Alive (24 page)

I
stand on Okadigbo’s coffin.

The room is so full of people I can’t see the floor. They sit cross-legged in the aisle of dust, they sit on coffins, they stand with their backs to the walls. Faces stare up at me, both familiar and new. I tell them what I know. I describe what must be done.

O’Malley counted. The numbers are hard to accept. I was a leader of twenty-two people; now I lead a hundred and thirty.

How will we take care of these kids? I don’t know. Neither does O’Malley. We have to figure it out. We will not leave a single person behind to have their newly hatched minds wiped out by the evil that runs this ship.

I understood Brewer’s riddle.
If they found you, you found them
. There is much more to this “building” than we first knew. Beyond the doors that Brewer melted shut to keep our older selves away, beyond the Garden’s walls, there lie seemingly endless sections of this ship.

If they found you, you found them.

When we opened the door to the empty section, as Brewer called it¸ we broke his seal. Did Matilda know that someday kids might escape the coffins, and if they did, they would eventually wind up in the Garden? Maybe. Maybe she waited centuries for someone in a white shirt and a red tie to go there, so she would know there was finally a way through Brewer’s defenses.

Matilda got Bello in the Garden. We will find the path the monsters used to attack us there, and we will use that same path to attack them.

We will capture a Grownup. We will make that monster tell us what we need to know: the location of Bello, the location of the shuttle and how to use it.

The faces look up at me. I tell them about Matilda, Brewer, the husks and the receptacles. I tell them about the
Xolotl
and the Crystal Ball. I tell them about Omeyocan, and the shuttle that will take us there if we can find it.

I tell them we are being hunted.

I tell them what the Grownups will do to us if they catch us.

And then I tell them my plan.

As I expected, Aramovsky doesn’t like it.

“That’s ridiculous,” he says. “You’re going to get us all killed. Even if we do survive, the gods will be furious at our insolence.”

He’s using bigger words now. All the older kids are, including me. It happened gradually, I think, but now I’m noticing it—especially when Aramovsky talks. He doesn’t like my plan? Something tells me he wouldn’t have liked
any
plan I put forth. He wants to contradict me no matter what I say, so that the people who think he is “chosen” will pay more attention to him.

He objects, but as I figured, his objection doesn’t really matter right now—because my friends believe in me.

“It will work,” Bishop says. “We can beat them, I know we can.”

The circle-stars grunt. They thump their chests. Bishop has their backing, and I have his. As long as that holds, there’s nothing Aramovsky can do. The five circle-stars in this room are itching for a fight, and that’s what I aim to give them. Only El-Saffani isn’t here: the twins are in the hall, preparing.

Bishop, Coyotl, Visca, Farrar and Boy El-Saffani used O’Malley’s knife to cut the legs off their tattered pants, which are now roughly the same length as the short skirts of Bawden and Girl El-Saffani. I think the circle-stars also cut themselves to make fresh dust-paste: they are coated head to toe in a red-gray that is almost the same color as the scarred monster’s blood.

Shirtless, bare-legged, with paste caked on their exposed skin, on their faces, even mashed in their hair, the circle-stars all look the same. We can barely tell the boys and girls apart.

O’Malley has his knife back. He fiddles with it, absently moving it from hand to hand. He has that look on his face again, like he wants to tell me something but doesn’t want to say it in front of the others.

“Out with it, O’Malley.” I say. “What are you thinking?”

He glances around the room, sees that everyone is waiting for him to talk.

“The bracelets,” he says. “We didn’t go after Bello before because the monsters can hit us from a distance. That’s still the case, so why attack them now?”

Heads nod, arms fold across chests. I understand why he wanted to ask that question in private, but I have an answer.

“The Grownups want us alive,” I say. “Their lives depend on it. They don’t recognize us, at least not right away. I think that will give us time to use our speed, to reach them before they figure out who they need.”

“You
think
?” Spingate says. Her arms are crossed, too. “What if you’re wrong? What if they just shoot us?”

Bawden thumps her fist against her chest.

“Then we
die
,” she barks. “We die attacking, not hiding in this room like cowards.”

The circle-stars roar their approval. Bawden’s beautiful brown skin is invisible—she is reddish-gray, she is painted for war.

I continue.

“Our best chance to survive is to never be alone. Older kids will stay in groups of four. Don’t get separated, even if there is fighting. Beckett and Smith will protect the younger kids.”

Over a hundred small heads turn to look at those two. Strawberry-blond Beckett smiles uncomfortably. Skinny Smith tries to look fierce. She can’t fully hide her fear.

We are almost ready, but Aramovsky won’t give up.

“They are
monsters.
” He turns as he talks, looking to his supporters. “The gods sent them. We need to talk to them, beg them for mercy. I have seen what they can do. Unless you want to wind up as a pile of chopped-up arms and legs and severed heads, listen to me. And what good does it do us to stay in groups of four? If you want a fight, Em, the circle-stars have their clubs, so send
them
.”

I hop off the coffin and walk to the open archway. I wave El-Saffani in.

They enter. Boy El-Saffani carries a double armful of thighbones. Girl El-Saffani passes them out to each of the older kids, starting with Beckett and Smith.

I take one, then hop back up on the coffin: bone in one hand, spear in the other.

“Now we
all
have clubs,” I say.

I toss the bone at Aramovsky. He catches it on reflex, stares at it.

“We
all
go, Aramovsky. We
all
fight.”

On top of Okadigbo’s coffin, I am taller than anyone else in the room.

Maybe I am not as good a speaker as Aramovsky, but I’ve been paying attention. I’ve watched how people react to different things. I’ve recognized that certain words have power, that they dictate how people feel, how they respond—I will use those words now.

“Aramovsky is right about one thing,” I say. “There are
monsters
here. If they weren’t sent by the
gods,
then we have a right to defend ourselves. If the gods did send them, then we will prove ourselves worthy. No one is coming to
rescue
us. No one is coming to save us. We will not cower in this room waiting for someone else to decide if we live or die.”

So many faces gaze up at me, eyes big and wide, bodies leaning slightly my way. These people are terrified. They desperately need a sense of hope.

There is a final word of power I want to use, one related to
rescue
but also different, stronger. If I use it correctly, I know everyone will follow me no matter where I lead them.

“We will not be hunted,” I say. “We will not be erased. I know this is a lot to handle, especially for the new kids, but we are going to the Garden. We will save Bello if we can. We will attack. We will either win our freedom, or we will die.”

I raise the spear high, and I use that final word.

“If we can’t be rescued, then we…will…
escape.
”

T
ogether, we march on the Garden.

I have the spear.

O’Malley has the knife.

Everyone else carries a bone-club. Everyone except for the kids.
Kids
…is that what we should call them? That’s what
we
were, that’s how we thought of ourselves, but we’re not. We are not kids, we are not teenagers, we are not adults. We are a mixture of all those things.

We move as one, thanks to Bishop’s ability to organize. My friends are both out in front and bringing up the rear. Between them, over a hundred white-shirted kids marching in three long, neat rows.

Are we still afraid? Very. All around me, young faces etched with fear, but now other emotions as well. There is
rage
that they would use us up and cast us away, take over our bodies and make us just like them. There is a sense of
belonging,
in that we all fight for each other as well as for ourselves. And there is the newest feeling of all—
hope
—given to us by the promise of our own planet.

We belong down there. It’s what we were made for.

We are trapped on a ship where monsters want to kill us. The monsters have been here a thousand years: now that they know we are awake, they will find us. We are hungry, and in the one place we know of that has food, the monsters are waiting.

They won’t be waiting long.

We will not be used. We will not let them change us. They think we are
property
?

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.

Bishop’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.