Alight (23 page)

They aren’t like the spiders. The spider is an animal; these creatures wore clothes, jewelry, carried either a tool or a weapon. They acted together, as a unit, like we do. They protected their children.

I don’t have to be Spingate to see that the creatures are well fed. And from what little we know, it seems we can eat what they eat.

The answer to our survival lies with something that isn’t human.

I need to learn more.

“We’ll follow them,” I say. “Let’s move.”

—

We stay close together. Visca is in front. He sweats more than anyone I’ve ever seen; most of the dirt and plant juice have washed off his face. His pale skin looks reddened from the sun, although his black circle-star symbol still stands out clearly.

He keeps us on their trail. That’s not easy, as we’ve crisscrossed at least a dozen intersecting paths. If the fire-makers made all of these paths, I wonder how many of them there are.

The building with the fire pit…one wall had been knocked in. We think a spider did that. Does that mean spiders attack the creatures just like they attack us? Could that possibly give us some common ground, a way to start communicating?

Every twenty or thirty steps, Visca stops, looks at the ground or an overhanging branch. I watch him carefully, see what he sees: a bit of overturned moss, a dangling wisp of colored thread clinging to a branch, a footprint in the dirt holding pooled-up water. This is how he tracks them. I wonder if I could do the same. I’m beginning to think that if I
really
paid attention, I could follow them using my nose alone.

That smell…
burned toast
…
my dad used to make breakfast. For me and Mom and…I had a little brother? Dad was great at dinner, especially pork, but breakfast was always a disaster…burned toast, runny eggs, and—

Borjigin stumbles into me from behind—I stopped walking, lost in that unexpected memory.

“Sorry, Em,” he says, too loud by far. “I was watching my feet.”

“Be
quiet,
” I whisper.

He nods furiously. He’s afraid of the creatures, of what else might wait for us in this never-ending jungle.

Kalle is scared, too. I can see it on her little face. We all are, even the circle-stars. We’re just
kids,
reacting to an impossible situation. No help, no direction, no guidance.

I move down the trail again, catch up to Bishop.

That memory of breakfast. So
real
. But it’s Matilda’s memory, not mine. Why couldn’t that have been my life? Why couldn’t I have been born instead of hatched? A loving family, parents, a brother.

A new smell: roasting meat.

Visca raises a fist. We stop. He kneels, studies the ground, then we’re moving again, down a steep, tree-thick slope littered with vine-covered rubble. At the bottom, a shallow pond that comes up to our knees. I look around, realize the uneven ground rises up on all sides and that the pond is roughly circular: we’re in a crater, wider than the shuttle is long. A shiver runs through me—what kind of explosion could make a hole this big?

Visca keeps going. Soon we’re climbing up the far side. The mostly hidden rubble makes for dangerous footing,
noisy
footing, broken blocks and bits of masonry clicking and clacking with our steps.

Near the top, Visca holds up a fist. Bishop kneels next to him, looks, waves me forward. The three of us crouch down in the underbrush, just our heads peeking out from behind the crater’s lip.

We stare out at an uneven clearing. Vine-encrusted crumbling walls tower around the edge. Four walls, or at least parts of them, in that hex shape—I think the two missing walls were once where the crater is now. Beyond those ruined walls, the trees are thick, tall and old.

At the center of the clearing, a small, flickering fire. Above it, a little animal roasting on a spit. Juice bubbles out, hisses on the glowing coals below. I know I shouldn’t be thinking of my stomach right now, but the meat smells
amazing
.

No sign of the creatures. They built a fire, started cooking that animal, then left?

I lean close to Bishop: “Where are they?”

His gaze flicks about the clearing. The way his eyes move reminds me of the rag-clad fire-builder back on the trail, looking for danger, not finding any.

“I don’t like this,” he whispers.

Neither do I, but that doesn’t matter. I missed the first chance to talk to these creatures. I won’t miss the second.

Creatures
…that’s no way to think of intelligent beings that might help us. I will call them
Springers,
at least until I understand what they call themselves.

“I’m going to the fire,” I say.

Bishop shakes his head. “Let me. They could be dangerous.”

Could
be, that’s true, but Bishop
is
dangerous. Back on the trail, he was ready to kill them all. Even the children, probably. If there’s any chance for peace, for cooperation, I don’t want him screwing it up.

“My decision,” I say. “Stay here.”

His face tightens. At the shuttle, he follows my orders without question. Out here, he expects I will follow his.

Not this time.

I step over the crater’s lip. The clearing’s footing is uneven, a once-hard surface shattered as if by an earthquake. Dirt, vines and leaves cover the ground, cling to broken bits of building. Anything exposed to the light is dotted with blue-green moss. The path we were on continues, a narrow line that winds through the larger bits of rubble.

I’m scared. I’m excited. I don’t know what I’m doing. I realize I’m holding the spear tightly, sharp tip leading my way. Will they think I’m attacking? Maybe I should drop it. No, if they attack me, I have to be able to defend myself.

I move toward the fire, forcing my feet forward, one short step after another.

The fire pit is a ring of piled stones. Small bones are scattered about. The Springers have eaten here before, perhaps many times.

Over by one of the still-standing walls, I see a stack of round purple fruit, each as big as my fist. I walk to the pile. Some of the fruits are whole, some are smashed in a messy paste of purple skin and yellow flesh. The paste
stinks
—pungent, rotten, but with a hint of sweetness. I pick up a fruit: it’s firm, bumpy. Yellowish lines run down its length.

Can we eat these? I’ll have Kalle check. I slide the fruit into one of my coveralls’ many pockets.

I turn to see Bishop circling the fire, looking at it closely. Visca and Coyotl crawl over the crater’s lip, join him.

That makes me furious. Bishop disobeyed me,
again
. The circle-stars are so much bigger than I am, far more intimidating. What if they scare the Springers away?

Walking in a half-crouch, Visca joins me, looks down at the messy pile of fruit and paste. His sweaty, dirty face scrunches up.

“Those smell awful. What are they?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

He uses the butt end of his sledgehammer to slide the paste aside. There is something smooth beneath, still smeared with thick globs of yellow. He kneels, picks it up with thumb and forefinger.

It is a small animal. Skinned.

“Same size as the one they’re cooking,” he says. “Why did they smear it with fruit? For flavor?” He holds it close to his face, sniffs, frowns, then smiles. “I’ll tell Farrar this is their version of cookies and see if he eats it.”

His laugh is cut short by a loud
bang
that makes me flinch, makes Matilda’s memories say
fireworks.
In that same instant, something cracks against the old wall.

Visca drops the animal, stands, grips his hammer with both hands as the sound echoes away through the jungle.

A white spot on the wall that wasn’t there before, surrounded by the blue-green moss, like someone chipped away a piece of stone.

Another
bang—
Visca’s head snaps back.

He falls, limp.

Clumpy splatters of red goo on the wall’s blue-green moss, wet chunks sliding down yellow vine leaves.

Visca doesn’t move. He stares up. Eyes blank. Mouth open in surprise. A bloody hole above his right eye.

I hear Bishop shout something about running, but his voice is a distant dream, slow and meaningless.

That hole…

No…no-no-no…

I grab Visca, shake him. His head lolls to the side. The back of his skull is gone, blown apart. Chunks of bone dangle from his bloody, white-haired scalp. Brain smashed like fruit—red paste instead of yellow.

Bang:
something hits the wall, showers me with bits of stone.

Bishop’s hand on my arm, yanking me up.

We’re sprinting for the crater. I clutch the spear, Bishop has his axe—it’s red, the color of Visca’s blood.

Motion on my right, past the clearing’s broken wall. A Springer, pointing a wood-and-metal club at me.

That roaring
bang
again—a cloud of smoke billows out the end. Something whizzes past my head, moving so fast I hear it but don’t see it.

We leap over the crater’s edge. Legs kick empty air. Feet hit the downslope, I fall, the spear flies from my hands. The world spins. Something hard drives into my shoulder. Up, stumbling. My spear,
there,
I grab it and run. Bishop on my left. Up ahead, racing through the shallow pond, Borjigin and Kalle, Coyotl behind them.

My boots, splashing.

A
bang
, a split-second pause, then a small plume of water rises just in front of me.

Rushing up the far slope. Legs pounding, feet slipping on hidden rubble, up and up and up. I don’t want to die like Visca. I
don’t want to die
.

Over the lip and into the jungle, plowing through vines and leaves. Branches and burrs tear at my skin, leaves slap at my face.

Another
bang
, then another, both from behind me. They sound farther away—we’re escaping.

A Springer to my left, close,
so close,
maybe twenty steps away, half-hidden by wide leaves. Rags tied around arms and chest and legs and tail blend it into the jungle. The flat end of its club is on the ground. It’s jamming a thin rod into the other end, over and over again.

Its fumbling hands toss the rod aside, a hurried motion—the end of the club snaps up, follows me as I run,
targets
me.

Bang:
billowing smoke—my shoulder burns like I ran into a flaming branch.

It hurt me. It…it
shot
me.

(Attack, attack, always attack.)

I skid to a stop, boots sliding on muddy leaves.

I face my enemy.

The Springer takes a hop back, surprised.

Visca is dead. These creatures killed him. All we wanted to do was talk—these savages
murdered
my friend.

My face, so hot. My skin, prickling, poking, from my scalp down my arms, across my neck. My fear dies, drowned by that now-familiar rage. It blossoms up from an internal well of pure hate, threatens to engulf me,
control
me.

And this time, I let it.

The Springer plants the wide end of the club on the ground, fumbles with the bag on its hip. Shaking hands dig inside.

The club…it’s not like the Grownups’ bracelets that can be fired over and over. The club has to be reloaded every time.

“Em, come on!” Bishop, calling from the jungle up ahead.

I ignore him.

I lower my spear, and I charge.

The Springer pulls a wad of cloth from the bag, jams it into the club’s metal end.

I tear through the jungle toward it, spearpoint leading the way.

Its trembling hands pull a small, round object out of the bag. Thick fingers fumble the ball, catch it, shove it into the end of the club.

My legs feel
perfect,
each sprinting step sure and firm. My feet find the soft places.

The enemy realizes the thin rod is on the ground. It bends, snatches it up along with a few twigs and dried leaves. Three wide eyes snap to me, lock in on my spear tip.

Ten steps.

A new scent, like wet charcoal, but so acrid it almost burns—the smell of its weapon.

My enemy slides the rod into the club’s end, spastically jams it up and down.

Five steps, so close I see the color of its eyes: dark yellow. Almost like Bishop’s.

Rod pulled out, tossed away.

The Springer lifts the club, holds the wide end tight against a narrow shoulder. Wrinkled purple fingers pull back some kind of metal catch, which clacks into place.

The narrow tip swings up, toward me—

My spearhead drives through the creature’s belly with a squelching sound that’s almost drowned out by my scream of revenge.

(Kill your enemy, and you are forever free.)

The toad-mouth opens. Purple skin, skin that seems young, healthy. Dark-yellow eyes stare out. The look on its face…

…Visca, lying on the ground, the back of his head ripped apart…

…Yong, surprised, confused, terrified, betrayed…

…the pig in the Garden, my knife slicing, blood spraying…

I yank the spear free. Something wet comes with it, squirts against my chest.

The Springer’s club falls to the jungle floor.

A two-fingered hand grabs my shoulder, firm at first, then weaker until it can’t hold on anymore.

The fish-mouth opens, lets out a deep-throated rasping sound no human mouth could ever make.

The three eyes blink. I have never seen a creature like this before, yet I know the look in those eyes, I understand the emotion on that face.

Fear
.

The Springer sags back, rests on its tail for a moment, then slumps to its side.

Toad-mouth opening, closing. Opening, closing.

Thick blue fluid spreads across its stomach, staining the rags. Smells like licorice.

Open. Close.

Dark-yellow eyes blink once more, slowly, dreamily—I see the life in them fade, then vanish forever.

A big body skids to a stop next to me.

“Em, you’re hit!”

My rage blinks out as if it was never there at all. An alien body lies dead on the jungle floor.