by Scott Sigler
It’s a pig.
NINETEEN
The pig is just tall enough that its head hangs over the coffin wall. It’s not very big. It’s black, or at least its head is, because that’s all we can see. Is that the color of its fur, or is it completely covered in grease and dirt? So hard to tell in the flickering torchlight, which makes the animal’s black eyes waver with glimmering reflections.
“I can’t believe it,” O’Malley says. “That’s a pig. I think I’ve seen one before.”
Latu keeps backing up until she stands next to us. “Em, what do we do?”
I have no idea. What is a pig doing here?
My heart kicks so bad I feel it in my throat. When that black head popped up, I was sure Spingate was wrong and Aramovsky was right, that monsters were real and one was about to attack us.
“A farm,” O’Malley says. “I saw one on a farm.”
His words are light and dreamy, like the word farm is a discovery to him, a happy memory come to life.
Latu leans close to O’Malley without taking her eyes off the pig, which is still looking at us.
“What’s a farm?” she asks him.
“A place where they grow food,” O’Malley says.
My hunger pangs and pains return all at once, rush back with more intensity than ever before.
“Food,” Latu says. She shakes the torch in the pig’s direction. “Is that thing food?”
The tone of her voice is full of want, full of need.
“Yes,” O’Malley says. His voice doesn’t sound dreamy anymore—it sounds hungry. “Yes…pigs are definitely food.”
The pig grunts. Its right ear twitches. It’s staring at me. The pig is food, food that’s still alive. I don’t know what this animal is doing in here, but it isn’t hurting us. If we’re going to eat it, it has to die. Hasn’t there been enough death in this place already?
But we don’t know if we’ll find food somewhere else. There are twenty-four of us, so many mouths to feed. Reality is what it is whether we like it or not: the reality is that we’re starving.
Before we can eat that pig, someone has to kill it.
“O’Malley,” I say, “go get Bishop.”
He quietly turns and walks out of the room.
Latu nudges me. “Em, give me the spear. I’ll kill it right now.”
“Do you know how to kill a pig?”
“No,” she says. “I’ll…I’ll stab it until it stops moving.”
She doesn’t want to kill the pig, I can tell by her voice, but she knows what must be done and she’s willing to do it.
“Wait for Bishop,” I say.
“Em, give me the spear before the thing runs away!”
Latu’s yelling spooks the pig. Hooves paw at the coffin wall, filling the room with deafening noise, clak-crack-clak.
Behind me, I hear heavy footsteps rush into the room. It’s Bishop. He takes one look at the situation, then shouts at me.
“Em, give me the spear!”
The pig leaps out of the coffin and into the aisle. It hits the ground running, charges straight at me, squealing so loud it hurts my ears. I thrust the spear out in front of me, more to protect myself than to stab the animal. The little head bobs left and then the pig is running right, brushing against my left leg as it shoots past, too quick for me to react in time.
I turn to give chase—and almost drive the spearpoint into Bishop’s chest. He twists at the last moment, so fast, his hand grabbing the shaft as the blade hisses through the empty air where his heart had been a split second earlier.
O’Malley and El-Saffani have a chance at the pig, but scoot out of its way instead of diving on top of it—the pig scampers out of the room.
Bishop yanks the spear from my hands. Two steps take him into the hall. I give chase instantly, my legs finally my own again.
I see Bishop start to throw—the image burns into my eyes, my brain, my forever memory. His right arm cocked back, muscles straining the fabric of his shirt, the spear shaft balanced in his hand, the blade tip near his neck. His left hand extended, fingertips pointed down the hall, the straight arm a perfect continuation of the spear’s line. His bare chest, sweaty and gleaming in the torchlight, every fiber of him taut and fluttering. He is all the motion that has ever existed. He is a gemstone sculpted to look like a person: hard and permanent and flawless.
His right arm whips forward, driven by the twist of his shoulders and hips. My eyes follow the spear down the hall. It flies fast, far and straight. The tiniest bit of torchlight reaches out, and I see a glimpse of a black-furred leg before it is swallowed up by shadow.
The spear follows it, vanishes from sight.
A squeal of pain echoes from the darkness.
Bishop grabs a torch from Bello—I hadn’t even noticed her there, her or Okereke and his flag-bag full of oily strips—then sprints after the pig. El-Saffani follows him, as does Latu.
I glance back down the hall, see Farrar standing still and firm in front of fading torches, see the kids packed in behind him. We’re getting too spread out, and everything is happening so fast.
We found a pig—what else will we find?
“Bishop, STOP!”
He stumbles, surprised, then turns and looks at me. El-Saffani and Latu stop as well, their bodies seemingly desperate to rush down the hall despite what their brains tell them to do.
“Em, I hit it,” Bishop says. “It’s dead! Come on!”
He’s so excited. He’s a bright-eyed little boy on his twelfth birthday, and this game was his present, the best present he could ever imagine.
Another pain-laced squeal echoes along the stone walls. The pig sounds farther away—obviously, it’s not dead.
Bishop snarls and smiles all at the same time.
“It’s wounded,” he says.
The best game he could ever imagine just got better.
He’s coiled so tight he’s almost shaking with intensity. I instinctively want to back away from him, point the spear at him in defense like I pointed it at the charging pig. I force myself to stand firm.
“Em, come on,” he says. “Let’s go after it!”
He’s asking me to come with him. He took the spear, ripped it right out of my hands, but not because he wanted to be the leader. At that instant, he didn’t care about what the weapon symbolized; he used it for its true purpose.
The spear is for killing.
No matter what I tell Bishop to do, I know he’s going after that pig. If I tell him to stay, he’ll go anyway, and everyone will know my leadership can simply be ignored. That could hurt us even more than thirst or hunger. I have to keep control, I have to keep us united.
If people don’t have faith in me, we will all lose.
“Bello, give half the torch strips to El-Saffani,” I say. “Then you and Okereke take the rest back to Farrar and the others, wait for me there.”
O’Malley shakes his head. “Em, everyone needs to stay together. We can’t go chasing around in the darkness, we can’t get separated. The others are going to get upset.”
He’s right. People are already antsy. If I leave them with Aramovsky…
“O’Malley, you go back with Bello,” I say. “Tell everyone we’re trying to get food.” I hold my hand toward him, palm up. “Give me the knife.”
He looks at my hand, then doubtfully at Bishop.
“I should go with you,” O’Malley says.
“Give me the knife,” I repeat. “Keep everyone calm.”
O’Malley shifts from one foot to the other.
“Going after the pig is dangerous,” he says.
“O’Malley, the knife.”
He hands it over hilt-first, scowling at me and Bishop both.
I turn to Latu.
“Go with O’Malley. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m going with you. I want to be part of the hunt.”
This is the girl who punched Bishop in the face. I see the same look in her ey
es I see in his: she’s going to go no matter what I tell her. I’m getting frustrated: I don’t know how to control the circle-stars, I don’t have time to argue with her, and I can’t lose that argument while everyone is watching. If Bishop can ignore me, if Latu can, then what’s to stop Visca, El-Saffani and the other circle-stars from going their own way?
“You stay at my side,” I tell her. “You protect me, agreed?”
Latu nods hard enough to make her frizzy hair flop back and forth.
O’Malley’s face wrinkles in anger. “What? Why does she get to go?”
Because Latu won’t do what she’s told, and you will.
“Just keep the others calm,” I say.
Bello hands Boy El-Saffani an armful of rags. Latu grabs one, wraps it around her still-burning torch. She does it so fast that she’s finished before it’s fully aflame. Bishop quickly tries the same move, hisses in pain as fire singes his skin.
He sucks at the burned finger, looks at me with eager eyes and nods.
We’re ready.
I nod back.
Holding the torch, Bishop heads down the hall, El-Saffani at his heels.
I run after them, Latu at my side.
If I look back, I know I’ll see O’Malley staring at me—so I keep my eyes forward.
I don’t know if this is the right decision or not, but the decision is made.
The hunt is on.
TWENTY
We hunt.
I run with the circle-stars. Torchlight plays off hallway walls lined with patterns and carvings of the usual symbols, but new ones as well—people with shovels, people harvesting crops, people moving things, people working together to build and create. It all flies by as we run, making the tiny images on the walls seem to sprint in the opposite direction.
Bishop is out in front, and for this, at least, there is no question as to who is the leader. He slows and stops. The rest of us do as well, following his every move.
The spear lies on the hallway floor.
He picks it up. He has the torch in one hand, the spear in the other. There is blood on the blade.
Bishop offers the spear to me. I reach to grab it, but I’m already holding the knife. I can’t carry both weapons, and right now Bishop’s ability with the spear is the most important thing.
“You take it for now,” I say. “Give it back when we’re done.”
He nods. He doesn’t care who is in charge—he’s focused on the hunt and nothing else.
Bishop hands his torch to Boy El-Saffani, then kneels and puts two fingers to the floor. He lifts them, looks at them, and we all see what is on his fingertips.
Blood, flecked with dirt.
“We can track it,” he says.
He heads down the hall. We stay close behind.
This is exciting, and that surprises me. I came along to maintain an illusion of control, but my skin feels electric, my senses seem sharp. I don’t remember who I am or what I was, but in my heart I know nothing I did before could possibly make me feel this alive.
How can I feel this way? Bishop is going to find this animal and kill it. We’re going to cut it up…we’re going to eat it. The very thought disgusts me, yet killing the pig is something we must do to survive.
Bishop runs at a half crouch, eyes fixed on the hallway floor. The pig’s blood trail is easy to follow, with a new spluttery streak every few steps. The poor thing must be terrified.
We move quickly. The circle-stars make practically no noise. My steps seem loud and clumsy by comparison. Girl El-Saffani keeps flashing me dirty looks because of it, and Latu isn’t that pleased with me, either. I don’t think they are doing anything special to stay silent—it comes naturally to them.
The hallway opens to a wide, round space. Archways line the curving wall. Ten, maybe twelve of them. At the far end of the room, barely visible in the torchlight, I see the hallway continue—maybe up can’t go on forever, but it still shows no sign of ending anytime soon.
What do we do now? There are only five of us; it will take a long time to look in all these rooms, and if the pig kept going down the hall we’ll lose it if we stop to check even one of them.
I glance at Bishop to see what he’s thinking, but his attention remains firmly fixed on the floor.
“I know where it is,” he says, then jogs to an archway on our right.
We run after him. I glance down as I go, see Latu’s torchlight flicker off a thin streak of blood that shows the pig’s path as clearly as someone standing there, pointing and shouting It went this way!
I hear the grunt of an animal. I stop in my tracks. That didn’t come from up ahead, where Bishop is going. It’s hard to tell in this big room, but…did that come from somewhere off to the left?
“Bishop, wait!”
Latu pauses, but Bishop and El-Saffani either don’t hear my order or they ignore it. Latu is looking back at me, torch in hand. Her face pleads with me to get going before Bishop leaves us behind.
I run to catch up.
Bishop pauses at the archway. The stone doors are partially open. They sit at funny angles, like they are broken and will never close again. There is enough space for us to slide through.
We enter.
Our torchlight reveals a stone dome and the largest room we’ve been in yet. If I stood on Latu’s shoulders while she was standing on Bishop’s, I could probably touch the ceiling with my fingertips. In the middle of the room is a circular stone, the flat top about waist high. It’s big enough that if I lay on it, I could spread my arms and legs wide and my hands and feet would barely hang over the edges.
A grunt and a squeal: no question this time, it came from inside the room. There, against the wall on the other side of the circular stone—the wounded pig. It sees us and starts sprinting madly, racing along the wall’s curve in a hoof-clicking panic.
Bishop takes a hop-step toward it, twists his hips and shoulders: the spear again sails through the air.
He misses.
The blade sparks when it skips off the stone floor just behind the running pig. The spear clatters against the wall.
Bishop roars and sprints at the pig. El-Saffani angles left, trying to cut off the animal, while Latu positions herself in the room’s narrow opening, blocking any way out. The circle-stars didn’t communicate with each other, yet they act as one, four people who instantly work together like they’ve done it a hundred times before. I have no idea what to do, so I stay near Latu.
The pig pauses, its head flicking side to side as it looks for somewhere to run. Bishop launches himself at it—the pig hops over his outstretched arms and darts away. Bishop grunts in pain when he crashes to the stone floor.
The twins rush the pig at the same time, but they might as well be trying to catch the air itself. The solid animal bobs left and right as it slips through the grasp of Boy El-Saffani. Girl El-Saffani snatches at its rear ankles: she grabs the right one, but is yanked off-balance as the pig powers along on three remaining legs. She stumbles, trips and lands hard on her shoulder.
The pig barrels straight at Latu and me.
Latu is still blocking the exit. She waves her torch back and forth; the whipping flame makes shadows lengthen and shorten, lengthen and shorten.
The pig stops, confused by the fire.
“Em, stab it,” Latu screams. “Stab it now!”
The long knife, I forgot it was in my hand. I have to kill the animal. We have to eat, there isn’t any choice….
The pig glances back at Bishop, who is scrambling to his feet, then at Boy El-Saffani, who is closing in—then at Latu. I can almost see the pig make a decision of its own: better to face the fire than to be trapped in this room.
It rushes at Latu. I step between her and it, thrust out with the blade. The pig sees my attack and scoots to its left, so fast. I whip the knife sideways and feel it dig in deep, but it flies out of my grip, spins through the air and clatters on the stone floor.
Squealing in pain and terror, the pig launche
s itself at Latu, slamming into her and knocking the torch from her hands. Latu tumbles backward, grabs the pig in both arms as she falls. Pig legs thrash, trying to find purchase, but Latu has her arms wrapped tightly around the animal’s thick middle.
“Em! Help me hold this thing!”
I move to grab it, but the pig moves faster.
It twists its neck and bites down hard on Latu’s shoulder. Her scream echoes off the dome roof. The pig thrashes its head side to side. Latu’s feet kick, she tries to push the pig away, but the animal won’t let go.
I am on it before I know it, punching and shouting, my fists slamming hard into the solid body, splatting against greasy, stinking fur.
The pig scrambles away, hooves clattering on stone. It sprints for the hallway that leads deeper into unexplored areas—in seconds, it is lost in the shadows.
It’s gone.
Latu moans. Her right hand clutches her left shoulder. Blood seeps through her fingers, spreads across her white shirt. I grab her, try to sit her up.
“Latu! Are you okay?”
A stupid thing to say, but I don’t know what to do. Blood is everywhere. Her face is a scrunched wrinkle of agony. Her lips curl back, and she forces her words through clenched teeth.
“Go…get it,” she says. “Kill it.”
I try to see how bad her wound is.
“I’m staying with you.”
Her eyes pop open, go wide with sheer fury.
“Em, kill it before it gets away!”
Bishop stumbles past us. He’s limping, favoring his right knee.
The knife is in his hand.
I look back through the broken archway doors. A fading torch lies on the floor. In the fluttering flame’s light, I see Boy El-Saffani trying to help Girl El-Saffani to her feet. She’s struggling to get up but her arms and legs seem weak and uncooperative.
Bishop limps off after the pig. He doesn’t have a torch. He’s going to get lost in the darkness.
Latu’s bloody hand locks down on my wrist.
“Em, I’m okay, just go.”
I grab her torch from the floor and scramble to my feet. I chase after Bishop.
It’s not hard to see where he’s going: a trail of pig blood lines the way. The gleaming liquid looks more black than red under my torch’s glow. I see him up ahead, limping along.
