Alive (15 page)

Pig…pork…
pork chops
. That’s what my dad used to make, at least as far as I can tell from my spotty memories. Did he leave me in this place, or did someone take me from him?

I would give anything to know what he looked like.

Bello runs off to her piles of fruit. I take another bite of pig before I’ve even swallowed the first. She returns with a double handful of food: one of the round orange fruits, a long green one, and a purple one that’s curved like a shallow C. I can’t wait to eat them all.

“The purple one is best,” Bello says. “It’s very sweet.”

Everyone nods in agreement.

“Those are so good,” Spingate says. “They make me think of ice cream.”

Ice cream? I remember what that is. I gulp down the mouthful of meat, then take a big bite of purple fruit. It is cool and soft, sugary and sweet, so delicious I need to close my eyes and focus all my attention on how it tastes, how it feels in my mouth.

“See?” Spingate says, delighted. “Good, right?”

I nod even as I take a second bite. I tilt my head back and chew, savoring the moment.

The green fruit is next. It’s very spicy and it makes my tongue burn a little, but the flavor is incredible.

O’Malley points to the chunk of pig still in my hand.

“Squirt some of the green stuff on there,” he says.

I do, squishing juice from the green fruit onto the meat before taking another bite. Each of these foods is amazing on its own, but together, they are perfect.

Spingate peels the orange fruit for me. It has a thick, soft hide, with orange pieces inside that I can pop in my mouth one at a time. Cool and bright, they taste like sunshine.

The others seem content to watch me eat, which I do until my stomach is so packed it’s hard to take a full breath.

I am happy—until I hear another boy speak.

“Well, isn’t this nice.”

It’s Aramovsky. He must have crept closer while I was eating. I wonder if he washed his shirt like everyone else did. Not that I’d be able to tell—the boy never seems to get dirty.

“Good to see you awake, Em,” he says. “It’s nice you can smile and laugh when the dirt is still fresh on Latu’s grave.”

Everyone stares at him in disbelief. Everyone except me. I look at the ground, because he’s right. How can I enjoy myself when Latu is dead?

“Aramovsky, you’re a real jackass,” Gaston says. “Em finally gets a moment to relax, and you have to say something horrible like that?”

The tall boy tilts his head, like he heard something he didn’t quite understand.

“I didn’t mean it to sound cutting, Gaston,” he says. “Since Em has been the leader, two people have died. If I was the leader, I imagine those deaths would haunt me so badly I could barely function, but here she is, eating and laughing, carrying on like nothing happened.” He shrugs. “Perhaps a short memory is a good thing for a leader to have.”

I’m not hungry anymore. I let the fruit and meat slide from my hands.

Spingate looks at the dropped food. She sneers, strides to Aramovsky and stabs a finger in his chest.

“You ate your fill of meat, Aramovsky. And fruit, and drank plenty of water. Know why? Because Em found this place.” Her hand sweeps from left to right, gesturing to the expanse of the Garden. “You point out that two of us are dead. You like numbers? I like numbers, too, so how about the number
twenty-three
. That’s the number of us that are still alive, you ungrateful idiot. Em did a good job.”

“No…I didn’t.”

My voice is flat and emotionless. I feel numb inside again. Spingate is wrong. If I had been a better leader, Latu would be here, eating fruit that tastes like ice cream. Yong would be here, too. He’d pretend to be bored, and he’d huff a lot, I’m sure, but at least he’d be
alive
.

Through the fruit trees, not that far away, I see the place where Bishop and El-Saffani buried Latu.

“Latu was brave,” I say. “Much braver than me.”

I see the others trading glances—they think I’m the brave one. They don’t even know what a pretender I am.

Aramovsky smiles. “You haven’t visited her grave yet, have you?”

I shake my head.

“Then come with me,” he says. “Pay your respects, and see the price of failure.”

Through all of this, O’Malley stayed still and quiet, but those stinging words seem to be too much. He steps forward, stands chest to chest with Aramovsky.

“Shut your mouth,” O’Malley says. “You don’t talk to Em like that.”

Aramovsky holds up his hands, palms out. His body says he doesn’t want to fight, but his eyes sparkle.

“So
angry,
” he says. “I wasn’t saying the failure was Em’s. I wonder why you thought that’s what I meant?”

O’Malley’s hands ball into fists. If Aramovsky keeps playing word games, he’s going to get hurt.

“That’s enough,” I say. “Everyone stay here, please. I’m going with Aramovsky to see Latu’s grave.”

O’Malley looks at me in disbelief. “Em, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. You didn’t
fail
. Latu’s death wasn’t your fault.”

He’s wrong about that, just like Spingate was.

“Come on, Aramovsky,” I say. “Let’s go.”

Together, he and I walk to Latu’s grave.

T
he mound of dirt is about as long as I am, about as wide as I am, because Latu was about the same size I am. It could have been me in there. Still could—we’re trapped in this building, or dungeon or whatever it is, forever stuck in this place of death. There might very well be a shallow grave in my future, too.

Her grave is under the shade of a fruit tree, which is nice. I think Latu would have liked to lie in the shade.

Someone wove a circle-star out of thin branches and laid it on the dirt. It’s very pretty.

“Who made that?”

“Bello,” Aramovsky says. “She and Ingolfsson spent hours on it. These trees all have soft branches. They don’t make very effective weapons, apparently, because they bend easily. But that means they’re good for making symbols.”

We stare at the mound for a while. I’d say something, but what good will words do? Spingate said,
The dead don’t care what you say,
but maybe the words you speak at a graveside aren’t for the dead at all. Maybe those words are for the living.

Aramovsky sighs. “Such a loss. At least we were able to bury her. Will we be going back for Yong’s body, so we can give him a proper burial as well?”

The question makes me instantly angry.

“Of course not. We can’t go back now.”

“As you say. You are the leader, after all.”

He makes it sound like leaving Yong’s body behind was my choice, when we had no choice at all. Not only does Aramovsky say one thing and mean another, he asks questions when he already knows the answers.

I stare down at Latu’s grave. Dirt, flesh, bone, and a little marker made of soft branches. This is all that is left of her.

“You told me to come look at the price of failure,” I say. “Then you said it wasn’t
my
failure. Do you mean that Latu failed?”

I see his eyes flick to my spear. I realize how threatening my tone sounds. I didn’t mean to sound like that, but I hope he heard it—if he intends to talk bad about my friend, he should choose his words carefully.

“The failure is all of ours,” he says. “We have failed to give praise and thanks to the gods.” He gestures to the grave. “This is the price of that failure.”

I don’t understand what he’s saying. Gods? Maybe he’s confused.

“Pigs killed Latu,” I say.

He nods slowly. “Yes, it was the pigs. And who do you think sent the pigs?”

I start to answer him, then stop.
Gods,
another word of power, like
Grownups
,
rescue
and
tribe
. It pushes at the mud masking my memory.
Gods
means something more powerful than teachers or even parents.

Aramovsky is being strange, but there is some truth to what he said. I’m sure gods aren’t involved, but Latu’s “killers” aren’t here by accident. Someone put
us
in this dungeon, which means someone put the pigs here as well.

“I see this idea troubles you,” Aramovsky says.

“It doesn’t
trouble
me. I’m just thinking.”

He smiles softly.

“We need to pay tribute to the gods, Em. Now is the time for you to order everyone to come together, so that I can lead them in prayer.”

That look on his face. So smug. He thinks he knows everything.

“Do you actually remember something, Aramovsky? Do you remember where we came from? Why we’re here?”

His smile fades. There is no kindness in his eyes. He wanted me to believe he knew the right thing to do, and when I don’t, he’s angry at me for it.

He acts so superior, but he hasn’t
done
anything. Hasn’t fought. Hasn’t hunted. Hasn’t bled.

“Well?” I say. “Do you remember, or are you making this all up to sound important?”

His lip twitches into an almost-snarl.

“I don’t pretend to remember everything,” he says. “But I know we are weak. In this time of need, we need religion to see us through.”

Religion
…the word bounces around the edges of my knowledge, teasing me with its importance. Religion was a part of school, part of my life with my parents. I know this, I
feel
it, but can’t recall any details of what our religion was or why it mattered.

I do remember an emotion though:
hatred
. I hate religion. I don’t know why, I just know that I do. Right now, that is all I need to know.

“We’re not going to pray,” I say. “We’re going to rest up and then we’re going to get out of here.”

Aramovsky shakes his head at me sadly. The way he does it makes me feel like he’s an adult and I’m still twelve.

“The gods are angry at us,” he says. “You need to listen to me before someone else dies.”

“Is that why you brought me to Latu’s grave? So you could tell me this nonsense?”

His eyes narrow. I bet he’d like to squash me, but he can’t because I have the spear. And, maybe, because he is afraid of me. Afraid because of what I did to Yong.

“Be careful, Em,” he says. “Be very careful calling the gods
nonsense
.”

“Or
what,
Aramovsky?” I take a step closer to him.

He instantly takes a step back. His fear feeds me in a way that is different from how food feeds me, and yet it seems equally as important, equally as necessary. I know feeling this way is a bad thing, but I can’t stop myself.

“If I’m not
careful,
Aramovsky, what are you going to do about it?”

The fear flutters across his face, then he seems to get control of it. The smug smile returns.

“It’s not my actions you have to worry about.” He glances at the mound of dirt. “Let’s hope the gods understand. Let’s hope they are more forgiving of you than they were of Latu.”

My thirst for his fear turns sour in my chest, then changes to dread.

What if he’s right?

What if we really should be praying?

No. He was wrong about monsters, and he’s wrong about this. He’s trying to control me, and he wants to use his
religion
to do that.
Religion
isn’t just a power word—the word is power itself.

Something pinches in my stomach. At first I think it’s caused by this conversation, but it’s not…my belly feels bloated, odd.

“We’re done talking about this,” I say. “And don’t let me catch you using Latu’s death to spread lies about your gods to the others.”

“Or what, Savage?” he asks, mimicking my words. “Do you think the gods are going to strike me down for talking about them?”

Now it is my turn to give the smug smile, my turn to mimic him.

“It’s not the gods you have to worry about, Aramovsky.”

His face goes blank. That lovely fear is on him again.

I leave him standing at Latu’s grave.

O
h, all that fruit I ate…my belly is not happy with me. I feel a strange pressure on my insides. When I realize what it is, I cover my mouth and laugh—I have to pee.

I find Bello nearby, sitting by the reeds and the spring of bubbling water. She’s sitting on something…a low wall? Yes, a stone wall that divides the reeds from the grass. The grass is tall enough that I didn’t see it before.

She’s laughing with two other circles: D’souza, a brown girl with black hair, and Ingolfsson, the muscular blond boy who looks as wide as he is tall.

The three of them smile at me. The ceiling’s light plays off their cleaned shirts. Their ties are even knotted and proper.

My tie is gone. I didn’t realize that till now. I wonder when I lost it.

They look at me like I have something important to say. This is so embarrassing. I lean in close to Bello and whisper.

“I have to
go
.”

Her eyebrows rise, and she laughs.

“Oh, right, of course. Sorry, Em, I should have thought of that.”

She stands and brushes off her skirt.

“I’m going to show Em around,” she says to D’souza and Ingolfsson. “You guys keep washing the fruit, okay?”

They nod, go back to gently wiping fruits until the skins shine. I thought the fruit looked clean enough when it was still on the trees. We’ll have to figure out how to take a bunch with us when we leave.

Bello slides her arm into mine and leads me away through the knee-high grass.

She leans in and whispers as we walk.

“I have to go, too,” she says. “I can’t get enough of those purple fruits. I should have told you, they give you the poops.”

She leads me away from the thicket where most of our people are. The tall reeds are on my right. That stone wall Bello was sitting on, it continues here, divides the reeds from the grass. Now I understand why the reeds have a rectangular shape: they are on one side of the stones, the grass on the other.

I point at the wall. “What is that for?”

Bello shrugs. “Spingate thinks it used to be the edge of a pond or something. The wall held the water in. But no one’s been taking care of it, so the pond filled in with plants or something.”

On our left is the forest that lines the room. On the other side of the reeds is more grass, then the same thick line of trees.

If I was to walk from one side of this room to the other, I suppose that would take about two hundred steps. That’s how wide it is. I can’t say how long it is, because past the grass beyond the pond’s end, the forest comes in from both sides, meeting in the middle. The trees are thick and tall; I can’t see through them. It looks like the arched ceiling goes on for a long way past the tree line, though. This room might be five hundred steps long, it might be a thousand, it might go on forever.

I see Visca, Farrar and Bishop standing in the grass, facing the tree line. They are the “perimeter” O’Malley was talking about. I’m close enough to them that I can see the scratches on Bishop’s back. They are still red and angry, but the bleeding has stopped. Smith seems to know what she’s doing when it comes to wounds.

The three boys stand in the light, as if they are a wall that will stop the forest from belching out some new evil to attack us. Even though the ceiling above is blindingly bright, the forest’s deep shadows could hide an endless number of threats.

“Bello, has anyone seen any pigs?”

“A few,” she says. She points into the woods beyond Bishop, Farrar and Visca. “In there. But they haven’t come out. There must be too many of us.”

Too many, and we’re not so wounded we can’t defend ourselves.

We won’t stay in the Garden for long, I know that, but maybe long enough to organize hunting parties. We could go into the woods, chase the pigs down. I don’t know how many there are. There could be hundreds. But if we butcher every last pig, then I’ll know for sure we got the ones that ate Latu.

Kill them all…wipe them out.

The thought fills me with a strange kind of joy.

“Em? Are you okay?”

Bello sounds concerned. I didn’t realize that I’d stopped walking. I was staring into the woods. Staring, and thinking of a line of dead pigs, gutted and strung out across the grass. That thought made me happy.

“I’m fine,” I say, but I know thoughts like those—and the fact that I reveled in Aramovsky’s fear—mean I am not fine at all.

“Well, come on then,” Bello says.

We start walking again.

I notice a few dark spots up on the ceiling. Irregular circles of varying sizes, some of them mushed together to form interesting, random shapes. Is it some kind of mold, maybe? I squint against the brightness, look closer—it’s not mold. There’s nothing
on
the ceiling: those dark areas have simply stopped shining.

More mysteries for Spingate to figure out, I guess.

Most of the ceiling glows bright as day. If only that light actually came from the sun, all we would have to do is punch through and we would be outside. We would be free. I would run so far, so fast, and I would never look back at this horrible place where Grownups kill each other and murder little children.

I turn my attention to the grass. The knee-high green blades sprout up through a thick mat of dead brown. These plants have grown, then died and fallen, over and over again. Maybe the grass was once nice and neat. Maybe Spingate is right and the pond once had open water instead of reeds. If so, that time is long past.

A stinging bit of pressure flares up below my belly.

“Bello, I really have to go.”

She grimaces. “I know, me too.” She points off to our left, into the trees.

“We’ve been going in there,” she says. “It’s inside the perimeter, but away from where people eat. The circle-stars patrol it pretty regular, make sure there’s no pigs. And also the underbrush is thick enough that the boys can’t see us when we make our business.”

The boys…they’re watching the girls? I know that’s supposed to make me angry or concerned, but I wonder if O’Malley wants to look at me. I wonder if he watched me while I slept.

No, he wouldn’t watch
me
. Maybe he would watch Spingate or D’souza—I think they are the prettiest of us all—but not me. I’m too short. I don’t know what I look like, but there is no way I am as beautiful as they are.

Bello leads me toward the trees. The grass ends abruptly where the tree shadows begin, giving way to vines and some other small plants that grow closer to the ground.

A few steps past the grass line and in the shade beneath the leaves, I see a fallen log. It is brown, rigid, no leaves left on its dry branches. It’s a skeleton, a wooden version of the stripped bones we saw back in the hall. How long has it been here? I see more logs. Some are crumbling, a darker brown that is disintegrating into little pieces. There are scraggly bushes and smaller plants growing from and near the rotting logs. Vines climb over everything, even up the trunks of living trees.

This whole place looks…
wild
. It doesn’t make any sense. We’re still underground, I’m sure of it. How can such a wild place be in the middle of a dungeon?

As my feet leave the grass and step onto the vines and creepers, I get the feeling that someone is watching. I turn quickly; out in the grass, Bishop is staring at me. I expect his face to flush red because I caught him looking, but instead he smiles. I feel tingly. He should be embarrassed, but I’m the one that gets a hot face and has to turn away.

A pain in my lower parts reminds me I still have to pee, have to pee
bad
. I need to find a place where no one can watch.

I follow Bello into the woods. It isn’t dark in here, because a bit of light filters through the leaves, yet the shadows are plentiful and deep.

We weave around tree trunks, edge past bushes, trying to make sure no one can see us. Branches catch on my shirt; I move gently, and they slide free. The dead leaves are thick, a soft mat that can’t completely protect me from the broken sticks poking my feet. This underbrush is dense. I’m glad the circle-stars come through here, as Bello said, because this looks like a good spot for pigs to hide. If we stay in the Garden much longer, I’ll make sure we find a better place to do our business.

Bello moves a little to the right; I go a little to the left.

The woods end at a wall. It’s green and lush, the same thick branches that make up the thicket Bishop and I crawled through to get here. At the top of the wall, far higher than I can reach, the arched ceiling begins the sprawling curve that will take it up, away and across.

I slowly reach my hand through the thicket. My shoulder is starting to press against the stems when my fingertips hit cool, damp stone.

Stone, just like all the archway doors, just like the dome room and our coffin room. Maybe the walls aren’t made
of
stone, maybe the halls and rooms were carved
from
it. And the way we’re going up and up and up…maybe this whole strange place is inside a mountain.

Something hits me: that walk alongside the pond…that didn’t feel like we were walking uphill. The incline has always been so slight it is barely noticeable, but when Bello and I were walking through the grass, that felt flat.

All this time, I believed that a step
up
was closer to a step
out,
but if we really are in a mountain, maybe the way out is actually
sideways
?

It hurts my head to think about it. I’ll talk to Spingate after I pee. I swear, it feels like I’ve never gone in my whole life.

I’m surrounded by trees and bushes, bathed in shadow. I look around, but don’t see Bello. For the first time since Spingate came out of her coffin, I am alone.

I rest my spear against a tree, slide up my plaid skirt and pull down my underwear. I realize that Bello probably washed those, too. I can’t believe the girls saw me naked! What would my mother say if she—

Movement on my right.

I rush to cover up, thinking one of the boys followed us in here; I relax when I realize it’s only Bello. She’s a little ways away, doing the same thing I’m doing. Through the branches and underbrush, I see her smile a big smile that crinkles her eyes and makes her too-white cheeks rise up high, then she looks away. I can tell that she’s embarrassed, just like I am.

Here in the Garden, Bello is a completely different girl than she was in the endless hallway. Maybe some people are meant to walk up front and face danger, while others are made to walk in back, where it is safe.

Still, I don’t want her to be able to see me doing my business. I scoot a little to my left, putting a tree trunk between us.

Finally, a moment to myself. In that quiet instant, I can hear laughter from our group echoing out across the grass and into the woods. They are happy, they are safe.

I love that sound.

Movement on the right again draws my eye, but this time I don’t look. I’m sure Bello wants her private time as much as I want mine. I hear a branch move, leaves rattle.

Then I hear something else: a muffled scream.

I look around the tree trunk. Through the leaves, I see Bello, see her wide, panicked blue eyes…

…and see something black clamped over her mouth.

She’s yanked backward—Bello vanishes into the underbrush.