The survivor didn't have much left in him after that. His shoulders had stopped fighting the wall behind them, like something in him had finally agreed to lose, and the green glow along the rock made his face look already halfway to a corpse. I asked more questions anyway, because that's what you do when a dying man hands you half an answer and then looks like he's about to stop breathing before you get the rest.
"How many," I said. "How many has it marked."
His eyes had gone glassy, drifting somewhere past my shoulder, fixed on nothing I could see. "Lost count," he managed. "Wasn't just me who came in here looking for it. Wasn't just him." A tilt of his chin toward Light, weak, barely more than a twitch of the jaw. "There's more of us. Scattered. Some still walking around thinking they're fine."
'Some still walking around thinking they're fine.'
That landed somewhere behind my ribs and sat there.
"Where," I said. "Where does it keep them?"
