Now Dion was stuck by himself, with Aenea in his arms, who after being lifted for a good minute had decided to move and pull herself off his grip.

"Drop me," She said. He did, somewhere near the exit of the room, along with Apollo who was still unconscious.

Though it was hard to call it an exit. The opening Apollo had made had simply given the creature more confidence to spread itself, more urgency to grow and grow and grow and as such, its large and small tendrils both had begun to expand out towards the window of the casino, growing out like a tumor and continuing outside the window.

He couldn't take one step without feeling the squishy flesh underneath his feet and his feet sinking in. He had to pull, and continuously pull, Apollo out of the creature. For it began to look like he was being digested and considering how weak Apollo was, it seemed like he was just accepting of it. For he did not struggle, simply groan. Groan for or against his digestion by the demon.

"What do we do?" Dion asked. Apollo turned his head, his body was facing down, being held by the chest. His neck didn't even have the strength to move, and his eyes followed nothing. They just stared, emptily onto the floor, while the blood dribbled from his mouth. He began to laugh. An exhausted, abject, laugh.

"I think I'll give this fucker indigestion. Aha." Apollo said.

"That's not funny, do you understand where we are? What we're dealing with?"

"Of course, that's why I'm joking." He said. "You're always supposed to joke when things are hopeless."

"So we're just going to let it get out of control? Just keep spreading."

"I can't imagine you have a means to do anything otherwise," Apollo said. "My swords down and I don't know how you're going to kill it."

It was true. Seeing the glowing red heart of the creature, he began to realize how quickly it moved across every vein and muscle in the monstrosity. Like a freeway, a blur that seemed like an intangible image, that red heart of the demon, driving up and down the walls. It looked like a red blur, a line streaked across.

"You can't shoot and you sure as hell won't be able to shoot that," Apollo said. "Funny huh? Its weakness is right in front of our faces, and we can't do anything about it. We'll just have to wait then, for another team to come around and do our job."

"Wait?" He asked. "Do you think this thing is going to wait when it comes down from the casino and starts eating this whole city. And then what?"

"And then everyone dies, I guess. Or runs away, and we'll definitely get reprimanded and executed."

"Who cares about our execution?!" Dion screamed. "What about the people."

"What about them? What are you going to do for them?" His voice was faint. It sounded like the shadow of a voice, the last wave of an echo that was beginning to die inside the cave. He was sleepy, tired, his weight dragged Dion's arms down further.

"Just let me die," Apollo said. "It wouldn't be a bad way to go. In my sleep, inside the warmth. Not a bad way at all, there's been worse times and worse places."

"Be quiet." Dion pressed down on his gun. The grip almost bonded with his flesh with how hard he was gripping it. "Just shut up and let me think."

“And what do I do?” They heard her voice behind them, and it appeared to have shocked them because they turned with immediacy and fear. She stood there, barefoot and bruised all over. The side of her head bled and trickled down her cheek, to her neck, where it was lost in the rags of her clothes.

“Good question, what do you do?” Apollo asked. His body still facing down. By now a layer of mucus had begun to accumulate on the floor, bubbling and popping, like the white foam of a shoreline. “How are you going to get us out of this?”

By now, their imaginations had become dreadful. Dion could not think, let alone act. His hands were quivering, and Apollo wavered in and out of consciousness. It appeared that the only thing stopping from falling asleep was the constant tug and pull as Dion jumped, out of the way of tendrils extending out. The corridor, now smoldering, was also beginning to cool. And as it did, the monstrosity began to approach them. The fire kept it away, only momentarily.

“You wouldn’t happen to be able to blow it up again, would you?”

“No,” Apollo said. “I can’t move.”

They both looked around. The panels were contorting to the shape of the monster. The columns, the wooden frame of the room, the pillars, all seemed to bend and break to the strength of the monstrosity.

It was coming for them, slowly approaching but gaining momentum. They were in the first room now, leading themselves towards the stairs.

Apollo dangled, his arms dragging back and forth. His eyes looked around, towards the fire and more importantly, the electricity around.

How the sparks scared the creature away and kept it back. How they circled the open wounds of wiring.

“Dion,” Apollo whispered. The blood went in between the gaps of his teeth, and so warped his voice with gargles and coughs.

“What?” Dion asked. Aenea was close behind. Her feet were bleeding, though she didn’t (or rather, couldn’t) care.

“It’s scared of the wires,” Apollo said. His eyes closing, one before the other. “Electricity.”

“What do you mean?” Dion asked. His guns shook in his hand, Apollo was underneath his left armpit. He felt Aenea tugging at his arm. “Stay awake. Come on, stay awake!”

Aenea nudged him hard.

“It’s scared of fire and electricity. I think that’s what he’s trying to say.” She pointed to the exposed ceiling.

“Okay?” Dion asked. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“I need to go down and get a handle on the circuit breakers of this place. We can’t shock it if the fuse box turns off on us.” She said. “But if I leave it on, if I jam it on, we can run a current to it continuously.”

“Well, start running then!”

“It’s not that easy.” She said, pointing to the door and the long tendons covering it.

He felt at once his fear rise again. The fear, manifesting in stillness. Idleness. As he stood, with Apollo in his arms and Aenea holding him, with his guns shaking and moving neither up nor down, but simply shaking.

“Go on, shoot it then.” She said.

He put his finger on the trigger. But could not pull.

For in front of him, scattered about, like a bad dream, was the image of Sophie.

Of her corpse. And then, blinking. She disappeared. Replaced, by the image of himself with the gaping stomach wound. Laid out, like Jesus on the cross.

He saw himself dead in front of the door, the tendrils fast approaching.

“Come on, shoot!” Aenea screamed.

How he could he though? He could barely move.

And the tendril approached, like a whip, coming straight for the back of Dion’s head.