Count; he should count. Counting was good. Ten cells, there are ten. . . . His feverish gaze touched on one after another. Five to a side, one two three four five . . . “This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home, this little piggy had roast beef . . . help me, help me, help . . . bong, bong, bong . . .”
“Okay, that’s pretty crazy,” Jug Ears said.
“No, no, no, nononono,” Peter chanted, knuckling his temples, shaking his head back and forth. “Eight . . . eight eight eight eight days since the bells, but ten cells ten ten ten, ten little piggies, wee, wee, wee . . .” He heard his voice rising to a cracking falsetto. “Wee, wee, wee, weeweewee . . . no, stop! Stop, stop!” He wasn’t aware he was punctuating the word with a punch to his jaw until his knuckles barked with pain.
“Shouldn’t we do something?” Jug Ears asked.
“If he starts digging out his eyes or something,” said Lang. “He ever done that?”
“Only once.”
“Stop,” Peter panted, but he was no longer sure to whom he spoke. He had to let go of this, get control. He punched his jaw again and again, harder, harder! This time, the soft inner flesh of his cheek ripped against his teeth. His mouth flooded with the tang of metal and swamp water—the boat, deep in the dark—a taste he now knew very well. But this is me, this is good. He drank himself back. This is my blood; it’s not anyone I had to eat—
“No.” He straightened abruptly as if a hidden spring had suddenly released at his waist. “I’m not going to think about that either. I’m going to think about something else. I’m going to think think think.” He began to pace the limits of his cage, past the eyes of the Changed but well away from their grasping hands and Kate, Kate, Kate, around and around and around. Count, do something, do anything, but get a grip. “Get a grip, get a grip, I’m Peter, I’m in a cell, I’m in a camp . . .”
“You’re Peter, you’re in a cell, you’re in a camp.” Simon was an echo, a ghost from the graveyard of Peter’s memories. “You’re in a cell, this is hell, and I’m Simon, and it’s ten little piggies and they went wee wee wee . . .”
“I’m not listening to you.”
“You’re talking to me.”
“I’m not hearing you!” Peter shouted, over the bong-bong-BONG. “Jesus, please, let me go!” The top of his head hurt so much it felt like someone had cratered his skull with a brick. Please, God, please. Why won’t you let me die?
“Because it’s not your time,” Simon said.
“But I can’t take this anymore.” Peter ran his tongue over his upper lip, skimming a rank and now very familiar lace of dried copper and old salt. “Please, Simon—”
“Simon?” said Jug Ears.
“Old rev’s grandson,” Lang said, bored. “Kid he was real close to.” “Grandson? I thought Chris Prentiss was Yeager’s grandson.” “Him, too—which is weird, ’cause the old guy had only one kid.” “So how’s that work?” asked Jug Ears.
“Beats shit out of me,” said Lang.
“You’re not allowed to die yet, Peter,” Simon said. “Penny and I need you.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Raging, he whirled, trying for a grab, coming up empty as Simon danced away, always out of reach. “You need me, Penny needs me. But I can’t help you right now—don’t you get that? I can’t even help myself !”
“Who’s Penny?” Jug Ears said.
“His sister. Guys from Rule said she was a real looker. Just”—Lang cupped his hands in front of his chest—“fine.”
“Shut up!” Peter whipped his head so fast bloody spit flew. But in his heart, he was also glad because it gave him someone else to hate other than himself. “Don’t you say my sister’s name! Don’t you even think it!”
“Gone by the time I got there. Heard she maybe went native.” Lang kept talking as if Peter wasn’t there—and this was so true, in so many ways. Lang skimmed the pale pink eel of his tongue over teeth stained black with decay and ancient nicotine. “Damn shame. Be real sweet to show all those girls what a man can . . .”
“Shut up!” Fisting the bars in both hands, Peter cranked his elbows like a chimp. “Shut up, Lang! I’ll f**king kill you if you don’t shut up shut up shut up!”
“Yeah, yeah?” Scraping back his chair, Lang reached for his scabbard. A whip of his wrist, and twenty-six inches of black chromed steel snapped into place. Lang advanced half the distance to Peter’s cell, smacking iron with sharp, clanging bang-bang-bangs that somehow synchronized to the bong-bong-bongs. In the other cells, the Changed cringed back. “You getting tough, boy, huh? You going to kill me? Like to see you try.”
Yes! Go ahead, split my skull, pulp my brain, kill me kill me kill me! “Bring it, bring it!” Peter howled. “Come on, you prick, come on! You’re brave out there; you can talk about showing girls what kind of man you are, so come on!”
Lang’s cheeks flooded scarlet. “Don’t think I won’t—”
“Lang!” Jug Ears was on his feet. “I don’t think this is a real good—”
“Shut up!” Advancing, Lang cut iron with a vicious BAP. “You little pissant—”
“Peter.” It was Simon—and then it wasn’t. Calm and small, this voice was nonetheless powerful, a kick in the gut that knocked the wind right out of him. “Peter, don’t.”
Like that, Peter felt the fight drain away, leaving him boneless, water-weak. He looked to his right, where Simon always hovered out of sight, then gasped as the air suddenly split—and Chris, shimmery and bright, slid into being.
“Peter.” Chris’s face was a white blare. “Stop. You can’t beat them like this.”
“Chris,” Peter breathed. His knees tried to buckle. The sight rocked him back so hard that if he hadn’t been clinging to the bars, he’d have crumpled to the filthy concrete. Chris couldn’t be here; he knew that. The fact that Chris was . . . What if he’s dead? No, please, God. Peter’s throat knotted with grief. His vision clouded, and he squeezed his eyes tight. “Chris, you can’t be here. I can’t be seeing you. I’m not.”