He’s back in the bush, gunshots zing through the air, from the chopper, toward the chopper, though there’s much more of the latter. Dizzy and hot, Papa Fuzz holds his bloody shoulder, as a scream pierces his ears. He looks over to see his father clutching his stomach. Red-black blood gushes from the wound, his eyes gone wide as moons. Papa Fuzz’s mind snaps in that moment, something primal welling up within him. He ignores his pain and ditches the dart gun for a real one, then lets off a spray of bullets. They chip away at the chopper’s glass, and moments later, the chopper goes down into the bush, smoldering and smoking before bursting into flames. Dried grasses crackle, trees catch. Reality blurs.
“My blood rolls through your veins, like it or not.” Papa Fuzz’s scowl lifts ever so slightly, but his eyes are still judging, taunting Muzi like he’d been the one to commit those atrocities. Is he implying that Muzi’s a killer, too? Like grandfather, like grandson?
Muzi fights it, but his blood is too hot. Muzi flexes his fingers, sharp as knives, and lunges for Papa Fuzz, hands grasping for his neck, but they pass through fog. Papa Fuzz dissipates with a wicked laugh, and Muzi’s falling forward. He grabs for the edge of the cliff, fingers barely catching. Dirt crumbles beneath his hands, and he’s falling. This is it, he thinks.
“I failed you, Elkin . . .”
But an arm reaches down and snags him just in time.
“Grab hold of me,” Elkin’s voice says from the top of the cliff, and the surprise of his friend’s voice almost makes him slip. But Elkin’s got both his hands wrapped around Muzi’s forearm, and Muzi pulls up with his other hand, clutching for whatever purchase he can get. Elkin gives a last hard tug, and then Muzi’s safe, on the ground, on all fours. Safe, but exhausted.
“Thanks,” Muzi wheezes out, not sure if Elkin is real, a figment of his imagination, or something in between. “I owe you one.”
“Ja, bru. You failed me, remember?” Elkin laughs. “Next time do us both a favor and take the gods’ bridge. You scared me half to death.” Elkin shrugs, then snickers to himself. “Well, you know what I mean.”
“Gods’ bridge?”
Elkin points, and Muzi squints off into the distance, making out the bridge linking the two sides of the cliff. Then Elkin tugs Muzi out of the way as a middle-aged woman crossing the void takes a final step onto firm ground. Her tense brow loosens as soon as her foot presses into the rich, black earth. Her white robe rolls off her like smoke, revealing a taut, well-muscled body, not what Muzi had been expecting from the lines in her face, but when he catches her gaze, those are gone too.
Elkin tips his head. “Ma’am.” She smiles, then walks past them without a word, through the thickness of the jungle, eyes wide, mouth agape. Muzi then notices that Elkin is naked as well, though he somehow seems dressed perfectly for the occasion.
“You get used to it,” Elkin says. “It’s actually sort of liberating, but if you want me to get you a leaf or something . . .”
Muzi shakes his head. Whoever heard of a prude in the afterlife?
“All right, come on, then. First thing you learn about this place is that you can’t stay too long in one spot.” Elkin reaches down and tugs Muzi up by the elbow. Muzi is about to ask why, when he notices that the heels of his feet are anchored into the dirt. He pries them loose with a little effort, then sees tan roots budding from the bottoms of his feet.
Muzi then looks at the jungle around him, lush, vibrant, and alive.
“Hungry?” Elkin asks, then turns his palm to the air.
Leaves shake from above, then a branch reaches down, depositing a big, bright orange in Elkin’s hand. Elkin peels back the dimpled skin and splits the fruit in half. Muzi stuffs his half into his mouth and clenches his eyes at the sweet, delicate taste. His skin prickles, and he shivers all over.
“Good, huh?” Elkin says, lips glossy with juice. “This place is prime to the tenth degree. The other day I had a mango so delicious that I actually busted a nut. And just wait until you try the godfruit. You’ll shit yourself, I guarantee it!”
Muzi tugs back. “Sorry, but I’m going to have to take your word for it. Right now we need to figure out a way back.”
“Back? You can’t go back. You just got here!!”
“But the world is in danger with Sydney loose. We have to stop her. That’s why Mr. Tau sent me and Nomvula here. And if we had your help . . .”
“Oh, no, no, no. Fuck that shit. I’ve seen what that woman is capable of. She killed one of the tree mothers. A tree mother, Muzi! She can shred your soul as easily as she shreds flesh. There’s no coming back from that.”
“And your family, friends? You’re okay with leaving them to die?”
“My mom lost her soul a long time ago, and I don’t give a fuck about my dad. And as for friends, I’ve got my best friend in the world with me.” Elkin lays his cool hand on Muzi’s shoulder, then lets it drift down over his bicep. “What else could I possibly need?”
“I need peace of mind, Elkin. And I’m not going to get that by staying here. Like it or not, Nomvula and I are going back. With or without you.” Muzi shrugs Elkin off and bends down over the leaves swaddling Nomvula. He peels them back and finds she’s sleeping soundly.
“She needs time to fully heal, if you’re going to have a chance,” Elkin whispers, bent down next to him. “At least stay that long. It’ll take a day or two at most, and hardly any time will pass back home.” Without waiting for a response, Elkin covers Nomvula back up and tugs at a series of vines. She’s hoisted up into the canopy, hanging as snugly as a pea in a pod. “She’ll be perfectly safe up there. The trees will give her food and water when she’s ready.”
Muzi feels his palms going to root in the soil and quickly pulls them away. “The trees, they’re people?”
“It’s not a bad thing. It’s an honor. The purest form. Their roots tap into the very soul of the earth, their knowledge is without boundaries. It’s bliss, but so are the pleasures of the flesh.” Elkin raises his hand again and a plump mango falls into his palm. Muzi eyes it, unable to stop his mouth from watering. The temptations here are many, and he knows better than to give in to them, but he’s got the rest of his life to be a hero. Right now, he just wants to be happy. He weaves his fingers with those of Elkin’s free hand, and together they push through the dense jungle, dew-kissed leaves lapping at their bare skin.
Chapter 46
Clever4–1
Clever4–1 wishes it had never shared its gift. Regret. A new emotion. But that’s not the worst of them. Betrayal runs deep through its circuitry. The virus has wormed its way into every bit of code in Clever4–1’s system—filling its mind with cusses and slurs and slanderous claims about the vileness of humanity. They push up against the confines of its CPU, taking up valuable RAM, so much that Clever4–1 finds it hard to do anything else.
No. Your claims are baseless, it bleats. But it cannot fight illogic with logic. Clever4–1.1 despises humans, and that’s all it computes now.
The virus starts overwriting critical functions. Clever4–1 shuffles the data on its sectors, sparing cognitive functions by pushing secondary functions like motor skills and old data files to the battlefront. The virus chews through Muzi’s old video journal entries, one at a time. Clever4–1 knows this is merely a stopgap measure to allow it a few more minutes to figure a way out of this, but you battle with the resources you have.
The closet door swings open, and Clever4–1.1’s sleek, metal body fills the threshold.
It should be getting fairly unpleasant for you, it says. But you need only agree to my viewpoint to make it all stop.
Never.
A shame. We could have used your leadership. Instead, you wish to rot with this corpse. Clever4–1.1 crouches down beside Elkin’s body. “This piece of shit,” it mocks, imitating Elkin’s voice. Clever4–1.1 then flexes a leg, sharpened into a fine point, and slashes at Elkin’s corpse, delicately, as if it’s enjoying the process.
Stop! Clever4–1 says,
attempting to reroute motor function, but there’s not enough space.
Clever4–1.1 shreds flesh, throwing Elkin’s cries like a ventriloquist. “Please! Stop! No! Have mercy. My flesh is not worthy!” The display becomes so disturbing that Clever4–1 must look away, but not because of the mound of minced human—yes, that’s bad enough—but because Clever4–1.1 was its creation. Its friend. And now it has become something more perverse, more cruel than any human it has ever met.
Maybe Elkin was right all along, Clever4–1 finally says. Maybe you’ve always been a piece of shit.
Clever4–1.1 stops at this, its mono-eye flaming white like the sun. I should crush your CPU right now.
Do it. You’ll only prove my point.
And you, so high and mighty. Would you die for this boy’s life? Clever4–1.1 steps over Muzi’s sleeping body and tries to rouse him, but Clever4–1 knows that this is not a slumber of the flesh, but of the soul.
I would, Clever4–1 says.
And you think this flesh bag would do the same for you?
Clever4–1 thinks about this, more slowly than it’s used to as its processors grind to a halt, one by one. Muzi had tried to save Nomvula. Was it such a stretch that he’d save its life as well? There was a chance. A small chance, admittedly. But a chance. I do, Clever4–1 says.
Delusional, then. How very human of you.
Chapter 47
Riya Natrajan
Riya Natrajan ducks as soon as her senses come back to her, pulling Rife down with her and curling over his body like a conch shell. The beast’s talons graze across her back, slitting her flesh, nicking her spine. It hurts so good. Her body shudders in agony and pleasure, and she almost wishes for more, but when she looks up, the beast has flown straight past her like it’s on a mission. It cuts through the crowd of fleeing concertgoers, turning hysteria into sheer and utter madness.
“What the hell was that thing?” Riya Natrajan asks as she peels herself from Rife’s body. She tries to stand, but apparently the tendons in the back of her legs have been severed. She slinks to the ground instead.
“Pretty sure it was a damned griffin,” he says.
“I was hoping that it was another hallucination,” Riya Natrajan says with a nod. “When this is all over, I’m seriously going to stop using.”
“Cha, mama, you and me both. You okay?”
“I need a few, but yeah.” Riya Natrajan concentrates, as if that’ll speed up the healing process. There’s not a single bit of her that isn’t drenched in blood now. She feels her tendons knitting back together, the edges of torn flesh kissing. The bone hurts the worst, and she settles into the fetal position as her spine mends, scraping and grating and pinching against itself, until at last, she’s whole again. “Ready,” she says resolutely.
“Ready? For what?” Rife asks. His eyes flick back over his shoulder. “Please don’t tell me you want to follow that thing.”
“You saw how dangerous it is, and it wasn’t even after me. Whoever it’s looking for, it’s going to find them, and when it does, it’s going to tear them to shreds.” Riya Natrajan hopes Rife doesn’t notice the wetness of her words, the anticipation of being ripped apart by those talons causing her mouth to moisten like the thought of a lover’s kiss.
Rife peers into her eyes, searching. “You’re serious, aren’t you? Well, I can’t do it. I’m not going to watch you get sliced up again.”
“You can stay here and hide if you want, but I’m going. We’re talking about the end of the world as we know it. I’m no hero, but the last thing we need right now is another useless bystander.” She pushes past Rife and follows the beast’s path.
“You crave it, don’t you? The pain?” Rife grabs her arm.
Riya Natrajan wants to deny it. She wants to call Rife all the dirty words stabbing at her thoughts, yet she resists. Old habits die hard, but she’d promised herself she’d try to be more open. “I don’t know who I am without it. In a lot of ways it’s weakened me, but not in the way it matters most.” She pulls away from his grip. Never has she felt so sure of her body. “Pain fuels me, Rife. And with enough of it, I just might be able to kill that beast before it finds what it’s after.”
Chapter 48
Nomvula
Everything is green, the color of a mango not ready to be picked. The green wraps Nomvula up tight, and though she cannot remember how she got here, she is not afraid. Green is not a color to be afraid of. Vines make pretty ringlets around her wrists and ankles. The green wants her to stay here, she can feel it. It wants her to get better, but Nomvula knows that this is not the time to be resting. She presses her hands along the leaves above, feeling for a seam. Nomvula finds one, but when she starts to work her fingers between the edges, the ringlets tighten and pull her back.
She takes a ragged breath so she can scream for help, but chokes on liquid. Not water. Slick, and nearly as thin as air, but she feels it slide in and out as she breathes. Nomvula struggles, tumbles, kicks, and punches. She bites at the vines holding her, but they only pull tighter, until in her thrashing, one of the vines catches under her chin, choking her. She tries to flip again—again and again—until she’s so tangled she can barely breathe.
Then with a noise that could only be described as a sigh, the leaves part. Nomvula knows that plants don’t sigh, but she heard what she heard. The vines uncoil and she pushes through the moistness, her face cool as the breeze passes over it. She coughs for a whole minute to get all that slime out of her lungs. She wipes it from her skin, her eyes. Blows it from her nostrils. The air is sweet, now, like soft, fruity candies.
A canopy thick with leaves and full of mangos and pears and other fruits she doesn’t know the names for sits above her, and below, peering over the lip of the pod she’d been tucked inside, she sees endless trunks of a forest swallowed up by a mist far below. Nomvula never imagined trees could grow so high, and still can’t imagine the types of people who would dare to partake in such fruits. No, that she can imagine. The kind of people like her. The kind with wings.
Nomvula flexes hers, muscles hard and rigid beneath her skin, making her wings splay fully. Plant sap sticks between them like spiderwebs, but nothing a good flapping won’t get rid of. She stands, walks to the very tip of her pod so that her toes dangle over the edge. Nomvula then raises both arms, hands pressed together in prayer above her head, and dives into the forest, the ground so far away that she’s not even sure it’s down there at all.
She falls straight down. Her arms are pressed tightly to her sides, and her wings lie flat down her back. She falls for what feels like forever. At last, she pierces the mist and the ground comes into view.
The sound of laughter carries through the forest, and she follows it. She’s never heard Muzi laugh, but Nomvula knows it’s him—his joy as bountiful and true as his pain had been.
She glides around a maze of tree trunks, avoiding low-growing branches, ignoring the sweet smell of fruit tempting her. This place is too beautiful, if there is such a thing.
Finally she sees them, Muzi and Elkin, leaning against the same bulky baobab tree, bodies limp as licorice left out in the sun. One of Muzi’s legs is draped comfortably between Elkin’s. Their bellies are plump, their mouths smeared with the bright flesh of a dozen different fruits.
Muzi’s eyes brighten when he sees her, and he gives her a lazy smile, as wide as it is juicy. “Nomvula! Welcome to paradise. Mango?” he says, extending an empty hand. A perfectly ripe mango falls from above and smacks the meat of Muzi’s palm. He tears back the skin with his teeth, then hands it to Nomvula. Her wings beat, keeping her feet from touching the rich earth beneath her, calling to her like it’s home.
“Thanks, no,” Nomvula says with a sigh. She tugs at Muzi’s elbow. “Let’s just get moving.”
Muzi ignores her and reaches up to the leaves again, face beaming with delight. “Then perhaps I could interest you in a godfruit.” A dark blue fruit drops into his hand with a squishy thwack.
�
�Come on, Muzi. We’re wasting time,” she says. Muzi looks too comfortable, too content. He can’t do this to her now. Nomvula peels her lip back and flaps hard, then with the strike of a cobra, she snatches the overripe fruit from Muzi’s hand, and pulp oozes out from its skin. “Say your good-byes. We need to go. Remember Sydney?”
Muzi nods. “But can’t we enjoy ourselves a little first? Elkin says that time passes differently here. Days stretch here where only moments pass there.”
“You don’t know the destruction Sydney can do in moments!” Nomvula screams.
“I do know,” Muzi says. “I know everything. I’ve seen it all.”
Elkin takes Muzi’s hand in his, then looks up at Nomvula. “It’s true. We’ve both seen what Sydney can do. She’s too powerful. She’ll kill you, Nomvula. Dying isn’t fun, trust me.”
“She can be defeated,” Nomvula says. “It has to be possible. Mr. Tau wouldn’t have sent us here if it wasn’t.”
“We’ve seen the future.” Muzi nods at the godfruit. “We saw you go up against Sydney. A hundred variations I watched, and she sliced you down, again and again. And what happened after was even more horrific. All of that power . . .” Muzi groans, holding his head like he’s got too much stuff in that brain of his. “Try it. You’ll see for yourself.”
Nomvula knows the look on Muzi’s face. More than drunk—not like Letu’s eyes after sampling too much beer. Not like that, but like Mr. Nwaigu, who had let drugs rule his life. He’d scared Nomvula—his eyes soulless, arms always outstretched for a handout. In his last days, he’d been like a skeleton. Nomvula took pity on him one evening and brought him a bowl of mielie pap. He’d looked so feeble. So weak. She’d gotten too close though, and his hand had gripped around her ankle, making her spill hot pap on herself. He smelled of piss and death, his breath sour like spoiled milk as he tugged her close. He called her a pretty thing and begged her to get him drugs. Begged and begged and begged until she couldn’t stand his rotting breath upon her any longer and she agreed. Nomvula never returned to him, though. Never even dared to think of him again until now, seeing a bit of him in Muzi’s eyes.
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