The beach had gone from total chaos to a stunned, breathless hush.
The moon poured silver light over the torn-up sand, the craters, the broken blades scattered like fallen stars. Alaric lay half in the surf, half on the wet shore, his massive body still. Ten or more black blades stuck out of him like dark thorns—chest, stomach, shoulders, legs. Blood pooled beneath him, mixing with the incoming waves, turning the water dark around his green-black skin. His red eyes were open, staring at nothing. No glow. No breath. No movement.
The crowd started slow, like they couldn't believe it was over.
"Zero! Zero! Zero!"
One voice, then two, then dozens. It rolled across the beach, growing louder, stronger. People threw their hands in the air, hugged strangers, jumped up and down. Someone started banging on an empty cooler like a drum. Phones flashed. Laughter mixed with tears. Someone screamed "We're alive!" and the words spread like wildfire.
