Alight (6 page)

“It’s dangerous, Em,” O’Malley says. “The leader shouldn’t go out until we know you won’t get hurt.”

Once again the boys want to keep me
safe
. Too bad—I’m not the kind to hide away when there is work to be done.

“If I don’t face danger, I can’t ask others to do the same,” I say. “And we don’t know what plants or animals we’ll find on the way. We have no idea what might be edible here. Spingate will evaluate as we go.”

Bishop sighs, shakes his head. O’Malley forces the scowl off his face.

“Let’s get ready,” I say. “O’Malley, you and Gaston are in charge while I’m gone. We need to know everything that’s in this shuttle—and find out who’s inside those coffins.”

W
e set out from the shuttle: Spingate and I, along with Bishop, Coyotl and Farrar. Everyone sees us off, waving and cheering. O’Malley is staying behind. He can’t hide his concern. Is he worried about my safety? That he’ll have to keep an eye on Aramovsky? Or is he worried I’ll be with Bishop?

Maybe it’s all those things.

At least O’Malley wasn’t as bad as Gaston. The little pilot looked like he was on the edge of tears because Spingate was leaving. Just before we left, I saw them facing each other, holding hands. He looked at the ground, nodding his head while she spoke softly.

I have the spear. Bishop has his red axe. The heavy shovel rests on Farrar’s shoulder. Coyotl still prefers his tried-and-true thighbone.

Spingate carries the jewel-studded tool I found back in the
Xolotl
’s coffin room. Her bag also holds a white case filled with bandages, sharp little knives, pills, needles and thread for stitching wounds, containers of ointments and other things. Smith taught Spingate how to use all of it.

Opkick and Borjigin—teenage half-circles who were originally with Bishop’s crew—took it upon themselves to start an inventory of the storerooms. They sent each of us off with a small black bag containing some food, a bottle of water and a flashlight. They also found a handful of knives, with sheaths that strap around our thighs. There aren’t many of these, so we only give them to the circle-stars.

We climb the ring of piled vines and descend the other side. Just like that, the shuttle is gone from sight. We’re heading into the unknown. Am I frightened? Of course. But I have also grown accustomed to this—the
un
known is all that I have
ever
known.

We walk down a wide, vine-covered street. The sounds of our people quickly fade away. Leaves rattle: the dead city hissing at us. A light breeze brings new smells. I now recognize the minty scent of the vines. Most odors, though, neither I nor Matilda have ever known before.

Buildings rise up on either side of the street. Some are boxy, but most are stepped pyramids.
Ziggurats
. Those remind me of something from my childhood…
Matilda’s
childhood, I mean. I remember a wedding. I remember staring up at the cake, at four layers, each layer smaller than the one below it. At the top, a little statue of two people. I thought it was a toy. I wanted to play with it, but Mother wouldn’t let me.

Some of the pyramids are small, three or four layers, while others are massive, twenty layers or more. The biggest of these have layers so wide that there are smaller ziggurats built upon the flat spaces. Vines cover almost everything, softening shapes, turning the orange-brown stone a pale, fuzzy yellow.

As I walk, I realize I don’t feel as anxious about the sprawling sky above. All this open space, it feels like I belong here. I’m beginning to understand that
this
is natural. This is the way things should be—being cramped in a shuttle or packed into narrow hallways is not.

A few buildings have collapsed. Young trees rise up from the street, from rooftops, from the sloped sides of the ziggurats. Trunks of green and brown, leaves a darker yellow than those of the vines. The way tree roots clutch at stone walls makes me think more buildings will collapse as the years roll on.

Birds fly overhead—well, not the
birds
I know from Matilda’s memories, but brightly colored animals about the same size. Instead of feathered, flapping wings, these things have two sets of stiff, buzzing membranes. The membranes move so fast they are a blur.

Blurds—
that’s what I will call these creatures.

Some are small, some big. A large one sweeps its wings back against its long body and dives, then pulls up sharply, extending claws that snatch a smaller blurd right out of the air with a sickening
smack-crunch
.

Death lives here. Death lived on the
Xolotl
. Perhaps death lives everywhere.

Farrar turns in circles as he walks forward, almost tripping, gawking up at the towering pyramids. “Where
is
everyone?”

There should be people.
Lots
of them, yet the only motion comes from blurds and blowing leaves. If O’Malley is right about the warehouse, the Grownups built all of this.

So where did they go?

—

By the time we reach the warehouse, the red sun is directly overhead. Heat beats down on us, makes my shirt damp. I hope we can go inside and find some shade.

The warehouse is built from the same vine-covered stone that makes up the rest of the city. It’s tall and wide, with a peaked roof that faces our street. The vines are so thick they almost obscure two huge stone doors that look like they’re designed to slide apart. If those doors opened all the way, the shuttle could roll in with plenty of room to spare on either side.

Cornstalk statues rise up from the roof’s edges. This close to them, the vines look like old spiderwebs strung between the posts.

Bishop points to the base of the big doors. “Let’s try there.”

We walk closer. Through the thick plant cover, I see a person-sized door set into the big sliding one. How did he spot that?

Bishop rips vines, tosses them aside. He exposes a pair of familiar-looking holes in the small door’s frame. Spingate looks at me for permission; I nod. She inserts the golden tool and starts pressing jewels, trying to unlock it.

Several minutes pass. The heat pounds down. I’m getting bored, and so are the others.

“Spin, is that going to work or not?”

“Almost got it,” she says.

The door clicks, grinds inward. Dirt falls. Dust puffs. A stale smell billows out, carried on a wave of cold air.

Axe in one hand, flashlight in the other, Bishop enters, Coyotl and Farrar at his heels.

I stand alone with Spingate. She seems distracted, as if all of this wonder is lost on her.

“Spin, are you all right?”

She looks at me, forces a smile. “Yes. I just…I’m worried about Gaston. Something could happen to him while we’re gone.”

Not
something could happen to the
OTHERS
,
but rather,
something could happen to
HIM
.
I remember the way the two of them wrestled back on the
Xolotl,
laughing and playing. Different from how the others played. I feel awkward and uncomfortable talking about this. I’ve never kissed a boy—or a girl, for that matter—so I don’t know what I’m talking about, but it seems to me she really likes Gaston.

“Are you and he…um…more than just friends?”

She sniffs. “I think I love him.”

Love?
I wasn’t expecting that. Love is for older people. But then, we
are
older. Aren’t we?

Could
I
fall in love?

I feel a surge of happiness. We’re starting a new world down here. We need love. We need people to…to
make babies
.

A rush of shame. Flashes of people in black uniforms hitting me, calling me
evil
and
blasphemous.
My skin suddenly feels hot, and it’s not from the sun. What did Matilda have to go through as a child? For the first time, I feel actual sympathy for her—and I hate myself for it.

“Em, are you okay?”

“Yes, sorry.” I wave at myself, trying to cool off my skin. “Gaston…does he love you back?”

Her eyes crinkle in a smile that owns every bit of her face.

“Well, when we were in the pilothouse, we—”

Bishop’s head pops out of the door.

“Em, you have to see this.”

—

No vines in here. Flashlight beams play off tall blue racks that stretch away from us, rise up to the slanted roof far above. White bins pack the racks, bins large enough for me to fit inside if I scrunched tight enough. The floor feels smooth, but is covered in dirt and bumpy spots.

A few blurds zip through the darkness, their presence known only by the buzzing of wings and high-pitched chirps. I try not to think that the bumps under my bare feet are probably blurd poop.

So dim in here, so many places to hide. I think back to the
Xolotl
’s long hallways, the shadowy places where the pigs lurked. I think back to Latu’s body, surrounded by bloody hoofprints.

I hate dark places.

Bishop creeps to the closest rack, axe at the ready. Nothing happens. He rests his axe against the rack, slowly pulls out a bin. Flashlight beams catch shimmers of movement: shiny little things scurrying off the bin, scampering away into the darkness. Some kind of insect, maybe.

Bishop places the bin on the dirty floor. On top of the bin is a profile of a jaguar, yellow and black. The jaguar’s eye is a clear jewel. Bishop stares at the bin for a moment, hands searching the sides, brushing away dust and dead bugs. He presses the jaguar’s eye. A click, then the top of the bin opens, two halves sliding to the sides just like the lids of our birth-coffins back on the
Xolotl
.

We join him. Inside the bin are dark-pink packages, each marked with simple letters. The letters look worn, fuzzy, but we can make out the words:
PROTEIN, BREAD, VEGETABLES, VITAMINS.

“That answers that,” Spingate says. “The packages are a different color, but other than that, they look exactly like what we found in the shuttle. The Grownups built this place.”

Bishop reaches in with his left hand, pulls out a package labeled
BISCUITS
. He switches the package to his right hand, then looks at his left—red dust on his fingers. The package isn’t actually dark pink: there are white spots where his fingers held it.

Spingate frowns. “Bishop, put it down. Let me see if it’s still edible.”

Bishop sets the package on the floor.

Spingate waves her bracelet over it.

Farrar gives the bin a light kick as if to make sure it’s real. He looks up at the endless racks.

“So much,” he says. “We can eat forever and ever.”

Not
forever,
I know, but there is enough to last us years. This will give us plenty of time to learn farming and hunting. It’s hard to control my excitement. I want to dance and shout, I want to celebrate.

Coyotl walks down the long center aisle, craning his head, looking left and right, trying to take it all in.

“The gods provided for us,” he says. “Aramovsky speaks the truth.”

The mention of that name almost spoils the moment. Of course Aramovsky will attribute this to the gods, when clearly it was
people
who built this city and made this food.

Coyotl pulls a bin from the rack, sets it on the floor and opens it. “Hey, cookies!” He tears open a pink package and pulls out a small black circle. The sight of it makes my mouth water; Matilda had treats like that when she was little. But we don’t know if it’s safe to eat.

“Coyotl, put it down,” I say.

He looks at it wistfully, then sets the cookie and the package back in the bin.

Farrar drops his shovel and sprints to the bin. He pulls out the same cookie that Coyotl held. Farrar’s smile is so bright it could light up the entire warehouse.

“Finally—
sweets
!”

Before I can tell him to drop it, he pops the whole thing into his mouth and crunches down.

“The gods provide,” he says, chewing and grinning.

Coyotl is frowning. He stares at his fingers like there is something wrong with them, flicks them like he’s trying to shake off a bug.

Movement on my left. Bishop, wiping his hand against what’s left of his pants, a worried look on his face.

“My fingers are tingling,” he says. “They sting a little.”

I hear a sharp
beep:
the sound comes from Spingate’s bracer. The jewels all flash a bright orange—an obvious color of warning.

She stands quickly. “The red powder is mold. It’s
toxic.
”

The word stabs through my chest.

I drop my spear, sprint to Farrar.

“Spit it out!
Spit it out!
”

Still chewing, he looks at me like he doesn’t understand what I’m saying—then I realize he’s not looking at me at all. His eyes are glassy, unfocused.

“These cookies taste
awful,
” he says in a sleepy voice, then stumbles backward. I try to catch him as he falls, but his weight drags us both down. I scramble to my knees, hearing feet slapping against the floor as the others run our way.