He heard the softest clatter and lay still, waiting. “Who’s there?” he muttered, but of course he was alone. For a moment he thought it was an inmate in a neighboring cell scratching or tapping a signal, but such noises had stopped long ago, well before the screaming had stopped. He set his ear to the floor. It was a small animal or insect, roaming in circles from the sound of it and probably just as desperate as he. A rat maybe. A cockroach? Finally, a creature had come. He wondered what drove it here. Was there inclement weather up above? Fire? A battle? But how had it gotten here? Up through the drain, surely. It must not be very big to do that. He wanted it big, and contagious, with long sharp teeth or claws. His survival instinct urged him to catch it and eat it, and he suppressed the thought by biting into the inside of his cheek. His only hope was that this rodent-roach was only the first of a great wave that would flow into the dark room and consume him.

The soft clattering became a scuffing scratching, and then it was gone. Nothing to be had here, not even for a cockroach.

He moaned now. He felt such a failure. He wanted to be able to say it with assurance: See you soon, Holger Frings, and Tom Godfrey, though he doubted they would be heading his way. As for his Heloise, he didn’t expect to see his only love anymore, not ever again. She was far too good and pure for where he was surely heading. At least there he could finally proclaim to Selfer and hopefully even to Lansdale one day and, if there were any justice, to all the power mongers who ran them: You see. You’ve never done a thing for the human race except destroy and profit at others’ expense. This is your reward. I hope you all burn down here with me, because you truly deserve it . . .

He was about to drag himself over to that bucket of shit and drink it down whole. His mind was ready. But his body wouldn’t move. So he muttered, before he passed out, “Good-bye, Heloise . . . goodbye, Holger Thomas, my good boy.”

41.