I’m detached somehow, like I’m watching it all happen to someone else, whose fate I’m not totally invested in. The world takes on a dreamlike quality, moving slower despite everyone, and everything, moving as fast as they can.
The ground rumbles out of time with the approaching Golyat, reminding me that a second monster is approaching from behind, and shaking me back into my body. The world comes into clarity again. Loud chattering fills the air, almost drowning out the sound of screaming, but not quite.
And then, to the left, movement. In the haze of fear and impending carnage, I think the newcomers are more human-sized Golyats, but when I focus on them, I see two men and two women running into the valley, headed straight for Salem. They’re closer to the open hatch, but also half the distance to the Golyat, who sees them at the same time I do.
When the monster adjusts its course, screams turn to shouts, urging them to run faster.
The very selfish part of me, which I believe exists in everyone—whether they admit it or not—is grateful for their appearance. The Golyat will reach them first, and be slowed when it does. I wasn’t sure we would make it before, but now…
The ground quakes again. Another footfall from behind. The massive weight of it chills me. It’s the big one, I think. The one that ravaged the forest when it couldn’t find us.
The next ground-shaking impact stumbles me. Gravity tugs me further and I fall, but I’m no stranger to turning a tumble into a graceful roll. My hands reach the ground first, before I tuck in and flip. The backpack makes it uncomfortable, but I perform the roll without losing much speed. What I do lose, is heart. Eyes open as I roll, and I see the forest behind us shatter.
A massive arm sweeps through the trees, long fingers hooked. Some trees break. Others are uprooted. All are flung into the air as the massive Golyat clears the obstacles.
I don’t see it step into the valley, and don’t bother looking back. If I’m about to be crushed or eaten, I don’t want to see it coming.
Don’t let it happen, I think, trying to run faster. Don’t die in front of Salem.
Screams pull my attention back to the smaller, feminine Golyat. The creature has grasped one of the four people in hand, the long, slender fingers squeezing tighter. The woman’s scream becomes shrill, and between the rumbling, shouting, and abject chaos, I think I hear a crack. The woman falls silent and limp, fluid dripping from between the Golyat’s fingers. And then, jaws spread wide, head turned up, the monster consumes her. Two grinding chews and a swallow is all it takes.
Then the feminine Golyat turns its attention to a man who has fallen, wailing in despair. I’m not sure who they are, but there is no mistaking the anguish that comes with watching someone you love die horribly.
As the feminine Golyat’s hand reaches down for the man, he draws a knife. For a moment, I think he’s a fool for attempting to fight the beast with a simple blade. Then he plunges the knife into his own chest, and I realize it was the perfect tool for the job. He’s dead before the Golyat picks him up.
An angry roar tears through the air behind us. I don’t look back, but I hope that the larger Golyat, seeing its smaller counterpart consume a meal, is enraged.
The feminine Golyat seems to register the larger creature’s presence for the first time. I see what looks like surprise, and then it hurries to scarf down the man. Her glowing stomach flares, gurgling loudly, and then with a hiss, she sprays what’s left of her quickly consumed and digested meal from her bony ass. The valley floor behind her steams, digested by the liquified remains of what had been, just seconds ago, two people.
But they were more than people—they were Plistim’s, Shua’s, Shoba’s, and Salem’s family. People they knew. People they loved.
When a shadow falls over us, I cringe, ducking down like it will help.
Thinking I’m about to be plucked up, I draw my knife, prepared to repeat the man’s suicidal act of self-mercy. But the shadow continues past me. A massive black foot, the skin cracked and sucked in around bone, crashes down just ahead of Shua. He dives to the side, narrowly avoiding crashing into the foot.
I pause long enough to yank him to his feet, and then we’re off and running around the giant foot, closing in on the open door, where Salem still stands. My son, equal parts hopeful and fearful just a moment ago, looks pale and numb, his eyes locked on the feminine Golyat that consumed and excreted two people.
He’s in shock, I think, now just twenty feet away and closing in.
The man and woman who survived the feminine Golyat’s assault make it to the open door first, rushing past Salem. I catch a glimpse of the woman’s face, and I’m struck with a sense of recognition, and then they’re in the tunnel’s darkness.
A chattering mixed with a high-pitched shriek draws my attention back up. The feminine Golyat is backing away, shuffling through its own steaming waste, as the larger creature closes in. I catch a glimpse of the thing’s leg, which is taller than the fifty foot monster, and then notice I’m about to crash into Shua’s back.
I come to a hard stop behind Shua and find myself face to face with Salem, who’s being squeezed by his father’s embrace. Tears flow down my boy’s face as he looks at me. I can’t tell if they’re from the horror he’s just witnessed, or from a sense of joy at our reunion. But I know my own tears are for him alone, and they blur my vision when he reaches out and takes my hand.
“Inside,” Salem says, as Shua lets him go. He waves Shoba and Plistim on as they approach the door. “Hurry!”
Being a shepherd, I step aside to make sure everyone gets past. Shua and Salem waste no time entering. They’re followed by Shoba, who sprints inside without slowing. Plistim hurries up next to me, but then stops to turn around, both mortified and fascinated by what’s happening.
One hand on the door, I stand beside the man who was once my enemy and my father’s friend, head craning upward.
I follow the large Golyat’s legs upward. They’re flexing and powerful, despite their slenderness. Its hips protrude, but nothing like the smaller creature. This one is male, I think, and I look for evidence of this between its legs. I see a hint of something shriveled and probably not functional, but it’s enough. Male and female. The Golyats, like people, are a species.
But do they procreate?
Are they even capable?
I look higher still. A long arm the size of a towering tree creates eddies of wind as it swings past. The slender, taut stomach burns with orange light from the inside, brighter where the skin is cracked open. And then the ribs, lumpy and huge, heaving with massive breaths. Everything above that is lost in the sun, but I put the creature’s height at a hundred and fifty feet. It turns slightly, revealing its back, where long protrusions grow out from its spine, some of them nearly as big as the female.
The feminine Golyat, still cowering and backing away, shifts its eyes toward Plistim and me. Her orange belly glows brighter, setting her teeth chattering once more. Then her attention shifts back to the big male, and it lunges.
Her deformed elbows dig into the male’s lower ribcage, hooking the monster in place while its slender feet and toes pummel his torso, punching holes in the withered flesh.
The male bellows, forcing my hands to my ears.
His long arms come up, gnarled fingers grasping at the smaller, more aggressive female. He pulls, but the elbow hooks keep her locked in place. With a second angry roar, he pulls harder. The female’s arms stretch, her feet now kicking at open air.
There’s a tearing sound, dry at first, and then wet. Flakes of black skin burst from the female’s shoulders. She shrieks as the massive bones pop loose. Tendrils of slick flesh hidden inside the creature stretch and then snap, as both arms come free. Black, clear, and brown liquid sprays from the vacant shoulders as the unhinged arms fall to hang from the male’s ribcage.
“Oh god,” Plistim says. “Oh my god…”
I share his revulsion, but find no voice for it. I simply stand in shock, watching as the ma
le lifts the now whimpering female, grasping both her thighs and ribs.
Then, the beast pulls.
The female’s eyes and mouth go wide with pain, or shock, or some kind of monstrous realization that this is the end of her life—if a Golyat can think and feel such things.
Several loud pops issue from inside the creature. And then all at once, it comes apart at the midsection.
A wave of gray and orange explodes from its gut, splashing against the male’s body and arcing out in all directions. Including mine. I spin around, hooking an arm around Plistim’s waist and the other around the door’s handle. I dive inside the hallway beyond, throwing Plistim ahead of me and slamming the door shut as hard as I can. The heavy door closes with a resounding boom, followed by a dull slosh of liquid against its far side.
I take three deep breaths and then look into the darkness. Freed from the mesmerizing sight of the two Golyats fighting, there is only one thing on my mind. “Salem? Where is Salem?”
27
Before my question can be answered, the ground shakes. Dry grit falls on my face, grinding against my eyes, forcing blinks and tears. Worried voices mingle in the total darkness, each wondering what do to. Where to go.
The ground shakes again, but this time it’s from an angry, chattering roar that I recognize. The big Golyat, twice denied its human meal, is venting once again.
A hand grasps my arm in the dark, someone seeking a companion and the comfort of another. Searching fingers move down my arm, find my hand, and grab hold. I squeeze back, confused, disoriented, and fairly certain we’re all about to be buried alive.
And then, a light. The flame is small, but it eradicates the absolute darkness, and reveals my son’s face. He holds a small torch, no bigger than a chicken leg on a stick. Bathed in light, he can’t see those of us back in the shadows, but I can see him.
His once curly hair is cut short, like Plistim’s. The beginning of a beard is growing in on his face. It’s patchy, but it suits him. His tan skin is made darker by layers of dirt and dried blood. His journey hasn’t been easy. He’s taller than I remember, which is to be expected, but I had always imagined he would grow into a bulky man, like Micha. Instead, he’s slender, but toned, like his actual father. When he left, I stood five inches taller than him, but now he could probably rest his chin atop my head.
“Follow me,” Salem says, between angry rumbles. He slips further into the hallway, holding the flame high to light the way. At the back of the group, I shuffle along, and only now do I think to look at the person whose hand I’m holding. Shoba meets my eyes when I look at her, her eyes nervous, her smile sheepish and forced. Between what we just witnessed and the decaying state of this tunnel, now taking a beating from above, I’m surprised she’s not worse off. I feel on the fringe of tears myself. I squeeze her hand, and she returns the gesture, both afraid, both trying to comfort the other.
A resounding boom shakes the tunnel, knocking more dust free. The group doubles its pace. A muffled roar chases us, but fades as the tunnel stretches inward, and downward.
The air cools as we descend into the earth, and with every degree lost, I relax a little more.
After five straight minutes of hurrying through the metal and concrete hallway, which is strangely free of earthy scents common in subterranean spaces, the slope levels out. Vibrations still slide through the floor, but they’re subtle, and the sound is diminished. I don’t know where we are, but it’s clear the Golyat can’t reach us here.
The tunnel walls around Salem disappear as he steps into a wider space where the flame’s light can’t reach the walls. Our footsteps echo off a high ceiling as we follow.
“We arrived here yesterday,” Salem says, coming to a stop. He reaches, the torch out, lighting a second and then a third, both mounted atop stands made of long, straight sticks. “We should be safe here. The structure was designed to defy extreme forces, and time.”
“Where is here?” Plistim asks.
“I’m sorry, grandfather. Your questions will have to wait.” He looks around Plistim, scanning the group. “Mother?”
Emotions surge faster than I’m prepared for and something like a bark escapes my mouth. I let go of Shoba’s hand, step around Shua, and stand before my son for the first time in two years.
His eyes, like mine, are wet. But he stands his ground. “You intended to kill me?”
“Yes,” I say, knowing he already knows the truth. “If I could not convince you to flee with me. But intention and ability are not always aligned. Standing before you now…” The tears break free, rolling down my cheeks. “I could have never…”
My words are cut short when my son’s arms wrap around me. Despite the facial hair and height, I can still feel my baby’s still frail body, held in my arms, nursing at my breast, protected from the world by myself alone. What mother could kill her own son?
“I missed you,” he whispers.
I find speaking impossible and respond by holding him tighter.
“You know about my father?” he asks, voice still quiet, but no doubt audible to the group.
I nod against his chest and reply, “He’s an ugly, lying asshole who fornicates with pigs.”
Salem tenses. Turns his head toward Plistim. “You didn’t—”
“She was talking about me,” Shua says, smiling as he pats my son—his son—on the shoulder. “And for the record, the pig thing only happened once.”
Salem snorts a laugh. “I’m glad—about the two of you. Not the pig.”
Laughter is a strange thing, and I’ve learned that Plistim and his family are capable of finding humor even in dire circumstances. Despite all the death and the horrors of life on this side of the Divide, they still take time to find joy.
Trying not to smile, I say, “There is no ‘two’ of us.”
“Then I will take him for myself,” says the woman who seemed vaguely familiar. She’s smiling, joining in the banter, standing with a man who looks disappointed by her proclamation. “Not that I want to come between Vee and her Bear, but let’s face it, you’ve had plenty of time to—”
“Dyer?” The name comes out of my mouth before I’m totally certain it’s her. Like my son, and Shua, age and time have transformed the small girl I knew into a woman. I look her up and down. She’s dressed like Shua, a segmented spear broken down and attached to her thighs. She’s a foot taller than me, hair tied back tightly, and she’s nearly as muscular as Shua. She’s not just a woman now; she’s a warrior.
“I’d like to say you grew up,” Dyer says, looking down at me. “But…” With that she clasps my shoulders and gives me a firm squeeze. It’s an awkward kind of greeting. More than a handshake. Less than a hug. In addition to her weird obsession with entrails, she always was a bit off socially. She ends her dual shoulder grasp with, “Welcome to the family.”
Family.
The word catches me off guard. Like Shua and myself, Dyer was the child of an elder, of Strafford county. That she’s here means… I look at the small man standing beside Dyer. He’s no taller than me, and not quite as strong. While Dyer carries a large sword on her back, the man appears to be unarmed.
I offer my hand to the man, but he just looks at it. I was so distracted by his size that I failed to notice the scowl beneath his bushy beard.
“Holland,” Dyer backhands the man’s shoulder.
He lifts his hand, and I think it’s to shake mine, but he points at me instead. “She shouldn’t be here. She has no right!” He glares at me and then walks away to the torch-light’s edge.
Despite Dyer’s toughness, she looks wounded. “Forgive my husband. His first wife and children were caught in the Cull.”
My stomach twists. Micha’s brutal legacy is chasing me, even across the Divide.
“Which Davina did not participate in,” Plistim says, looking stern. “And her father gave us more than her husband took away. I will talk to him.” He gives me a nod and heads for Holland.
“Shua,” Dyer
says, reaching her right arm out toward him. They lock arms and thump their foreheads together. Dyer smiles and turns to me. “I tried to lay this one, but after you he had eyes for no one else.” She nods her head toward Holland. “So I married his brother.”
“Brother?” My surprise is impossible to hide.
“That’s what I said when I found out.” Dyer chuckles. “Different mother, of course, but they’re similar enough…where it counts.”
I give her a wide-eyed stare, dipping my head toward Salem, Shoba, and…a young woman to whom I have not yet been introduced.
“They’ve heard far worse from my mouth,” Dyer says, but I barely hear her.
My son’s young wife is short-haired, dirty, and armed with a bow—a quiver of arrows hanging from her hip—a hand-axe, and three knives. She’s also stunning. Despite her rugged appearance, she looks nervous at my attention.
“You must be Del,” I say, stepping closer.
She tries to smile, but it doesn’t look comfortable. “Yes…mother.”
Dyer snorts a laugh, and I try hard not to smile.
“Vee,” I say. Newly married women generally refer to their mother-in-law as either ‘mother’ or ‘ma’am.’ It’s not until later in life, when they have children of their own, that they are allowed to use less formal terms. That I’ve told her to call me not just by my first name, but by my nickname is technically an honor, but more because I loathe the tradition. “Please.”
She nods, still worried.
“You love my son?” I ask her.
Her nod speeds up.
“And you her?” I ask my son.
“Of course,” he says, like I’m supposed to know this, either based on what Plistim and Shua have told me, or on my knowledge of my son’s character, which is currently limited.
The Divide Page 16