Free Words to Tie to Bricks by Claire Hennesy

You’re running to the tunnel’s exit. I follow.
    And as I do, I notice something.
    The ocean doesn’t roll, and the waves don’t break, not like our language and the metaphors we end up using seem to imply that they once did. The ocean is toxic and acid and unstable
and bubbling. But not now. Something’s in it. Stirring.
    And then, like a mole sticking its head above the surface of the earth, there’s a shiny black carapace in the waves.
    And then another.
    And another.
    And then they constitute an ocean all of their own.
    Big things, fearsome things, things that thrive on weakness and fear and pain.
    Why here? Why now?
    I turn to look at the mainland.
    Oh.

    I can’t remember what a dawn looks like. No one can. But I know what it’s supposed to look like. The sun, a great ball of fire, would creep over the horizon, and
all its light would spill over the hills and bathe the green countryside in amber and red and everything would be alright and the forces of evil would scream, scatter, steam, melt, and the heroes
would rejoice and it would be
glorious.
    Well, this is like that. Except, instead of the sun, there’s black, and instead of the green countryside, there’s black, and instead of amber and red rolling into view there’s
black. Like the hands of an angry god, reaching for me, the ant it could never crush, the disease it could never purge, the stain it could never remove, and I can see its face in this hellish
sunset and I can see it smile in triumph.
    I am not in awe. There is never a time for that here. Awe is just waiting for death.
    I turn on my heels and run.
    You’ve already left. The things wouldn’t let you wait.
    I keep running.
    It’s a rock. It’s a high, steep rock, in the middle of the ocean, with a thin shale bridge. That’s what we’re on. And all around us is a sea of toxic sludge, or a sea of
sleek, strong, hungry things. It doesn’t look good. It looks like death.
    I think about what brought them here. What could have been loud enough, alluring enough, to attract this amount of these things? Whatever it was, it must have sounded horrifically wounded. Easy
pickings.
    I don’t curse my luck. I don’t care enough to. The worst that can happen is I die.
    Not quite.
    The worst that can happen is that
you
die.

    And then I’m off the bridge entirely and I’m shouting in my Com for you and I don’t see you or hear you and there isn’t any exit in sight and then there
it is, just a hole in the ground and you run out and you twist and then there’s that thing in your arms, I remember, from so long ago, that long, thick, heavy metal thing, I can’t
remember what it does.
    And then there’s a flash of red and the hole is collapsing in on itself and I remember.
    And then I’m running to you.
    And then I’m screaming for you.
    And then you turn to see me.
    And then I’ve run to you.
    And then I’m staring at you.
    And your gas mask is staring back.
    I want –
    I want a lot of things. And all of them are you.

    But there aren’t words for this, there aren’t actions, there isn’t any way to convey and if there ever has been I can’t remember and you get one chance
to make your gesture down here, and I want to make mine count, but I don’t even know how to begin.
    ‘
You
,’ I start.
    You shake your head. ‘No.
You
.’
    And then there’s death behind us and we’re running, and you’re limping and you’re turning and slowing and I grab your hand to pull you along but you’re just aiming
and then there’s red and the things scream as they die and you throw your weapon away and I’m guessing it’s either empty or you know that we can’t fend off this many and
then we come to the edge of the island, the edge of the rock, the end of the rope and the end of the line and the end of the end of the end.
    We stop.
    And we look down.
    And there are rocks below that would kill us before we could dissolve in the sludge. A painless death, that. As painless as they