Alive

by Scott Sigler

  They are mistaken.

  We march. Tracks in the dust lead us to the archway Gaston and Spingate discovered. It remains closed, stone halves pressed tightly together.

  I raise the spear. Everyone stops. I turn to face my people.

  “Okereke, Johnson, Gaston, prepare the torches.”

  Gaston and my fellow circles run forward. Johnson has a dozen long bones cradled in her arms. Okereke carries a bundle of black rags, the discarded pants legs from the circle-star boys. We won’t have grease like we had when we first entered the dark section. These new torches won’t last long—we’ll have to move fast and hope we make it to the thicket tunnel before they burn out.

  We prepare ten torches, tying the fabric tight to the bone. Three for Bishop, three for Farrar, two for O’Malley—who will be up front with me—and two for Smith and Beckett, who will bring up the rear.

  I talk to a hallway full of faces.

  “We don’t have long before our light runs out. Stay close to the person in front of you. Ignore any side rooms. The circle-stars will run ahead and make sure those are empty.”

  I hope they are. If we have to fight before we reach the Garden, we’ll be in the dark for sure.

  The dark. If that happens, I know I won’t be able to handle it. I will fall apart. For a moment I am in my coffin again, the terror rolling over me along with that feeling of being trapped…then I force it away. We’ll make it in time. I won’t be in the dark, I won’t—I’ll get these people where we need to go.

  I turn to Spingate. “Open it up.”

  She goes to work with the scepter.

  I stand in front of the door. Bishop and El-Saffani press in on my right, Farrar, Visca and Bawden on my left.

  “Got it,” Spingate says. The door grinds open.

  Inside, darkness.

  We will make it in time, we will…

  “Light the torches,” I say.

  The scepter’s flame flares. Each group of circle-stars lights a torch, then rushes forward. I see them darting into dark rooms, darting back out, advancing down the hall. They will make sure Matilda’s creatures aren’t lurking inside, ready to reach out and grab us as we pass by.

  O’Malley is on my right, his knife in one hand, two unlit bone torches in the other.

  I wait until the circle-stars are so far down the hall I can barely see them.

  “This is it,” I call out. “Move fast, stay together. Spingate, do it.”

  The end of her scepter sparks brightly. O’Malley touches his torch to the flame. Black fabric whuffs to life.

  We run.

  So many of us. Our footsteps thunder off the stone walls.

  Behind me, I can hear kids crying. They’re terrified, and I can’t blame them. We’re marching them through torchlit darkness, making them run fast so that monsters they have never seen can’t get them. These kids have been awake for only a few hours. They barely know us, yet are forced to take what we say on faith alone. So far, at least, none of them have had the courage to stand up to us. I’m sure that will come. I hope it comes, because if it does it will mean we’ve reached a safe place where we have the luxury of letting them argue. Are we bullying these kids into doing what we say? Yes, we probably are, but it is for their own good.

  O’Malley’s first torch sputters. He lights the second. I know that in the rear of our group, Smith is doing the same. Up front, Bishop and Farrar are already on their second torch, probably close to starting their last.

  We are almost out of light.

  I wish Latu was here. She would have gladly fought at our side. She would have protected the kids. She would have done whatever needed to be done.

  Latu, Yong, Bello…

  When this is over, who else will be gone?

  Torchlight plays off the walls and the dead ceiling. We know where we are going, and it doesn’t take long to get there.

  Finally, we see that the circle-stars have stopped up ahead. We’ve reached the room with the thicket tunnel.

  Bishop faces me, as if checking to see if I’ve changed my mind. I haven’t. We will stick to the plan. Torchlight flickers against the red-gray that coats him, glistens off the wetness of his white eyes.

  There is anger and determination about him, but also an air of sadness. He is leading us into battle not because he wants to fight, but because he knows this must be done and that he is the best one to do it. He has taken life: even though that life belonged to a monster, the act haunts him.

  The circle-stars gather around me. All of them this time, seven warriors with red-gray faces ready to lead us in.

  “We’re almost out of torches,” I say. “Get into the Garden and make sure it’s safe for the rest of us to follow. If you see monsters, capture them if you can, but if you have to kill them to stay alive—kill them.”

  Seven heads nod. They really all do look the same. If my people are a spear, the circle-stars are the blade.

  Bishop shoves his bone-club through the hole, then crams his way in. The twins follow him, then Farrar, Coyotl, Visca and finally Bawden.

  The strongest of us have gone forward, but that doesn’t mean the rest of us are weak.

  O’Malley’s torch starts to flutter.

  I’ll be in the dark again….I’ll be trapped….

  A hand on my shoulder, squeezing tight. O’Malley leans in close and whispers.

  “Hang on, Em. We’re almost there. Don’t be afraid.”

  I breathe in deep, hold it, let it out slow. We’re not in the dark yet. I take my mind off it by talking, going over the last few elements of my plan.

  “Smith, Beckett,” I call out. “Get up here.”

  The two slide through the lines of kids. They both hold bone-clubs. Smith’s thin face is set and stern. She’s ready. Beckett looks like he might throw up.

  “Keep the kids quiet and be ready to come when we call,” I say. “If the monsters attack, it’s up to you to hold them off long enough for the kids to get through the thicket tunnel.”

  Smith nods. Beckett is sweating.

  I know it’s risky leaving only two people to protect the kids. Matilda could attack at any time, but we need everyone else up front looking for the hole she used to enter the Garden.

  I hear Bawden’s voice from the other side of the door.

  “Em, the way is clear.”

  Thank goodness, I’ll be in the light….

  I take a final moment to address my friends.

  “Remember to stay in your teams of four. Be as silent as you can, because the monsters might not know we’re here. If you find the entrance, shout it out. If any of you hear that shout, it means we’re done being quiet—get to that spot right away. If you see a monster with a bracelet, you must attack that one first. Do not hesitate. Does everyone understand?”

  They all nod. They know this is their one chance to survive. They are as ready as they can be.

  I push my spear through the hole, then follow it. I crawl into the pigs’ thicket tunnel. My friends are right behind me.

  The curved roof’s light beams down. The fist in my chest eases, then fades. At least I’m out of the darkness.

  I crawl out and stand under a fruit tree. It takes me a moment to spot the circle-stars, even though they are quite close. Their red-gray bodies blend in with the trees and shadows, making them nearly invisible.

  I move left. My group moves with me: Spingate, Aramovsky and Gaston. I kept Spingate with me because I feel a need to protect her, make sure nothing happens to her. Gaston won’t leave her side, so I put him in my group rather than risking an argument in front of the others. As for Aramovsky, I can’t trust him—I’m not letting him out of my sight.

  Bishop slides out from behind a tree. Without a word, he points to groups, then points where he wants those groups to go. He points at me, then to his chest, then to his right. As we planned, both of our groups will explore the area where Bello was taken. That is the most likely spot for Matilda’s hidden entrance.

  Bisho
p’s group includes El-Saffani—of course—and also D’souza, the circle girl. She holds her bone like she’s afraid it will come to life and attack her. The four of them move quickly through the knee-high grass. My group follows.

  The light above and grass below gives way to tree shade and creeping vines, then we slide into the thicker underbrush. Our feet crunch through brittle leaves, rotting fruit and dried twigs, making it hard to move quietly. Up ahead, I can barely see D’souza, and can’t see Bishop or the twins at all.

  We reach the Garden’s thicket-covered wall. This is where it happened, where the monsters took Bello away.

  The eight of us spread out, reaching hands through the thicket. The winding stems are so deep I have to turn my head to the side, press my cheek into them for my fingertips to reach the wall. Somewhere nearby, perhaps, one of us will feel empty space instead of stone.

  “Em.”

  A soft whisper, but it scares me so bad I yank my arm out, tearing the skin on thick vine-stalks. It’s Bishop. He moved up behind me and I never heard him coming.

  My arm is scratched deep. A few drops of blood drip to the ground.

  He points at my spear. “Use that instead,” he says, then walks a few feet away and starts poking his bone-club through the thicket.

  I look at my spear as if I didn’t even know I had it. I push the spearpoint through the stems until it taps the stone wall. I try it again; it sticks in a vine somewhere I can’t see.

  This is much better than reaching my arm in there.

  I look over at Bishop and smile. He smiles back, his white eyes and white teeth bright against the red-gray of his caked-on dust.

  A girl’s scream, from the right.

  Bishop turns and sprints toward it, plowing through the underbrush. El-Saffani is right behind him. White-shirted D’souza has a moment of indecision, unsure whether to go or stay, then she chases after her group.

  This is it…we’re going to fight. The thought of one of those things grabbing me, wrinkled black spider-hands holding me down…it’s almost enough to freeze me in place. Almost. This time, I won’t let the fear stop me.

  I lock eyes with Spingate, Gaston and Aramovsky. Spingate has the scepter. Gaston and Aramovsky hold thigh-bones. The weapons look clumsy and awkward in their hands.

  “Stay together,” I say. “When we see a monster, hit it as hard as you can.”

  They nod, wide-eyed. In times of safety, Aramovsky might argue with me, but not now.

  Another scream. A boy this time, from far to our left.

  And another behind us, from somewhere out in the grass.

  We’re under attack.

  Spingate turns in place, her hands clutching the jeweled scepter. She doesn’t know which way to go. Neither do I.

  I hear Bishop roar, hear the El-Saffani twins let out a simultaneous boy/girl scream of rage. From all over the Garden, the ash-faced warriors shout in challenge and anger, their noises joining howls of pain and fear.

  Doubt explodes inside me: I have chosen wrong. My plan was bad, I shouldn’t have split us into groups—we need to be together, to fight together. Fear sinks talons into me, paralyzes me yet again….

  No.

  Matilda must not win, must not take even one more person.

  I am the leader. My people need me.

  I raise my spear high: my voice booms out louder than I could have imagined possible.

  “Everyone, fight your way to me!”

  Spingate, Gaston and Aramovsky stare at me, shocked. From across the Garden, from all over the woods, the war cries of my people echo back. They heard me and are urging each other on.

  The thicket behind me rustles. Before I can turn, an arm snakes around my stomach and a cold, bony black hand clamps down over my mouth. In that moment, I smell what is right below my nose—gnarled flesh that stinks of rot and decay and something artificial.

  I’m yanked backward into the thicket. Woody stems scrape at my skin and pull my hair. I kick my legs hard, clutch at anything my fingers touch. Hands grab my feet, but these hands are warm, trying to pull me back into the light.

  There is a moment where I am motionless, a living rope in a game of tug-of-war, then the warm hands slip off my feet. Vines and leaves fall away: I am through the other side. I am being dragged along a hard surface. Dark here, barely enough light to see.

  My spear is gone.

  (Attack, attack, when in doubt, attack.)

  I grab the hand that covers my face and shove a rancid finger into my mouth. I bite down as hard as I can.

  Something brittle cracks between my teeth; the taste of death squirts across my tongue.

  I hear a scream that isn’t human. The hand on my face lets go, but the one around my middle holds firm and now there are two more arms clutching at me, one wrapped tight to my chest and the other over my left shoulder.

  My fingers claw, my feet kick. “Let me go! I’ll kill you!”

  I hear something burst through the thicket. I see the flash of my spear. The cold hands drop away. I scramble to my feet, ready to fight.

  I find myself standing face-to-face with Aramovsky.

  He holds the spear. The blade drips red-gray. At first I think he will also stab me, but he is wide-eyed and terrified. His chest heaves. The weapon trembles in his hands.

  I turn and look at my attackers.

  There are two of them, creatures barely visible in this dark place beyond the thicket. Swirling red eyes stare out. The bigger of the two is bent over, clutching its leg. Red-gray squirts through skeletal black fingers, drips down to a metal floor. There is something familiar about that monster, but I can’t place what.

  The other one presses its gnarled left hand hard against its wrinkled right shoulder. Red-gray oozes down its chest and arm.

  This monster is only a tiny bit shorter than me.

  Just one look, and I know who it is.

  I am staring at Matilda Savage.

  THIRTY-NINE

  It’s so dim in here I wonder if their red eyes can see what I can’t. Why would creatures of the shadows need light? The one holding its leg, it seems to stare at us. Black hands slide free of the still-bleeding wound, and it stands.

  So tall.

  No, it isn’t staring at us—it stares at Aramovsky.

  The swirling red eyes change somehow, they soften.

  The creature reaches a gnarled, blood-coated hand toward him, not in aggression this time, not to grab, but with fingers outstretched.

  It reaches out like it wants to touch.

  “Finally,” it says in a dry voice that sounds much like cracking thicket branches. “I have waited for so long.”

  Aramovsky lowers the spear tip.

  His jaw hangs slack. He blinks slowly. His shirt is no longer neat and clean—it is torn, the white stained by spreading lines of red. He must have forced himself through the thicket, ignoring the pain.

  He fought his way in to save me.

  And now he has eyes only for the monster, the first living thing we’ve seen in this place that is taller than he is.

  “You,” Aramovsky says. “I am…am I you?”

  In that whispering question is the same tone of shocked recognition I heard in my own voice when I spoke with Matilda. Aramovsky is asking, but he already knows the answer.

  The mouthless nightmare nods. “Come with me. The gods say it must be so.”

  Aramovsky drops the spear. It clatters against the hard floor.

  “My creator,” he says, and steps forward.

  Is he crazy? Are they doing something to him to make him act like this? I grab Aramovsky’s wrist and try to pull him back.

  The tall monster waves his fingers inward—a kind, inviting gesture.

  “Come,” it says. “It is right for you to join me.”

  Aramovsky acts like he doesn’t even know I’m pulling on his arm. He steps toward the creature, dragging me along.

  Off to my right, I see a flash of movement…Matilda, reaching for my fallen spear
.

  I let go of Aramovsky and launch myself at her, punching and kicking. My fist hits something soft, something that squishes from the blow. I hear my creator’s cry of pain and she falls away. I snatch up my spear: its familiar solidity instantly comforts me.

  I point the tip at Matilda, hold it so close to her chest that we both know the message—if she moves, I strike. Her hands press to her right eye. Darkness and gnarled fingers don’t completely hide the damage. Her eye used to bulge out; now it sags like broken fruit. A thick, yellowish-gray fluid seeps down her face, glistens in the dim light, gathering on the disgusting vertical folds that cover her mouth.

  I look back to Aramovsky. He stands in front of the tall monster. They embrace: bloody, white-shirted arms wrap around wrinkled coal-black skin, wrinkled coal-black arms wrap around the bloody white shirt.

  Aramovsky rests his cheek on the monster’s black chest.

  The thicket behind me suddenly rattles and shakes like it was hit by a storm. Something big and strong and heavy tears through it. A flash of gray and red, of muscle and scattering leaves. A thighbone cuts through the air, a blur of white that passes right over Aramovsky’s head and smashes into the monster’s face.

  The thighbone cracks in two, one piece spinning into the darkness, the other still held in Bishop’s hands.

  The tall monster’s legs go slack. It sags back, sliding out of Aramovsky’s arms. It turns as it falls, landing facedown.

  Bishop steps forward. He holds the broken bone in one hand. The jagged tip points down like the blade of a misshapen knife.

  Aramovsky looks dazed. He sees his creator flat on the floor, trying to crawl away.

  Bishop raises his bone-dagger high.

  Aramovsky’s hands shoot out to block the blow, but he is too late.

  The broken thighbone punches deep into the black monster’s back.

  Everything stops.

  Bishop’s panting breath is the only sound.

  He is bleeding from the shoulder, from the forehead. His red blood runs thick trails through the dark dust that covers his skin.

  He stands there, staring down, chest heaving, then grabs the bone and yanks it free.

  The tall monster trembles. With painful effort, it slowly rolls to its back. It ignores Bishop, stretches a shaking hand toward Aramovsky.