Alive

by Scott Sigler

  “You told them we couldn’t, right?”

  “Em, everyone is so tired,” he says. “They’re happy they can finally rest. If some of them think we’re going to be here awhile, with plenty of food and water, that keeps them happy. Sometimes it’s better to let people think what they want to think.”

  That doesn’t make any sense.

  “It’s always better to tell the truth,” I say.

  O’Malley glances at Spingate and Gaston, like he wants to say something to me but won’t while they are around.

  “Sure, Em,” he says, his tone flat. “I’m sure you’re right.”

  What does he mean by that? O’Malley is hard to read. In that way, he’s the opposite of Bishop. I can tell what Bishop is thinking simply by looking at him. But O’Malley? His thoughts are his own.

  He offers me the spear. “Here you go,” he says.

  I take it. I wonder if it even means anything anymore. The circle-stars accept me as leader with or without it, and maybe we’re past the point of needing symbols.

  We can’t stay, but we don’t have to leave this very minute, either. I look out at everyone. I see smiles, I hear laughter. Spingate and Gaston were playing, for goodness sake.

  It’s nice here. We could all use some nice.

  No one is acting like nothing has happened and that this is normal. Everyone has changed. When we first woke up, I could think of Spingate and O’Malley as little kids in adult bodies. Not anymore. The ordeal has affected them. It shows on their faces. No one has forgotten what we’ve been through, but here in the Garden, things seem…better.

  It feels like the hardest times are behind us.

  Bello returns with a handful of steaming meat, so hot she’s tossing it from her left hand to her right, giggling at the pain. I look in the direction she came from, and see thin smoke rising up. Okereke and Ingolfsson are poking at the blackened, sizzling remains of the pig. The air above it shimmers with rising heat.

  Bello offers me the wet, greasy chunk of meat. It smells amazing. I lean the spear against the tree and take it from her. Now I’m the one flopping it from hand to hand, laughing as the scalding-hot meat seems to sizzle my skin.

  “Go on,” Bello says. “Try it.”

  I open my mouth to take a bite, then pause. This pig was rooting through coffins. That means it probably fed on bones, human bones. I don’t know much about how these things work, but does that mean the pig meat I’m about to eat is made up, at least in part, from people?

  Maybe. And maybe I don’t really care.

  I take a big bite. Hot juice squirts across my tongue. I wince and laugh, my mouth full. The meat is rich and delicious. It’s not just the taste, which is amazing, it’s that Bishop and I hunted this animal and killed it. We killed it to provide food for everyone. For reasons I can’t explain, that knowledge fills me with a peace I have not yet felt.

  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.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The 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.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Oh, 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.