HAUNTED SONA

CHAPTER SIX

Dancing flames ate away at the rowboat's old wood, which creaked miserably. One second Alex was on his feet, the intense heat permeating from the fire causing beads of sweat to form on his forehead. Then, in the next second, he had lost his balance and tumbled over the side of the violently shaking boat. Into the water he fell.

Horrified, he opened his mouth, taking in huge swallows of that filthy water. Alex thrashed around, with revulsion rising from his stomach. Dark water, just about black, but not mercifully dark enough. Even under the surface he could still make out the lifeless faces and the bluish-green limbs coming toward him.

Oh, no, oh, God, gotta get out, gotta get out, out, out, out!

He poked his head through the surface and gasped for air. As foul as the air in that cave was, it now tasted sweet to him, reviving.

That was before he felt the hands closing in around his arms. The hands clutching at his waist. Hands on his head. All of them, together, forcibly pulling him back under the surface.

Alex could almost feel another fragile thread of his sanity snapping. As if his sanity hadn't been in enough trouble. He'd made it through the Company. He'd made it through Shales. And Bill Kim. Barely, and with the help of his addiction, but he'd made it through.

But now he was being drowned by those who had die there in that secretive part of Sona. It was almost too much for him to bear. He tried to fight, but they were stronger. Each time he raised his head above water, they dragged him back down with supernatural strength. More alarmingly, he could feel them biting at his flesh, at his arms, his legs, his neck.

Alex swallowed more water. A breath—one last breath. That was all he wanted. How long did it take to die this way? He'd read about it some years ago, a scene in a book where a character was in the process of drowning. A Nelson DeMille novel, maybe. At the time, he'd marveled that it sounded like an especially excruciating way to lose one's life. His lungs felt like they were filled with lead, like they'd explode, completely useless to him.

Pam and his son. They came to mind in those, his last moments on earth. They would never know what had happened, that he'd died there, so many feet under Sona, at the hands of its long-dead prisoners. His face contorted with a drowned cry. He was about to become one of them.

One of those monsters.

Then, one by one, they began to release him. Alex could see movement in the water. Something struck the surface again and again, and he could make out a voice—was that Scofield's? But that couldn't be. Michael Scofield would never help him. Never in a million years.

Another set of arms wrapped around him. He could vaguely make out the face: That was Michael. Alex tried not to struggle, allowing Michael to glide him through the water to the lake's banks, though the bites were strong and burning like hell. With his head above the surface, he sputtered and fought for air.

Once out of the water, everything he'd swallowed projected out of him with force. Michael helped him as best he could, but Alex still fell forward, striking his head against a rock. He cried out, wildly grabbing at the bites, terrified to feel something slimy and insect-like on his skin.

"Leeches," he heard Michael say behind him. "They're leeches, Alex."

"Oh—oh—ow!" Mahone grunted haltingly, slapping at the parasites. "Off! Get off me!"

That came as a relief. Somewhat. The bites had come from those—what were leeches, anyway? Bugs. Big, black, ugly, worm-like bugs. Something living rather than those murderous dead things.

"They're on me, too." Soothingly, Michael spoke, in spite of the fact that he was doing the same thing, struggling to get the leeches off himself. "Calm down, Alex. Easy. You're all right now."

"Mmmm—uhmmmm—no, no. No! I'm not." He rubbed at the bump on his forehead, already turning black and blue.

Those dead things. Dead, dead things. They touched me.

"God, I need my pills. I wish I had my pills." He gulped in more much-needed air. Then he turned to look at Michael, who was squinting at him.

"No, you don't. You'll be fine," Scofield said firmly. "You're all right."

"They—wanted—they w-wanted to—" When his lower lip quivered, Mahone looked away, stopping himself in time before he started crying and howling like a baby. Along with his sanity, now his dignity was also endangered.

"But they didn't. Okay? Come on, Alex. Be strong. I need you to help us get out of here."

Alex began to shiver uncontrollably. The water wasn't cold, but he was shaking like a leaf. He sat up, wrapped his arms around his knees, and rocked back and forth.

"I s-s-saw a gh-ghost before." With his head shaking, his hair dripped water into his eyes. "I know they exist, whether you b-believe it oh-or not. But n-n-not like these. These are b-bad ghosts."

Michael stepped closer to him and crouched down. "They are bad ghosts. You're right. And it makes sense. They were once bad men."

Mahone frowned at him. Was that just a random comment? Or was Scofield hinting at something else? He hoped that wasn't true, that the things he'd done in his life would manifest themselves in what he became afterwards. He didn't want to see himself that way, like one of those hideous, hateful ghosts. But he started to calm down, finally. "Why are they leaving us alone now?"

"I don't know. But I kept hitting them with my oar. They fought me, too, but for some reason they backed off." He shrugged. "You're all right, though. Aren't you?"

It surprised Alex, how good it felt to take a deep breath again. "Yeah. Only because you saved my life."

Michael said nothing. With his head bowed, his brow knit, he rubbed his hands together, looking pensive.

"Part of me says we should turn back," he said, pointedly avoiding Mahone's words. "But then I think…we've come so far. And through so much."

"You could've left me here to die. I was drowning, Michael. I would've died, if it weren't for you."

"Don't—don't do that. Look, forget it, Alex. Just forget it."

Mahone nodded and wiped his nose on his already-wet sleeve. He was a little hurt by Michael's response, but he knew it was best to gloss over it. They didn't have time for it right now, obviously.

And yet…how was a man supposed to forget something like that? Here he was, the blood of Scofield's father still fresh on his hands, and yet Michael had put himself in danger in order to rescue him from certain death. Alex felt more than rising respect for the man; he was in awe.

We will never be friends. Those had been Scofield's words to him not so long ago, right before he'd fallen into the river of death. Mahone ran a hand through his hair, shaking off some of the water.

He looked up to see Michael staring at something. "What—what is it now?"

Alex turned to follow his gaze. There, on the wall behind them, the fire from the burning boat cast a glow. In that reflected light was an odd shadow, something that appeared to be in the form of a bird, perhaps a swan.

"I've seen that before," Alex murmured.

"It's—I've made that. Origami."

"Origami. Paper art, folded-up animals, right?" That day in the car with Agent Kellerman came to mind, when Paul had handed him that small paper swan.

"Yes."

Mahone blinked twice, clearing his eyes. Under the show of the origami swan was a figure. His chest tensed with his erratic heartbeat again.

Another ghost. God, he needed to see another ghost like he needed a damn heart attack. Except…this ghost wasn't terrifying nor ugly. This apparition appeared to be dressed in a long brown shawl. Long, dark hair peeked out from under the shawl's heavy hood. The face wasn't visible, but the hands were definitely feminine.

The shadow of the origami disappeared from the wall as the ghost turned. She was stepping along a walkway up the wall, but she stopped briefly to turn and acknowledge them.

"Mi-chael. Mi-chael—come," the specter spoke.

Mahone understood. He saw Michael's reaction, how his thoughts were written on his face, plain as day. He was having trouble wrapping his mind around this whole thing.

A female spirit, crossing over from the Great Beyond, calling to him and leading the way.

El Cura was right, Alex decided.

This was his chance, however meager, to reciprocate the kindness Michael Scofield had shown to him. Gently taking him by the elbow, he guided the younger man to his feet. The figure, seeing them rise, appeared to nod her approval. Then she turned and continued up the pathway slowly.

"We're going to follow a ghost?" Michael whispered incredulously.

"That's not a ghost, Michael. That's the angel. She's watching over you."