Second Heart: Bones of Eden

by Zaide Bishop

  Suddenly, the ground gave way under him, and Dog scrambled to keep his footing. He fell heavily on his side and began clawing his way free of the cave mouth yawning suddenly under his feet. He lay on his side, panting, then crawled closer on his belly to investigate. Brush and weeds had grown over the opening, hiding it from view. The rocks and dirt seemed quite stable, though, and he cut away the plants with his bone knife, peering down into the opening. It looked large, but the muddy layer of silt under the opening was undisturbed by animal tracks.

  He was about to pull himself to his feet when he noticed the arrow on the cave wall. It was hand-drawn onto the rock with white paint, much faded now and partially overgrown with lichen. However, it was definitely an arrow, pointing deeper into the darkness.

  Carefully, Dog prodded around the cave opening with his spear, testing that it was as stable as it looked before he lowered himself inside. He paused with his flint pouch and one of the candles, using a flat, dry stone to light the tinder and finally the wick. The flickering light illuminated a wide passage, but the ceiling was very low, and Dog had to stoop to look around. Three tunnels branched off deeper into the mountain, but at the mouth of the smallest was another white arrow.

  Testing every step carefully, Dog eased his way down the cramped passage until it became taller. However, it also grew narrower, and he had to squeeze between the walls, belly and back scraping stone. It was so long, Dog was just about ready to give up.

  A little edge of white was just motivation enough for him to make his way the last twenty feet to the wall, and he was glad he did. Another arrow, much clearer than the last two, had been painted onto the stone. It pointed left, down another narrow passage that had been hidden by a rock shelf.

  The opening was several feet over Dog’s head, though, and he had to brace his feet on the wall and inch his way up, step by step, until he could pull himself into the new tunnel.

  At least this passage was wide enough that he could walk without sucking in his belly.

  The cave had been undisturbed for years, and in long-dry mud, Dog could make out hundreds of boot prints. Patterned soles, like the ones the teachers had worn in Eden.

  The tunnel opened up into a cavern. On the northern wall, a waterfall cascaded down into a pool from an opening high overhead. From it a narrow creek ran through the center of the cave before vanishing into a deep, black hole in the floor.

  Normally, the waterfall and creek might have fascinated Dog, but his eyes were on the far wall, formed not of rock, but red clay. In some far-distant time, human hands had carved it into a long, wide shelf.

  Painted on the stone in white were the words “The Spelunkers Secret Bar.”

  Glass bottles and cans were lined up on the shelf, along with little figures made of clay. Fat, smiling men sitting cross-legged, odd little bird nests, clay cars, clay breasts, several clay penises, clay cats, clay dogs, clay chickens, clay laptops. Among them were plastic figurines, little toys and electronic devices, abandoned here at this underground shrine.

  There was also a dead body.

  It still had a harness slung around its hips with a carabiner and climbing tools. Its boots were still caked with mud. Its face was covered by an elaborate gas mask. The corpse was many years old, so dry and desiccated the smell of rot had left it.

  Curious, Dog edged closer. There was a stack of books beside it and a sad little cluster of pens, jammed into the clay and standing upright like tiny trees.

  Many of the books had illustrated covers: pictures of Varekai and Elikai kissing, of explosions, of horses running across vast fields. The titles seemed nonsensical and the authors’ names alien and strange.

  One of them was a notebook, though, with a blank green cover. Dog picked it up, flicking through the fragile, yellowed pages to find handwritten diary entries.

  The first one read:

  The world has ended. I’ve fled to the Serenity Islands, to the caves Natasha and I used to explore before they built the fake islands and sold it all off. The Spelunkers Bar is still here. The oldest bottle, the one from the 1950s, is missing. Other visitors have been adding to the collection.

  I don’t know how long I’m going to survive here. The disease is airborne now, and it’s only a matter of time before some bird or rat spreads it this far.

  I’m sure if I wait, Natasha will make it. Maybe we can hide out until there is an antidote.

  The dates on the following pages suggested the ill-fated spelunker had survived several weeks and alternated between despair, long rants about hunger and a hopeless sort of joviality.

  The final entry read:

  I’m going to build a life-sized tiger from clay. It’s going to be the biggest and best addition to the bar.

  Natasha should be here any day. I hope my next entry will be about her response. I bet I can make it look real enough that she screams.

  Dog looked around. There was no sign of a clay tiger. No sign that “Natasha” had ever made it.

  Trying to disturb the body as little as possible, Dog went through its belongings. A climbing axe was still in excellent condition, and Dog tucked it into his basket. He also found a device partially coated in mud. When he cleaned the side, he found the words “Solar-powered torch.” He put that in his basket too.

  Under the corpse’s hand, mostly hidden in the moldering remains of its jacket, was a gun. Its skeletal fingers were wrapped around it, looped across the trigger as if it had been about to shoot before it died. Tucked beside its hip was a wooden box of bullets. Dog examined these things carefully, but put them back where he found them.

  It was unwise to waste energy when there was so little food to go around, however he sat beside the body, eating his dried pineapple and ham, lighting another candle as the first threatened to go out.

  Then, using water from the creek and slabs of mud he cut from behind the bar, he fashioned a clay tiger. It was not life-sized, nor was it so realistic it would make someone scream. But it was, clearly, a tiger.

  He placed it beside the body, gathered his things and left.

  * * *

  It had taken some convincing to make his brothers stay in the caves, and in the end Xícara had been forced to explain to Sugar that there would be no food unless he was alone. Sugar had banned the others from following Xícara then, but Zebra had sulked so much, Xícara had taken the long way around to be sure his friend was not trailing him.

  He sat on a rock, waiting for Tango, feeling oddly nervous. He had been so surprised when she had shown up and offered him food, he hadn’t known what to say. Now he was cursing himself for his own twisted tongue, wishing she had not hurried away so fast and had given him an opportunity to tell her how he felt.

  She must have been hurt, seeking him out, risking herself to save him and his brothers only to have him mumble something about owing her a favor. He needed to tell her he had protected her from the megalania because he couldn’t stand the thought of anything happening to her. That he often thought about her, even when she wasn’t around. He hoped today they would sit together and maybe she would let him put his arm around her shoulders or touch her hair with its braid of bones and polished shells.

  He saw her picking her way down the hillside, and his heart beat faster. His stomach grumbled too. Tango’s generosity, while a big risk for her, was not spreading all that far with so many Elikai mouths to feed.

  “I’m here.” He kept his voice soft, not wanting to startle her this time.

  She made her way toward him on long, strong legs, glancing back over her shoulder often as if she feared she was being followed. She swung the backpack off her shoulder and began offering him salted fish and desiccated eel.

  “Here.” She piled it into his hands, and he quickly stuffed it into the bag he had brought.

  “Tango.”

  “I was going to try
and get you some honey, but India is hoarding it with her salves.”

  “Tango.”

  “We still have baskets and baskets of fish and just about a hundred eggs in clay. I can’t stand them. All green inside...and the smell—”

  He caught her wrists lightly, and she stopped. He wasn’t sure why she was rambling or why she was so nervous. Guilt, he guessed, for stealing from her sisters. He wanted her to listen.

  “I tried to tell you something the other day.” He took a deep breath, trying to get his thoughts in order. “I did a poor job of it. Please let me try again.”

  She opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it again and nodded slightly.

  He smiled. “I know why you were waiting for me and not one of my brothers. I wanted to assure you your feelings aren’t—”

  “Feelings?” Her voice was a little too sharp, a little too high-pitched.

  He blinked. “Yes. You like me, don’t you? You came here because you want us to be together—”

  She snatched her hand away from his, turning such a deep shade of crimson he was suddenly worried she was going to roll her eyes back and faint right there.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” she snapped.

  He was helplessly confused. “I don’t?”

  “No! I didn’t... I mean, I don’t... There’s no feelings! Just take it.”

  She thrust the backpack into his hands and bolted out of the trees, scrambling up the hillside in a rather undignified sprint.

  “Wait!” he called, helplessly. “You need to take your...bag.”

  She was already gone. He looked down at the backpack, Charlie’s backpack, certain it would be missed. He’d have to find some way to return it or Tango was going to get caught. He would wait here in two days to give it back to her, but, with a sinking heart, he realized she might not be coming.

  He looked down at the two bags of food, uncertain and miserable. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong, but he’d messed up.

  His stomach growled in agreement.

  Chapter Eight

  Eden—Before the World was Born

  Whiskey and Romeo listened to the two teachers arguing. Whiskey didn’t understand all of what they were saying, but she did know they were talking about November. Teacher Elaine was angry about it, and Teacher Steve was making excuses. Whiskey bared her teeth. If Teacher Elaine was so angry with Teacher Steve, why would the teachers not give Teacher Steve up for an appropriate punishment? And how could anyone justify what had happened to November? If something bad happened, doing something worse did not make it better.

  But if Whiskey was angry, it was nothing on Romeo. Her eyes were burning with a silent rage that frightened Whiskey. Romeo had insisted they sneak in with the key card and find Teacher Steve, but she had been vague about what they would do once they found her. She had said they would “demand justice,” but now they were here, listening to the teachers talk, Whiskey wondered what that justice could possibly be. She had imagined they would find Teacher Steve and force her to go with them back to Eden. Then, they could give her to the rest of the tribe. The Varekai would decide on her fate together and, somehow, everything would go back to how it was before.

  Now she could see she had been naive. The teachers were powerful, and the Varekai had brought nothing with them to encourage cooperation. A spade or a pick might have been enough to intimidate Teacher Steve, but she was twice their size and perhaps three times their weight. Unarmed, they stood no chance.

  Whiskey touched Romeo’s shoulder and indicated they should go back the way they had come. It would be easiest just to go home and accept this had been a foolish mistake.

  Romeo shook her head vehemently, then, in an act of impossible boldness, she slipped in the open door, scurrying soundlessly across the room behind the two teachers and vanishing behind a sofa.

  Whiskey hesitated only a moment, and then she held her breath and followed.

  She expected an outcry. Surely the two teachers would hear them or smell them and drag them out of hiding, but they didn’t. Whiskey rested on her hands and knees, heart pounding, trying to slow her breathing and stay as quiet as she could.

  Romeo was crouched on her haunches, looking grim, head cocked to one side.

  “You’re a weak and pathetic man,” Teacher Elaine said.

  “I think you’re just jealous none of those little cunts wanted to fuck you,” Teacher Steve retorted.

  Teacher Elaine made a sound of disgust and stalked out, slamming the door. Beside Whiskey, Romeo bared her teeth in a savage grin. She rose silently to her feet, padding around the couch to block Steve’s exit.

  Hesitantly, Whiskey rose too.

  Steve noticed them suddenly. “What are you two doing in here? Who let you out of Eden?”

  “No one,” Romeo said quietly. “We were looking for you, Teacher Steve.”

  “You’re not allowed to be in here,” she said. “Come on, we’re going back to Eden before that bitch comes back. Like I need another lecture.”

  The Varekai exchanged looks. Teacher Steve was right, Teacher Elaine could come back at any moment. It didn’t matter what Romeo thought they were here to do; Whiskey didn’t want to be caught doing it.

  Romeo nodded. “Okay. Let’s do that.”

  Steve grunted, giving Romeo a shove to get her out of the way and pushing open the door. She marched into the corridor without looking back to see if they were following. Romeo silently dogged her footsteps, motioning for Whiskey to stay close.

  The taste of bile was bitter in the back of Whiskey’s throat. She closed her eyes and rubbed her sweaty palms across her shirt, wishing with all her heart that Romeo would simply follow Teacher Steve back to Eden.

  But that would have been too easy. Romeo lunged without any warning, slamming into Teacher Steve’s side and sending her crashing into one of the testing room doors. It popped open, and the teacher landed heavily on her side, giving a surprised grunt of pain.

  Before she could find her feet, Romeo kicked her, rolling her further into the room and grabbing Whiskey by the arm, dragging her in too.

  “This’ll do,” Romeo muttered, closing the door.

  “What the fuck!” Teacher Steve snarled. “You are in so much goddamn—”

  Romeo kicked her again, in the face this time, and she yelped, sprawling on her back.

  “Romeo, stop!” Whiskey protested, eyes wide with horror. “We can’t do this. When they find out, they’ll punish everyone. No food, no light... It’ll be the worst punishment we’ve had.”

  “Worse than losing November?” Romeo demanded. Her features were twisted by her raw hatred. “Worse than watching her fade away? I don’t care what they do to us. They have to play by the same rules as we do. The victims get to choose the punishment, and November chose death.”

  “Not Teacher Steve’s death,” Whiskey whispered. “She chose her own. We can’t—”

  “We can. I will.”

  Teacher Steve sat up, lurching drunkenly, one side of her face already grossly swollen, her lips stained with blood. Romeo rounded on her as if to kick her again, but the teacher was too quick. She punched Romeo with a massive, meaty fist that sent her reeling against the table in the center of the room. She collapsed, sprawled and broken, as Steve slowly rose to her feet.

  “Oh, you little bitch. You’re going to pay. You’re going to pay just like your mutant baby-in-a-can sister. You want to get fucked too? I can do that. I can do both of you.”

  Romeo struggled to rise, but Steve kicked her legs out from under her. She rolled and held out her hand to Whiskey.

  “Help...” she breathed.

  Whiskey stared at her for one long, terrified moment, then bolted.

  * * *

  “Does it work?” Romeo
asked.

  Dog held it up. “Give it a minute to charge.”

  The Varekai hunting party had happened upon the Elikai accidentally, half a dozen of them: Xícara, Romeo, Dog, Maria, Nab and William. They didn’t have any food that Tango could see; instead they were distracted by a long black device, something from the world before that Tango took a moment to recognize.

  “It’s a torch,” Whiskey whispered. The five Varekai were hunkered down, watching the boys from behind a low wall of rocks: Tango, Whiskey, Charlie, Mike and Sierra.

  “It’s a solar-powered torch,” Charlie whispered, eyes gleaming like it was a suckling pig, not a hunk of old metal that didn’t even seem to be working.

  “Ha!” Dog exclaimed across the clearing. “See? It works. It just needs more sun.”

  “How long do you think?” Nab asked.

  Dog turned the torch over, squinting at the bottom. “Six hours’ light when fully charged.”

  “How long does that take?” William asked.

  Tango’s attention drifted away from the Elikai conversation to Xícara. His ribs were showing. His skin, usually gleaming with oil, was flaky and dry. The muscle tone was melting off him, and there were frightening hollows around his hip bones. Seeing him like that overwhelmed the embarrassment she’d felt when he accused her of having feelings for him. She wished she could sneak him more food, but there was no longer enough to spare, and at least two of her sisters were always awake and guarding it.

  She didn’t notice her sisters were moving on until Mike threw a pebble at her. Ducking her head, she hurried after them, crawling on her fingers and toes over the loose gravel, making for the trees.

  Charlie had told the tribe to avoid interaction with the Elikai at all costs. It was hard to imagine the two tribes going back to war again, but there was no denying it was an ugly situation. No one was happy with it, but everyone was too hungry and desperate to do anything about it.

  Tango didn’t care what came in the future. She had no intention of raising a weapon against an Elikai unless it was a defensive one. Even then, she struggled to imagine herself willfully injuring Xícara.