Descent, page 2
I bit my lip and nodded, but the question still slipped out, barely a whisper. “You think she’s…”
The words crumbled before I could finish them. I couldn’t say it. Not out loud. Elise was so much stronger than I was—she always had been. She wouldn’t fall, not like that. She couldn’t.
“We keep going,” Walton said firmly. There was no hesitation in him. “We find more signs. We don’t stop until we find her.”
I nodded again, slower this time, letting the firmness of his voice hold me up. “You’re right,” I said, softer now. “Elise is strong. She wouldn’t give up.”
“’Course I’m right,” he said with a grunt, and turned his gaze back to the horizon. “She’s out there.”
His certainty steadied something in me. I closed my eyes for a moment, just long enough to take a deep breath and feel it anchor me. When I opened them, I felt more like myself again. The version of me Elise would expect to keep going.
“Okay,” I said, letting the word rise like a small promise. “Let’s keep moving.”
The sun pressed down on us as we walked, heavy and unrelenting. Every step forward felt like a little victory, a defiance against the heat, against the hopelessness that threatened to creep in. Around us stretched nothing but sand and cracked earth, sun-bleached bones of trees, the rusted skeletons of what used to be vehicles. Echoes of the world that was.
The horizon danced in the distance, blurry and uncertain. It was hard to tell what was real and what wasn’t. Walton walked steadily beside me, casting a long shadow that stretched ahead like it was leading the way. Silence moved with us, alert and graceful, her eyes always scanning.
The ground was uneven and rough beneath our boots, and I could feel the scratch of grit working its way into my socks. My mouth was dry, my throat aching, but I kept walking. I wouldn’t stop.
And still, I couldn’t help but notice the beauty in it all. In the soft shimmer of the dunes. In the surprise of color where desert flowers had somehow found the strength to bloom. In the boldness of a cactus rising tall against the sky. It was all so quiet, so lonely—and yet, still alive.
Above us, the sky was impossibly blue, as if untouched by everything that had happened below. Not a single cloud in sight. Just that endless expanse stretching on forever. I could hear the faint cries of carrion birds circling far overhead, as if the sky itself was whispering reminders of how fragile everything was.
And yet… we kept moving.
Walton’s voice tugged me back to the present, rough and gravel-edged as always. “Keep an eye out for any signs of life,” he said, his gaze sweeping across the barren stretch ahead. “We’re getting close to the city, and that means more.”
“More what?” I asked, blinking up at him.
“More people,” he replied. “And that’s always a danger.”
I nodded, the words settling in my chest like a quiet weight. I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand, catching beads of sweat before they slipped down my temple. My legs were tired—aching, really—but the thought of Elise was stronger than the exhaustion. She was out here somewhere. I had to believe that.
We kept walking, side by side but wrapped in our own thoughts. Our boots crunched over the sand in a rhythm that lulled me a little, like a soft, steady drumbeat. Even the silence between us felt like it belonged.
Eventually, we crested a gentle rise, and I paused at the top. More desert stretched ahead of us—nothing new—but then something shimmered faintly in the distance. Just a glimmer, a tiny flicker against the sun’s blinding light.
“Look,” I whispered, pointing. “There… do you see that?”
Walton squinted and followed my finger. His nod was slow, thoughtful. “Could be something,” he said quietly.
I felt a small surge of hope rise in me, fragile and bright. Maybe it was nothing. But maybe… maybe it was everything.
We kept going, our feet moving forward through the dust and heat, pushed by two things that never seemed to leave us—hope and desperation. They were twins, those feelings, tangled so tightly together I couldn’t tell one from the other.
I didn’t know what we’d find.
But it could be something.
Chapter 2
Walton
The sky went dark in seconds—like God threw a tarp over the sun. Clouds churned above us, fat and bruised-looking, thick with what I knew wasn’t just water. I tasted it on the air before I even saw it, that sharp, metallic tang on my tongue. Acid rain. It was coming in hard and fast.
“We need shelter,” I said, already picking up my pace. “Now.”
Everly hurried to keep up, frowning like she couldn’t piece it together. “What? Why?”
“The rain,” I snapped, shoving aside a curtain of dead vines. “After the Divine Collapse, it turned acidic. Burns through anything it touches.”
She blinked at me, eyes too wide for someone who should know better by now. “How is that even possible?”
I scrubbed a hand across my head, already sweating from more than the heat. “Celestial war tore the world apart, filled it with corruption. That rain you’re so curious about? It doesn’t just sting. It eats. Flesh, bone, steel—doesn’t discriminate. People used to think it was God punishing us.” I snorted. “Hell, maybe He was.”
She looked around like she could see the old world buried beneath the rot. Twisted trees, cracked ground, death in every direction. Still looked for beauty in it. Still hoped. That was her curse.
“It’s not rain anymore,” I added. “It’s poison.”
She murmured something about the old world—what happened to it. Like she didn’t already know.
“Humanity happened,” I muttered, voice flat. “Ruin started long before we got here.”
We pushed on through the brush, brambles catching on our clothes. I kept scanning the landscape for the structure I remembered. It had been years, but I still knew where it ought to be.
“There’s a place up ahead,” I said. “Used to be solid. If we’re lucky, it still is.”
I heard her hesitate behind me, probably weighing whether to trust my memory. “And what makes you think it’ll be safe?”
I turned just long enough to give her a look. “Because it has to be.”
That shut her up.
The trees thickened, cutting out what little light we had left. Dread settled into my gut, coiling low and heavy. I didn’t like coming back here. But we didn’t have a choice.
I shoved past another rotting branch and the structure came into view, sagging under the weight of years and vines. Ruin. That’s what they called it now. Appropriate.
Everly trailed just behind me, quieter than usual. It bothered me more than I expected. She was normally all sunshine and endless chatter—annoying, sure, but at least it meant she was alive.
I stared up at the crumbling stone and twisted rebar. Once upon a time, this place had been full of life. Families, scavengers, survivors. We used to sit around broken stoves and tell stories, share scraps. I used to smile here. Used to feel human.
Back when I still had a wife. A daughter.
Before I became what I was now.
Now, the place looked like a corpse. Shadows clung to it, moving like they remembered us too.
“Is this it?” Everly asked, pausing beside a shattered window.
I didn’t answer. I just stepped through what was left of the doorway.
“Yeah.” The word came out like gravel, thick and grudging. “This is where we’ll find shelter.”
Thunder cracked overhead, low and mean, rolling through me like a warning. Not just weather. A reckoning.
“Shit,” I muttered. The storm was closing in—too fast. We were nearly out of time.
“What’s wrong?” Everly’s voice broke through, soft and uncertain. She looked around, already tense.
She could feel it, too—the wrongness stitched into this place. I didn’t blame her.
The walls of Ruin remembered everything I wanted to forget. I’d seen what this place did to people. Sanctuary for the damned. A graveyard for the hopeful. Those who stayed too long were either broken or waiting to break someone else. I didn’t know which would greet us.
“We’re just going inside,” I said, pushing the rotting door open. It groaned like it didn’t want to let us in, but I forced it anyway.
The air that hit us was foul—mold, decay, and something else. Something older. I knew that smell. Fear wrapped in old blood. I’d breathed it before.
“I’ve been here before,” I said, barely more than a whisper.
Everly gave me that look. The one that meant she wanted to ask but knew better—for now. Her eyes always asked more than her mouth did. That was dangerous, too.
Another crack of thunder shook the sky, shaking dust from the rafters. I stepped inside, instincts flaring to life. Scan. Clear corners. Check for movement.
Silence padded in behind us, calm but alert, her eyes scanning the dark like mine. She was the only one who didn’t need my orders. The only one who just knew.
Everly lingered near the door, wide-eyed, soaking in the gloom. She looked like she didn’t belong in a place like this. Too clean. Too soft. But she was still standing.
“Stay close,” I said, voice low, rough. “Can’t have you wandering off.”
She opened her mouth—probably to argue—but then shut it again. Smart girl.
I watched her as she moved deeper into the space, slow, cautious. The walls were rotting, paint flaking like dead skin. Once, this place held families. Color. Laughter. I remembered the murals—bright scenes of people who believed in rebuilding.
Now it was just bones and ghosts.
A table lay on its side, chairs knocked over as if someone had left in a hurry—or hadn’t had time to.
The air hung thick, every breath dragging history into my lungs. Dust floated in the dim light like ashes from some long-dead fire. Old newspaper clippings clung to the windows, brittle and yellowed. They rustled faintly, whispering lies about a world that no longer existed.
I didn’t trust this place.
But it was all we had.
“Look at this,” Everly called softly from across the room.
I turned, finding her brushing dust from an old chair barely holding itself upright. One good shove and it’d crumble like the rest of this godforsaken place.
“What do you think happened here?”
“Survival,” I said flatly, stepping closer. My eyes scanned every shadow, every corner, every broken thing that could hide a bigger threat. “People lived here. They made do. Probably died trying.”
She crouched down, brushing off a forgotten toy—a little car, battered and brittle, but somehow still whole.
“It’s sad,” she said, voice distant.
“It’s reality,” I countered, not unkind, but firm. “Sentiment will get you killed.”
She stood, and when our eyes met, hers were full of that same stubborn hope that had followed me since the day we met. It burned in her like a light refusing to go out.
“Right,” she murmured, and turned away.
I followed her into the deeper shadows of the building, staying close. Too close, maybe. I didn’t care. I wasn’t losing her in here—not like last time.
The floor groaned beneath our boots, every step an alarm bell in the quiet. My nerves stayed sharp. I knew what could hide in ruins like this—what kinds of things waited in silence.
Then came the rain.
It started as a soft whisper on the roof, then turned violent in seconds. Acid hissed as it hit, turning the world outside into a war zone of steaming leaves and wilting trees. The sky went from ash to iron and let loose like it was cleansing the earth.
Everly stood by the window, framed in the glow of the storm. Her hair clung to her skin in damp gold strands. She leaned closer, eyes wide, lips moving. Praying maybe. Or talking to ghosts. I couldn’t tell.
She watched the destruction like it was beautiful.
Something twisted in my gut.
I looked away.
I dropped to the floor and slid my back against the cold wall. Gun in my lap. Anchor in my hands. The only thing in this world that made sense.
I started cleaning it—slow, deliberate. Cloth to metal. Scrub and click. Every stroke pulled my focus back where it needed to be. Away from the girl at the window. Away from the pull in my chest.
Outside, the rain lashed at the world. Inside, it was just the sound of steel in my hands and the soft rhythm of Everly’s breathing.
Piece by piece, I reassembled the weapon, polishing each part until it gleamed. A small act of control in a world that had none.
I glanced up.
She was still staring out at the storm, eyes shining like it meant something more to her. Like there was hope in the chaos.
We weren’t the same, not even close. She saw magic in destruction. I saw warning signs and blood.
And yet… here we were. Caught in the same storm. Trapped between what we were and what we didn’t dare speak aloud.
But I couldn’t afford distractions. Not now. Not with the world outside ready to kill us both the second we let our guard down.
“I wish I could touch it,” she said, voice just a whisper.
I didn’t bother looking at her. Just leaned back against the wall, letting the cool of the stone bleed into my skin. “No, you don’t.”
“I meant rain as it should be,” she added, her gaze still locked on the storm beyond the glass. Like she could rewrite what the world had become just by wishing it different.
I sighed. Of course she did.
She had those wide eyes again—so damn full of wonder it hurt to look at. I tried not to, but I glanced anyway. Like a fool.
“What does it feel like?” she asked. “You’ve felt rain before, haven’t you?”
I gave a short nod. Yeah, I’d felt it—back when it didn’t try to melt your flesh off.
“Well?” she pressed. “What’s it like?”
“A shower,” I said. “But cool.”
She huffed and turned back to the window, the kind of sigh only someone too young and too soft could make. “It sounds beautiful,” she murmured. “Like a song sung by God Himself.”
I scoffed but didn’t say a damn thing. No point arguing with someone who still believed in pretty lies.
Then she turned again—of course she did. That stubborn light was back in her eyes. “You know,” she said, “this isn’t God punishing the world. This acid… Why would He want to turn His creation into something gnarled and twisted?”
“Newsflash, sugar,” I said, arms folding across my chest. “People were already gnarled and twisted before the Divine Collapse. That just gave them permission to show it.”
She flinched. Not physically, but I saw it. A shift in her jaw. A flicker in those eyes.
“Not everyone is evil,” she said sharply. “There has to still be… good. Like you.”
I laughed. Short. Bitter. “I ain’t good, little girl.” The words came out sharper than I meant, but I didn’t take them back. “Don’t forget it.”
The silence after that was heavy. Thick. Full of things neither of us had the guts to say.
Then her shoulders dropped, just a little. Like I’d taken something from her and she didn’t know how to ask for it back.
“You are,” she said, quiet but sure.
And that was when I snapped.
“I’m not the man you think I am.” I spat the words, the old fire rising fast. “I ain’t a man at all.”
“You were married—”
“To a lying cunt,” I cut in.
“You had a child—”
“Who’s as good as dead.”
Her face twisted—hurt, disbelief, and something angrier than I’d seen in her before. “I’m sick and tired of you feeling sorry for yourself!” she shouted, louder than the storm hammering the roof. “So you made a mistake—big deal! Learn from it and move on. Stop wallowing!”
The words hit like a backhand. Sudden. Hot. And real.
My walls went up fast, the instinct to bite back already loaded on my tongue. But I didn’t fire.
I just stared at her.
God help me, she was still standing there—glowing like a candle in the middle of a war zone. Still looking at me like I was worth something.
And that was more dangerous than any damn monster lurking outside.
“I do not wallow,” I shot back, sharper than intended.
She turned and gave me a look that could peel paint off walls. “Could’ve fooled me, cowboy.”
I almost cracked a smile. Almost. There was something about the way she pushed back—head high, fire in her eyes—that knocked the wind out of my chest. Most people steer clear of me, learn to keep their distance. But Everly? She charged in like she had nothing to lose.
She wasn’t scared of my scars, and that was… unsettling.
“Look,” she said, arms folding tight across her chest like she was bracing herself. “You can’t keep dragging this weight around like it’s a badge of honor. It’s not. It’s actually pathetic.”
That word hit like a slap.
“Pathetic?” I growled, eyes narrowing.
But she didn’t flinch. Not even a twitch. Her voice had steel in it, but her eyes—damn those eyes—held something else. Pity, maybe. Or something worse.
I opened my mouth to snap back, but the words caught somewhere between my throat and whatever was left of my pride.
“Just… stop.” She exhaled sharply and tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re here, aren’t you? You survived everything. That has to count for something. There’s still… hope.”
I wanted to scoff. I wanted to shove her hope right back at her. But her words landed anyway, burrowing in deep before I could shut the door.
“And if there ain’t?” I muttered, quieter than I meant to.
She stepped closer. No fear. No hesitation.
“There is,” she said, voice low but certain. “You just have to believe it.”
I looked away. “You make it sound easy.”
“And you make it harder than it has to be.”
