LEVELS
Up, was the only thing he could think. Higher, get to the surface, come on man, don't breathe yet, get to the surface, you can do this.
Valiantly he struggled against the current, the movement of the water pushing him back down. Come on, it's just water, it's fine, you can swim, come on, all you need to do is get to the surface.
He was running out of oxygen quickly, he needed to get up, he needed to win. He remembered his mother's voice whispering in his ear; you're a smart boy Cervando, you'll go far. Be a better person for me, make something of yourself for me.
He had tried, he had always tried and given how smart he had become, he was pretty successful. But at that moment, being successful, being better, relied on getting to the surface of the water. To get to that glimmer of sun he could barely see beneath the water; Look to the surface, raise yourself up, higher, stronger. Look toward the light; bettering yourself can wait until you're not dead.
He held on to his breath tighter; he hadn't breathed in at least a couple of minutes – it felt like hours. He still couldn't remember what even happened; one moment they were all laughing on the bus, waiting to get back to Neptune, trying to ignore the stench. Instead, they laughed at Betina's messages, about her fucking Dick Casablancas.
And now, at least a few of them were dead – the sudden impact would be enough to kill most, he wasn't all that sure how he had made it through the crash, not that he was ungrateful – now he just had to not drown.
He knew he had seen an explosion before the bus went over; a boom before the screams, the bomb that took out the driver and sent them all off the cliff. Sabotage, thought Cervando grimly, wondering who would actually do that. Echolls, maybe? The bastard's case over Felix's murder was thrown out, but cases didn't always stay that way, so maybe taking out a PCHer would benefit him.
Two of them gone in under a year – or not, as long as he reached the surface eventually. Don't breathe yet, come on man, swim harder, don't drown, hold your breath, you are not gonna die because of whatever this killer did.
Of course, maybe it wasn't about him at all. There were what, eight people on that bus? Anyone of them could have someone wanting them dead – hey, Betina with her issues with Dick Casablancas, her trying to humiliate him, probably didn't have him all happy she existed. He had met Dick – son of a bitch sprayed bleach all over his two hundred dollar jeans for no reason. He had gone and taken it out on Beaver, hey, little brother, practically the same. He knew spraying bleach was on the very different level to mass-murder, but hey, he wasn't exactly overflowing with people with motives – partly because he barely knew anyone on that bus.
Fuck it, those jeans were important. It was like a symbol thing; he'd gotten that cash from the Fitzpatricks, the big scary Fitzpatricks that he had ripped off. Everyone got to know how he had hustled it from them, he was proud, and he was sure they were fuming somewhere, wishing he'd just shut up-
Shit.
He shook the thought away. Yeah, it was possible, but it didn't seem their style. They'd deal with him if they really cared that much, with a baseball bat in a dark alley. Taking out a bus full of his classmates just for him was a bit much, even by their standards.
No reason to feel guilty.
Cervando had no oxygen left in his lungs, and when he looked up, he realized his thrashing hadn't gotten him any closer to the surface. His lips began to part in imitation of breath, even as his conscious mind was screaming; No! Don't breathe, get to the surface, moron!
Yet he couldn't resist and his lungs burnt with the effort, so soon his mouth did open; water seeping in, filling every single alveoli. He continued to struggle against the water, now accepting it pointless, but he would not die without a fight. Years with the PCHers had taught him that.
He saw corpses floating to the ground with him; sickening remains of his fellow students. None of them were struggling, and Cervando was fairly sure they were all already dead. He could only count three of them however; Betina and the other girl, plus a guy he didn't know. Cervando, against his will, sunk with them.
All was dark and quiet as Cervando's lungs filled with water, and the thrashing of his arms stopped.