Alive

by Scott Sigler

  “No one needs to join anyone else’s tribe,” I say.

  My words confuse Bishop even more. He’s getting mad.

  “Someone has to be in charge,” he says. “There have to be rules. That’s how things work.”

  His fingers flex on the spear handle. I know, somehow, that if R. Bishop gets angry enough, my friends could get hurt.

  A girl gently pushes through the marchers. Her skin is pale, but without Spingate’s pinkish hue. The tone is hard to define, a brown-tan that borders on white, but is clearly not. She is my height—does my skirt look as short as hers? Her long muscles flutter with even the slightest move, especially on her powerful legs. Her hair is unlike anyone else’s: long, kinky curls that puff out wider and wider before they end at her smooth, toned shoulders. She’s not smiling now, but when she does, I know it will be stunning.

  She has a circle-star on her forehead.

  There is no blood on her shirt, but there is a big, bluish bruise on her right cheekbone. Other than that, she appears to be fine—except for her lips, which are dry and chapped just like ours.

  I realize that all the new kids have dry lips, even Bishop.

  “Do you have any water?” the girl asks.

  Bishop scowls at her.

  “Shut up, Latu. I do the talking.”

  She glares back at him, defiant. “Maybe you should do less talking and more leading, Bishop. We’re thirsty.”

  He sighs. “Do you want what happened last time to happen again?”

  “I don’t know,” Latu says. “Do you?”

  She is solid and could probably beat me to a pulp, but Bishop is nearly twice her size. Anger pours off her: so does fear. Has she already fought him and lost?

  “I’m a good leader,” Bishop says. “You don’t see blood all over our shirts, do you?”

  Bishop is trying to act like Latu doesn’t bother him, but he’s not a convincing faker. He’s getting angrier by the second. El-Saffani watches him, as if the twins are waiting to see what he does. They are wound up tight. They look ready to attack, just like Yong was. Are all the circle-stars like that?

  I need to get Bishop thinking about something other than O’Malley and Latu.

  “Bishop, where did your group come from?”

  He points behind him, to the new hallway. “From there.”

  Obviously they came from there. That’s not the information I was hoping for.

  “We keep turning,” says boy El-Saffani.

  “Bishop said it’s good to turn,” says girl El-Saffani.

  Another boy laughs, a cutting sound that makes me feel stupid even though I have nothing to do with their group.

  Bishop turns, stabs a finger toward the source.

  “Shut up, Gaston. I told you not to laugh at me.”

  A boy slides through the marchers packed in behind Bishop and Latu. He’s small, even smaller than I am. His white shirt fits perfectly. All the buttons are buttoned, his sleeves are the right length, and his red tie is nice and neat. His left eye is puffy and bruised.

  His symbol is the same as Spingate’s: a jagged circle.

  “I’m not laughing at you, Bishop,” Gaston says. “I remembered a joke, that’s all. It’s really funny. It goes like this. Once upon a time there was this really big, really stupid kid that liked to hit people. He kept making all of these turns without knowing where he was going, and—”

  Bishop takes a step toward Gaston. Gaston moves fast, melts away behind the bigger kids in his group and is instantly out of sight.

  “That’s what I thought,” Bishop says.

  He glances back to the intersection. When he and his friends were marching, he was so self-assured, like he was carved from confidence. A little bit of teasing, and now he seems full of doubt.

  “Maybe we should go back,” Bishop says quietly. “There were a couple of turns where we…maybe we should try that way again.”

  Latu shakes her head, shakes it hard.

  “I’m not going back,” she says. “I’m not.”

  Her wide eyes burn with fierce determination born from true terror.

  I see nods of agreement among Bishop’s group, faces filled with fear. Even El-Saffani’s cold expressions shift into something normal—they are children again, little kids terrified by something they want to forget.

  “What did you see?” I ask, even though I suspect they saw the same things we did.

  Bishop licks his dry lips. He stares absently at the wall.

  “Rooms,” he says. “Rooms filled with skeletons. Some of the bones looked like they’d been cut into pieces.”

  I nod. “That’s what we saw, too.”

  He continues talking as if I said nothing at all.

  “There was one strange room. We got to it through a door in the floor. Went down a ladder. Gaston was the only one who could get it open. That room and some of the others had these…uh…Gaston, what did you call them?”

  Gaston slides out of the crowd again, but keeps his distance from Bishop.

  “Pedestals,” he says. He holds his hand at his sternum, palm down, showing how tall they were. “Made of white stone. The way they were placed in the rooms, they seemed…important. Like a really important statue is supposed to rest on them, you know? But all the pedestals were cracked or broken—except for three that were in the room with the ladder. But that place…”

  His voice trails off. He looks afraid, more afraid even than Latu.

  “Something in the room scared you,” I say. “What was it?”

  Gaston starts to talk, then stops. He looks at Bishop, who won’t meet his eyes. Maybe these two don’t like each other, but something happened down there that unsettled them both.

  “A body,” Gaston says quietly. “All shriveled up, just bones and skin. It was facedown, sprawled out. It had clothes on that I think were white, but the…”

  He pauses, rubs his face, then continues.

  “The juices stained the clothes, made the cloth different colors. The body had some kind of metal shackle on one arm, with a thin point sticking out of it, but the shackle wasn’t chained to anything.” He nods toward Bishop’s spear. “That was in the dead guy’s back, shoved through so hard it stuck in the floor.”

  Bishop got his weapon the same way I got mine—out of a person that died from it.

  For some reason, I want to make this smaller boy feel better. Maybe he’s embarrassed he was afraid, but there is nothing to be embarrassed about.

  “We saw dead bodies, too,” I say. “Bodies are frightening.”

  Gaston glances upward, thinking, then shakes his head.

  “No,” he says. “Well, yes, the body was all shriveled up and disgusting and scary, but it wasn’t that. It was the room itself. Just Bishop and I went down. It was really dark, and round, and…well, there was something wrong with it, is all.”

  “Haunted,” Bishop says quietly. “It’s haunted.”

  Gaston rolls his eyes. “Bishop, there’s no such thing as ghosts. What are you, ten years old?”

  Bishop snarls at him. “Oh yeah? If there’s no such thing as ghosts, then why did you scramble up that ladder so fast, huh? You almost peed your pants.”

  Gaston says nothing. I can tell he wants to give an explanation, tell everyone what exactly was wrong with the room, but he can’t. I get the feeling Gaston thinks he knows everything. When there is something he doesn’t know, something that he feels instead of sees, it bothers him. I will have to remember that.

  Latu crosses her arms. “Enough talk. I’m not going back. I don’t want to see any more bones.”

  Bishop shakes off his memories of the strange room. He forces a smile. Once again he is the big-chested, broad-shouldered, brave king of the playground.

  “We missed something is all,” he says. “There’s probably bones all over this place. We are going back. When we get to the hall that leads to the haunted room, we’ll go the other way. Simple.”

  Before meeting the marchers, I knew I wanted to
travel down the new hall. But Bishop’s group came from there, and they didn’t find any food or water. They also seem to be a bit lost—same thing could happen to us if we go that way. And I have to agree with Latu: I don’t want to see any more bodies. Maybe it’s best if I stick to my original plan.

  Up can’t go on forever.

  I start to point down the long hall behind me, then realize I’m using the knife to do that. I stop myself and use my free hand instead.

  “We came from that way. We’re following this hall until it ends. I think if we turn too much, we won’t know which way we’re going.”

  The El-Saffani twins look at each other. The rest of Bishop’s friends exchange glances. Is it possible this never occurred to them?

  “We’ll keep going straight,” I say. “You are all welcome to join us if you want.”

  Bishop’s expression changes. He looks at me with admiration, but also something else…like I have challenged his authority, and he has to do something about that.

  He steps closer. He’s a full head taller than I am. I have to look up to meet his strange yellow eyes. O’Malley bristles; he’s as wound up as El-Saffani.

  Bishop smiles down at me.

  “You are brave,” he says. “You didn’t run. Almost everyone runs from me. Our groups should stay together. There is strength in numbers. You and your friends will come with us.”

  He thinks I’m brave? It’s almost funny. The biggest person I’ve ever seen rushed at me, screaming, thrusting a spear: I couldn’t even move, and he mistakes that for courage. Well, whatever he thinks, we’re not going to start blindly wandering around this place.

  I square my shoulders and stare up at him.

  “I told you where we are going, Bishop.”

  That half-confused, half-angry look comes over his face again.

  “But I carry the spear. That means I’m in charge.”

  O’Malley leans in. “Maybe someone else should carry it.”

  Bishop smiles at him. It is a very different smile from the one he gave me.

  “You could take it out of my hand,” he says to O’Malley. “If you do, then you’re in charge.”

  O’Malley holds the scepter at his side. He nervously grips and re-grips the jeweled shaft.

  Bishop glances down at the scepter, almost eagerly, like he hopes O’Malley will take the first swing.

  “I like Savage,” Bishop says. “I don’t like you. What’s your name?”

  “O’Malley.”

  “That’s a pretty weapon, O’Malley,” Bishop says. “Nice and sparkly.”

  This is going to end in blood. Just like with Yong.

  I can prevent a fight—all I have to do is let Bishop lead. All I have to do is say the words, and no one will get hurt.

  But I can’t, because I want to be the leader.

  Still smiling at O’Malley, Bishop closes his eyes. “Why don’t you hit me with your sparkly weapon? I’m not even looking. You’ll probably knock me out with one shot, then you can take the spear.”

  Bishop is daring him. I see O’Malley considering it, brow furrowing, eyes flitting from the bridge of Bishop’s nose to his temple to his jaw, looking for the best place to strike. Beads of sweat break out on O’Malley’s forehead, darkening the dust coating his skin. We’re about to slide into a huge fight. He’s going to swing, blood will spill, blood all over….

  Then, O’Malley visibly relaxes. The stress vanishes from his features. His face is once again blank, expressionless.

  “I have a better idea, Bishop,” he says. “You insist on all of us staying together, so why don’t all of us decide who gets to be in charge?”

  Bishop’s eyes open. His smile fades.

  “How can everyone decide? That’s the point of having a leader in the first place, to make decisions. Isn’t it?”

  O’Malley nods. “That is the point. But sticking together was your idea, right?”

  Bishop looks suspicious. “Yes, but I still don’t know what you’re saying.”

  Gaston crosses his arms, grins.

  “He means we take a vote, Bishop,” the boy says. “That way no one gets hurt.”

  Bishop glances at the others in his group. This situation is getting away from him, and he knows it. It’s not that he’s stupid, because I can tell he’s not, but at the same time, he’s not as smart as O’Malley. Not even close.

  Bishop thinks for a moment, then nods.

  “All right, fine, we can vote. I organized eighteen people. Savage, you organized four. So I win the vote.” His chest puffs out. “I am the leader.”

  Gaston shakes his head. “The only reason you were in charge in the first place was because if we didn’t agree with you, you hit us. You didn’t organize people, you oversized idiot, you bullied them.”

  I glance around at the other new faces. No, no one has blood on their shirts, but through the caked-on dust I see a few bruises, a few puffy lips. The bruise on Latu’s cheek…it’s about the size of Bishop’s big hand if that hand formed a big fist.

  Bishop seems annoyed, exasperated, like he can’t fathom why everyone doesn’t understand basic facts.

  “I made decisions,” he says. “If someone doesn’t make decisions, then no decisions get made.”

  In that instant, I know Bishop and I are more alike than we are different. Someone has to make decisions—but that someone shouldn’t be him.

  Gaston points at me. “She has a plan. You have us wandering around, but everyone is too afraid of you to say anything.”

  I see some of Bishop’s friends nodding. Only some, though—there are several with circle-stars like his, like Yong’s, like El-Saffani’s. None of those people agree.

  I glance at O’Malley, my eyes asking him if I should say something. O’Malley shakes his head ever so slightly, barely a twitch left, then right. His blue eyes stare hard into me. He wants me to let everyone keep talking.

  So I remain quiet.

  Bishop gestures down the hall. “All Savage is doing is walking straight. Where’s the adventure in that?”

  Now the other circle-stars nod. They want adventure, too. I count quickly: including Bishop, El-Saffani and Latu, eight people have circle-stars. There is one girl with the circle-cross, like Brewer, one more boy with the jagged circle like Gaston and Spingate, two half-circles like O’Malley, and six empty circles like Bello and me. Aramovsky is the only circle-in-a-circle—I wonder which way he’ll vote.

  Bishop turns to face his friends. His shoulders draw back and his chest sticks out. He talks to them, not in a shout but not far from one.

  “Who wants to walk straight? That’s dumb. The more we turn, the more area we cover. Come on, we’re going to find something soon. We missed something is all. We’ll go back and turn a different way.”

  The members of Bishop’s group who do not have circle-stars stare down, glance around the hallway, cast their gaze anywhere but at him. They won’t meet his eyes.

  I finally understand why O’Malley wants me to keep quiet—Bishop is losing the vote all by himself. But I can’t rely on that, I have to say something. If I can get these people on my side, I can end this without a fight. If, that is, Bishop actually accepts the vote.

  “We don’t need adventure,” I say. “We need to get out of this place.”

  I see faces change instantly, I see wide-eyed admiration.

  Gaston raises his hand. “I vote for Savage,” he says, still glaring at Bishop. “Who else votes for Savage?”

  Bello, Aramovsky, O’Malley and Spingate raise their hands. So do Latu and everyone in Bishop’s group that is not a circle-star.

  Gaston points at each, counting slowly and loudly. Too loudly, as if he’s enjoying what is an already obvious result.

  “That’s sixteen for Savage. Now, raise your hand if you want Bishop.”

  Seven arms go up, including Bishop’s. He has lost, but all the circle-stars except for Latu voted for him. They glare at me: four boys, two girls. The circle-star boys are taller
than most of us, thick with muscle. The girl circle-stars are toned and lean—they look like they could probably beat O’Malley or Aramovsky in a fistfight.

  Without the knife, I wouldn’t stand a chance against any of them.

  If the circle-stars ignore the vote and follow Bishop, it’s going to be a problem.

  I realize that I didn’t vote, but it doesn’t matter.

  Gaston nods. “Sixteen votes for Savage, seven for Bishop.” His mouth twists into something that is half smile, half sneer. “Savage won. She’s the leader. Bishop, give her the spear.”

  Bishop’s eyes narrow. His cracked lips flatten, his nostrils flare. At that moment, he is even more frightening than when he ran at me, screaming. Violence bubbles under the surface. For a second, I wonder if he’s going to stab the spear into Gaston’s belly.

  “It’s mine,” Bishop says. “The spear is mine.”

  O’Malley points at it. “You said the leader carries the spear. Em is the leader, so give it to her.”

  O’Malley’s words sound far different from Gaston’s. There is no malice or arrogance in O’Malley’s voice, just an infuriatingly calm delivery of what everyone already knows.

  The spear shaft starts to shake: Bishop is squeezing it so hard his arm trembles. He likes being the leader.

  And, I realize, so do I.

  For a long moment, I am sure this will erupt in a battle that ends with our bones scattered across the hallway. Then Bishop closes his eyes. He tilts the spear toward me.

  I take it. I can do this. I can lead us.

  I hand my knife to O’Malley. O’Malley hands the scepter to Spingate. Gaston seems to see the scepter for the first time; his eyes go wide with recognition.

  Bishop shakes his head, then nods. He lets out a big, cheek-puffing breath. The pending violence inside him evaporates. He’s already over it. His face shows whatever he is feeling as plainly as if he’s speaking it out loud.

  “Okay, Savage, you won,” he says. “Fair is fair. You’re the leader. So, what now?”

  I heft the spear in one hand, feeling the weight. Maybe I should make the scepter the symbol of leadership again: a tool rather than a weapon. But no, Spingate knows how to use the scepter better than I do, and a part of me realizes that there has to be something to signify who is in charge.