It's already giving way."

Stan blew out the candle.

...

Stan and Kyle continued scraping at the dirt above them. Kyle wiped the sweat from his lips and forehead. What they thought was a door and longer and much heavier than they expected, and the tedious clawing pissed Kyle off. Every passing minute felt like fire ants biting his insides with more and more ferocity. He was almost crazy, now kicking upward with his heel and tearing his socks, sending dirt cascading down.

"Fucking fuck, Kyle."

Kyle kicked again, and the wood jolted higher.

"COME ON!" He kicked once more.

"Watch out!" Stan covered Kyle's body with his own as the object fell, nose down into their enclosed space. More dirt poured in from the edge of the opening. Stan breathed hard, his arms still over Kyle's chest. "You okay?"

"Am I okay?" Kyle said, holding him. "You could have been hit."

"It was about to smash your face in." Kyle opened his mouth to reply, but Stan shushed him. "Don't say it would have been an improvement."

Weak moonlight beamed down at an angle on their feet. The boys crouched and moved toward it. Kyle recognized it as a casket, but he pursed his lips and said nothing. He thought of Stan's funeral - none of it seemed real then and how none of this seemed real now.

"What's wrong?" White spots peppered in and out of Stan's vision but he could still make out some of Kyle's face. Blurred lips and teeth.

"Nothing."

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

"You are," Stan insisted. "I can feel it in your ribs."

"Yeah, and I feel nothing but your ribs," he ran a finger down Stan's side. "We have to get you out of here."

Kyle stepped onto the casket first, keeping Stan's hand in his. The slippery wood didn't help.

Stan climbed up after. Through the opening, he could see the sickle moon and several stars. Fresh air wafted down to his face, and he breathed deeply. He heard crickets and frogs. Looking down at his shoes, blinking hard, he asked: "Is this a casket?"

"Yeah," Kyle pulled him up into a rectangular pit. "We're in someone's grave. I don't know why it was dug up, but we got lucky. We got really fucking lucky." He patted the dirt walls around until he felt a few looping, thick roots to pull on.

Stan was standing still, opening and closing his eyes, breathing but shaking.

"Babe, stay right there," Kyle instructed, "I'm going to climb out and pull you up."

Cramming his foot into the dirt, Kyle hoisted himself up, pulling on roots and reaching an arm over the edge. He looked to the side and saw the grave marker:

STAN MARSH

1999-2017

BELOVED SON

STARE WITH ME INTO THE ABYSS

Kyle stared, wide-eyed, his face flat on his arm. The memory went through him like a bright white shock - Stan's waxy face and Father Maxi's hand on his shoulder and Wendy's sobbing and Kyle thinking repeatedly

(why why why

why did it have to be you)

Kyle shuddered.

"S-Stan?"

"Yes?"

He felt relief, hearing the small voice ring up from below.

Kyle threw his leg up and over the side and rolled onto the grass. For a moment, all he could see were stars. He wondered where Kenny's star was, and his stomach twisted.

He leaned over and pulled Stan up by his arms.

Stan rolled onto his back next to Kyle, grazing his palms slowly over the grass. His sharpened cheeks were wet as he also took in the stars. Gray clouds circled on the edges of sky. Cicadas screeched. Owls bellowed.

"I never thought I'd feel this again," he whispered. "I didn't think I would make it much longer."

Kyle could lie there and listen to Stan breathe forever under an open night sky. But Cartman was looking for them - if they stayed there any longer, they might as well yell come and get us! Come peel our skin over our skulls!

"Come on, we have to keep moving."

They stood up. Stan wobbled, almost falling backward, but Kyle caught him. He gazed up into Kyle's face and cradled his cheek.

"God, you're fucking beautiful."

"No, you're describing yourself."

"I'm serious. The worst part about being trapped down there was not knowing if I'd ever see you again."

Kyle wrapped him into a hug.

"Sorry if I smell bad."

"Nothing a hot shower can't fix," Kyle chuckled, then sighed. "It's been hell since you've been gone."

Squinting, Stan caught sight of the marble that displayed his name.

"What the hell…?"

"Stan, wait-"

Breaking from Kyle's arms, he stumbled over to the grave marker, running his fingers over ABYSS.

"Is this… is this me?"

Kyle sucked in his breath. "No, it's not. It's not you. You're real. You're here and alive and you're real."

"Who the hell dug me up?"

"I don't know. But it doesn't matter. It's not you."

"It matters to me! I don't care if it's actually me or not," he peered down into the pit. "I want to see."

Kyle snatched his arm. "Fuck, no. You can't be serious."

"Dead serious."

"Stan, I promise as soon as all of this is over, I'll explain everything. And this…" he gripped the curved top of the marker, "This is getting destroyed. But right now, we have to get help. Cartman could find us any second."

Stan swallowed, a few crystal tears falling to the grass. "Why did this have to happen to us?"

Kyle curved a tendril of hair behind his ear, "I don't think anyone else would have lasted, babe."

...

Saint Marcouf, a tiny church beyond the graves, was crumbling. The rushing of the river behind it harmonized with the breeze. As far as the boys knew, it hadn't been actively used since the late 80s, and the people who used it were French Christians. Like the church, it was a small group that crumbled back into the dirt. Now it was a refuge for their classmates to drink and have sex in. They figured someone had to be hanging out in there. Someone that could help them.

"You know," Kyle said, as they limped toward it, "Sparky's going to lose his mind when you come back home."

Stan held on to Kyle's arm, smiling. "I can't wait."

Above the cracked door hung a hornet's nest. Kyle's blood buzzed in his ears. They passed under it.

Dusty pews lined the room in front of them. No one was there.

A white statue of Saint Marcouf himself, paint chipping away, was plastered to the right-back corner, gesturing to a golden bowl of holy water at his feet.

"Oh my God," Stan went to him and dunked his face inside.

Kyle pulled Stan's shoulder, "Don't! It's still water. We don't know what kind of shit is in it."

"It's probably just rainwater," Stan said, looking up at the holes in the roof.

"Still."

Candles stood at attention under the brass mold of Jesus at the altar, confined to a cross, thin rays around his face, lips turned down and eyes cast up as if to ask

(why)

Kyle looked to him, eyebrows furrowed, lips pursed.

(and where have YOU been this whole time

like you would be there for someone like me anyway)

Kyle kicked away a bottle of Budweiser, then looked over the preacher's podium. Anarchy signs, angular S's, 3D cubes, and the Metallica logo were scratched into it.

Stan dug out his phone and wiped dirt off the screen. He held the power button. The Verizon logo glowed, then filtered to the home screen. The photo of Kyle sitting alone on his bed was gone. Now it was solid red.

"Holy shit, you have your phone?"

"Yeah. I have 29% power left."

Leaning over the podium, Kyle wrung his hands. "I sent you a lot of texts."

"I see that."

Stan turned his phone over so he could see the screen. The last message was painful: "April 31, 2017. 3:06 am. Stan… please be all right. Please, please be okay. I miss you so much."

Rain dripped through the slats. Moonlight beamed through the mizzling and stained-glass windows of orange and purple triangles.

"I didn't just send messages. I looked for you everywhere. We all did. Kenny and I put up posters all day. Well, before I got sick anyway."

"You were sick? Like how?"

Kyle hesitated. He had already hidden so much from Stan, afraid he wouldn't be able to handle it. The trail of secrets had to end soon.

"You know I've never been superstitious, but after you disappeared, I think my perspective got bitch-slapped on some things. There's a whole layer to this world that I didn't know about. Something that's been lingering over us. We couldn't see it, but it infected us. And I wasn't the only one who got sick. Some had it worse than me, though. Heidi and Butters died."

"What! Are you - no… are you telling me you could have died?"

"I don't know. Maybe? Every day I was throwing up blood, maggots, worms, dirt. Before I fell into that sinkhole thing, I saw my parents. They tried to make me kill myself. They wanted me to throw myself into a fire."

"Your… dead parents? They were in the woods?"

"Oh god, you think I'm crazy."

With a frail hand, Stan reached out and touched his elbow. "I believe you, Kyle. Are you still sick?"

"No, I got lucky. Kenny could make it stop."

"How would he even know?"

"He knows more about this kind of stuff. He put me in a weird bath with this hot ass water and-"

"Kenny gave you a bath?"

"N-Not like what you're thinking."

Rats scratched inside the walls. Thunder rattled, making them scurry faster.

"I'm calling 911."

"Okay. Yeah, you do that."

Stan stared, confused by Kyle's sudden loss of eye contact, his change of voice, suddenly a higher octave. He pressed the phone to his ear and waited. A first responder picked up, and he quickly explained, walking out to sit down in a pew.

Kyle looked around. Wood creaked under his feet. A paltry organ sat in the corner, covered in broken glass, cobwebs, and dead beetles. Kyle often thought about how much of a waste it was.

"Can you please send someone to help us?" Stan pleaded in the background.

Kyle looked to Jesus.

The brass blood leaking from his hands reminded him of his own blood and the blood he had seen from Kenny, the blood he wiped from Karen's mouth, on the pavement after Butters dove into it, the blood from Stan's arms. He wanted it all to stop. He wanted to stop the bleed.

(it will never stop)

Heavy, sudden footsteps came into earshot from the roof. There was only one person Kyle knew that would bother entering from a rooftop like this.

"Kenny?"

A boot tore one hole larger. Dust puffed out in thin clouds. Rats fell through and broke their necks when they hit the floor.

Before they could move, Cartman dropped. His face shined with rainwater and blood. He panted, eyes bulging like a rabid raccoon. Stan tried to run, but Cartman twisted his fingers into Stan's hair and yanked him upward.

The phone clattered to the floor. Hello? You with us? Sir?

Kyle bolted. "Let him go!"

Cartman merely twitched an eye at him, and Kyle flew back, crashing into the podium. The wounds on his stomach tore.

"God, you're so light, Stan! You're like a fucking rag doll!" He stuck the tip of his knife to Stan's temple.

"Fuck you!" Stan twisted and kicked Cartman in the stomach, forcing him to drop his knife.

"Oh, you asshole!" Cartman threw Stan to the ground and stomped on his ribs. The bone break and Stan's scream tore through the church. "Why wouldn't you just fucking die?!"

Kyle jumped. He clasped himself around Cartman's body like a spider, arms tightening around his neck.

…

Spring 2009

Another afternoon of baseball practice had come and gone. The boys, exhausted from the heat and skinned knees, slouched in Randy's car. Stan sat in the front, looking out the window and occasionally turning the knobs on the radio. Kenny fell asleep on Kyle's shoulder. Kyle watched Cartman play Grand Theft Auto on his Gameboy.

"Beat up the old ladies," Kyle advised, "they have more money."

"Of course they do," said Cartman.

Stan turned the station, then squealed when a familiar riff pulsed through the speakers.

"Dad, Dad, can I turn this up?"

"Sure. I'm only on my sixth aspirin today."

"The Downfall of Us All," became louder. Kenny woke up. All of them joined in singing together, even screaming as if they were little punk artists.

...

Feral instinct surged through Kyle - his heart pumped faster, his skin pinpricks, and his teeth sunk into Cartman's ear, hard and forceful until the lobe ripped away.

Falling to the floor, his mouth full of blood lining his teeth, he spat out the flesh in front of Jesus and everyone else.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" Cartman cried, holding the side of his face.

"Stop!" A lone policeman walked in pointing a pistol.

Kyle put his hands up. "Thank god," he breathed. He could have puked, still able to taste Cartman's blood. "You okay, Stan?"

Stan's face was blank, numb with shock but he was still breathing. He gazed at Kyle, the whites of his eyes glowing hot. "Uh-huh," he answered, though his voice was strained.

The officer stepped closer and Kyle could make out his frog-shaped face, and bloodstains on his uniform.

"What took you so damn long?" Cartman said.

Kyle's heart stopped. The officer lowered the gun to his forehead.

"Him?" he asked.

"Wait, wait! I didn't do anything!" Kyle gestured to Cartman. "He's the one that's been killing people!"

"I know," Bael said. "We've been trying to break him out over the past year."

"...what?" Stan croaked, holding on to his ribs.

Cartman huffed. "If you want something done right, you do it yourself."

"That's why you're our leader."

Doom, agony, brain-pulp, impaled. Nightmares unfurled from each word, and here they were, swelling in front of them like an infected eye. But Kyle didn't want to give up. He had to stall them somehow.

"Before you kill me… I want to know who you people are."

Bael glanced at Cartman, seeking permission. Cartman only seethed. Blood flowed through his fingers and spread over his knuckles.

"We've been here for years. Our last leader died. With the proper training, we believe Eric will replace them."

"Okay, but who in the actual fuck are you?"

"We've yet to name ourselves. The gods of yesterday have failed us. Satan has failed us. It's time we rose on our own. Create our own god. A human one. Someone that we can see and trust."

"We will kill anyone that's ever fucked with me. Including you," Cartman grinned. "And I'll finally get to have the freedom that was robbed from me."

"That was your fault, fuckhead," Kyle groaned. He looked at Bael. "I'm sure Cartman has promised you a lot, but I've been in group projects with him before. You guys are fucked."

"You're about to die, Kyle. You really want to spend your last seconds being a smartass?"

"Yes."

"Typical."

"It's not my fault you lied on your resumé," Kyle spat out more blood. "You're no different from any other radical, brainwashed cult. I don't understand. Why would you want him?"

Officer Bael started squeezing the trigger. "He has powers like we've never seen before, but he's human. With him on our side, we will own this town. And if anyone gets in the way, tries to stop us, they go to the pit and rot."

"That's fucked up. You people are fucked up. Is this seriously what you want to do?" he asked Cartman. "You want to be responsible for all these people?"

Cartman shrugged. "We'll just see what happens, won't we?"

"You're about to see something else." Kenny appeared in the entrance, wet hair clinging to his face. "You'll see something much worse if you don't point that gun somewhere else, right fucking now."

Bael smirked, "Fine, then."

He aimed the other way.

Kenny barrelled through the pews, weaving around Bael's bullets, then jump-kicked him in the neck. He twisted his heel into Bael's throat and killed him, then grabbed Stan by the arms and pushed him toward Kyle.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry," he murmured against Stan's cries of pain. Kyle cupped Stan's face and kissed his forehead.

Cartman scrambled for his knife on the ground and pointed to Kenny with both hands, his eyes red. He shook.

"You can't kill all three of us, Cartman!" Kyle got up. He smiled at Kenny. They almost had it. They would win.

"Can't I?" Cartman sneered. He stretched his arms forward as Kenny charged. Cartman caught his wrist and forced it down.

"Kyle, go!" he yelled, trying to wrestle the weapon from Cartman's grip. "Take Stan and go!"

"We're not leaving without you-"

Cartman veered around, elbow first, slicing the blade across Kyle's skin. He was cut off by sudden pressure across the middle of his neck. They watched fresh blood pour from Kyle's open throat.