by David Estes
There are more windows on either side; I’ll have to try those ones, hope for a miracle.
But before I can step across to the next sill, the window above me opens and a head pops out.
I have to jump—I have to—no other choice—just drop and hope I don’t break a leg and then run as hard and as fast out of this place as possible, because I’m caught.
I’m caught.
My muscles tense as I prepare for the fifteen foot fall.
“Adele?” a voice says from above, stopping me just before I step off the ledge.
I look up and gasp.
It’s impossible. No, not impossible, unless I’m dreaming, because though—
—her cheeks are slightly thinner and—
—her eyes dark with tired bags under them—
—I’d recognize this woman anywhere.
I’ve never seen her in person, only on the telebox.
But my mother has, years ago, when she plotted and schemed to implant the very microchip in my back that would lead me to Tristan, and Tristan to me.
Tristan’s mother, Jocelyn Nailin, stares down at me. “Come inside,” she says. “They’re looking for you.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Siena
With crows a-cawing and vultures wheeling lazy circles above us, I chase after Skye.
She’s almost to the bodies and I don’t want her to see ’em close up, but I’m afraid it’s too late, ’cause though I’m faster’n her, she got a good head start on me and she’s searin’ motivated. Black-winged birds scatter in front of her, taking flight in a swarm, Skye screaming at ’em, using words so colorful I wonder where she even learned ’em.
And I know she’s looking, looking, looking for one body in particular, and that’s the one body I don’t want her to see. I mean—I don’t want her to see any of ’em, but please, sun goddess, not that one—not him.
The birds keep lifting off ’round her, melting into a swarm of black, almost disappearing against the darkening sky. I’m amidst the carnage now, too, and I lift my hands to shoo the birds off the bodies, which are stained with blood, both old and fresh, from the Glassies and the crows. If anyone had survived the attack, the birds finished ’em off.
“Skye, wait!” I shout, and she stops. I think I’ve done it, that I’ve gotten through to her, but she don’t turn ’round, just stares ahead at something. She’s found who she’s a-looking for.
I take off running again, ’cause maybe I can catch her now that she’s walking slowly, toward a body laying off from most of t’others in the durt. There’s a line of ’em, like they were defending the rest of the village, which I know they were, ’cause that’s what Dazz’d do.
Skye stops when she’s nearly there, and I stop, too, ’cause there’s a—a—a huge searin’ bird just setting on Dazz’s chest. A vulture, with a hooked beak and old, gnarly face, and the blackest eyes you’ve ever seen. It looks at Skye and she looks back at it, and then it ducks it’s head and goes right back to pecking at—I can’t hardly say his name again, much less think it—at him.
Well, Skye lets out the loudest yell—more like a ROAR!—I’ve ever heard from her, and charges at that nasty ol’ vulture. The beast-bird hangs on till the very last moment, as if it’d rather face my sister’s wrath’n pull itself away from its meal, but then it goes, lifting off, pumping its wings with a whoomp whoomp whoomp! and it’s gone, soaring ’cross the desert, in search of something else dead to snack on.
Skye kneels, drops her body on top of Dazz, whose body is pocked with holes from fire sticks, riddled with fierce red peck marks from that burnin’ vulture. Skye starts shaking, her muscled body convulsing in waves.
No. Everything is so wrong, so searin’ wrong—can it ever be right again? Can any of us ever be the same after seeing this, the way the Glassies killed ’em all and then left ’em to be picked clean by the birds?
I whirl in a circle, the world spinning ’round me, full of death and pain and more’n more birds taking flight as Wilde and Circ and Feve and a few others chase ’em off. I’m overwhelmed with feelings, but the one that’s the strongest is…
—I turn to see Skye standing, still shaking—
—turning toward me, and there ain’t no tears on her face—
—and her face ain’t torn and broken, no, it’s strong, like mine—
—’cause in that moment I realize she’s feeling exactly what I’m feeling:
…
…
RAGE.
~~~
I can’t believe they just left the bodies in the desert. I’ve said it ’bout three times and thought it a million. Even when we defeated the Glassies when they attacked our village, we disposed of their bodies. They were still people, after all, and no one deserves to become the next meal for a scavenger.
But the Glassies couldn’t be bothered to do more’n loot the carts and the bodies, taking everything of value—there ain’t a weapon to be seen—and leaving ’em to the crows.
Evil.
Searin’ evil.
As I’ve been helping to carry, pull, and drag the bodies into one place, I’ve let my rage subside, dropping the anger into a hole somewhere deep within me, somewhere hidden. I’ll save it, let it simmer…until I need it.
Skye carries Dazz’s large, strong body herself, over her shoulder, refusing help, like it’s her duty. I think we’re all a little afraid she’ll bite our hands off if we ignore her and try to help anyway.
Instead, I help Wilde carry Buff, and then Dazz’s mother. Her cheeks are streaked with tears but she doesn’t say anything, just gets on with it.
Afterwards, as we continue to search through the dead, I find her. Jolie. Dazz’s sister. She’s almost Jade’s age, but her skin’s white like snow where my sister’s is as brown as a bog hole. I try not to look down as I pick her up in my arms, but I can’t help it. Wow. She takes my breath away and shatters my heart with just that one peek, ’cause she looks so peaceful, angelic, her face unmarked, unbloodied, her eyes closed and her mouth turned up in an almost—is that a smile? What’d give her cause to smile even as her family and friends were being slaughtered, I may never know, but maybe, just maybe, as she was dying, as the life was draining out of her—too soon, far too soon—she was seeing something that the rest of us living folk can’t. Something beyond this world: a better place, a better life, where folks don’t go ’round killing each other. A place where there ain’t sandstorms and the Fire and Killers. Maybe she could see her brother, Wes, who died trying to save her life, and her father, dead years earlier from the Cold. Maybe she could even see Dazz, who’d died moments earlier protecting her. And if they were all beckoning to her, showing her this magical place where no one’s dead, then why wouldn’t she be smiling even as she took her last breath?
Even as I’m setting her down with the rest of the bodies, I’m wondering: Do any of us have cause to fear death? It’s not like we should be seeking it out, but if it comes to us, should we spend our last moments screaming and crying and worrying over it, or should we do like Jolie did, and smile, one last time, letting happiness form on our faces for ever and ever?
I almost share what I think with Skye, but unlike me, her rage is still rippling over the surface of her skin, forming a hard shell on her face, filling her already strong body with extra power.
She carries two bodies, one over each shoulder, past me and adds ’em to the growing pile. I know she sees Jolie, ’cause she hesitates for just a moment, but then she goes back to collecting the dead. She don’t want nothing to distract her from her anger.
When the bodies’re all t’gether, all piled up, we do what we hafta do. It’s a risk, setting a big ol’ fire in the dark, but these people are our friends, our neighbors, our allies, and whatever bad decision someone made for ’em to march out ’ere in the desert don’t change that.
If the Glassies see the flames licking high over the dunes, notice the puffs of dark smoke creating a cloud above us, well, they c
an come, and sun goddess help ’em if they do. I wouldn’t be surprised if Skye, the way she is now, killed every last one of ’em.
Wilde says a few words, but they’re lost to me as I watch the bodies burn, Circ’s arm ’round my waist. I’m hoping with every beat of my shattered heart that whatever Jolie saw when she died is where she is now.
’Cause maybe that means I’ll see my mother again someday, too.
And when I get up, Circ doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to stop me. I plonk down next to Skye and I know she wants to be alone, but I ain’t letting her, rage or no rage. I put my arm ’round her and her body is so hard, all clenched muscles and protruding bones and I can feel her stiffen even more beneath my touch. But she doesn’t try to stop me, just lets me hold her, even if she doesn’t have it in her to hold back.
We stay there like that, just being sisters, for long after everyone’s gone to bed and the fire has dwindled down to a hot pile of ash.
Just being sisters.
~~~
The morning is full of heaviness, as if we’re weighed down by the thick yellow clouds hanging low in the sky. Clouds’re s’posed to be light, ain’t they? After all, they float, don’t they? Well, these ones look like they’re full of boulders, doing everything they can not to fall from the sky, crushing everything beneath ’em.
It don’t take any of us long to eat a few bites of breakfast and pack up to go. The pile of ash is still there, but there’s less of it, the night winds scattering the Icers, carrying what’s left of ’em off into the desert to become a part of the dunes.
And Skye’s still frowning, shredding holes in everyone with her eyes. I know she ain’t angry at us, but I still duck and shimmy to try to stay outta the way of that stare of hers. You can never be too careful these days.
“Day three,” I say to Circ as he shoulders his pack.
“About time,” he says, like he’s been wishing it here from the beginning.
“You can’t protect me the whole time during the battle,” I say.
“I can try,” he says, warming the pieces of my broken heart.
“Side by side?” I say.
“Where we belong.”
We leave, heading further east, Circ and me walking hand in hand, knowing that today we’ll either die in defeat or live in victory, and for some reason, the details don’t matter nearly as much as they used to.
We don’t get far ’fore we hear it.
“What is that?” I say, and I hear similar questions being asked along the column.
“Oh, blaze,” Circ says.
My first thought is: the Glassies are coming; they saw the fire and smoke and they’ve been riding through the night to ambush us in the morning.
But it’s not the growl of a fire chariot or the boom from a fire stick that we’re hearing. It’s high-pitched and coming from a dozen mouths, one after another.
Everyone’s stopped now, looking to the south, past the mountains of dunes that block our vision more’n a half mile or so.
Yips. That’s the only way to describe the noises we’re hearing. And that means only one thing: Cotees.
As I pull my bow off my back and fit it with a pointer, I’m almost excited. No one’s gonna die. A Cotee pack, even a large one, won’t stand a chance in scorch against the size of our force. Consider it a warm up for the fight with the Glassies.
Those ’round me are drawing their weapons, too, swords and knives and bows. Circ’s blade screeches out of its scabbard.
I aim at the top of a large dune, waiting impatiently.
The yips grow louder, a chorus of voices, loud and sharp and desperate. They are desperate, I remember. The tug hurds are gone, finished off by the Glassies, so they’ve got nothing to eat, least nothing sustaining. They’ve been driven from their homes, in search of food.
Wait. The noise gets louder still and something ’bout it doesn’t sound quite right…
They’re making more noise’n I’ve ever heard a single pack of Cotees make. And maybe it ain’t the cry of a dozen mouths, or even two dozen, maybe it’s a hundred, some kind of a super-pack.
I hold my breath—wait.
The animals appear over the dunes, not stopping even when they see how many of us there are. Instead, they pour down the hill, yipping even more, almost like the sight of potential food gives ’em energy. And there ain’t hundreds of ’em…
…there’s thousands.
I loose a pointer and I can’t see where it lands in the army of Cotees, so close t’gether it’s near impossible to tell where one animal ends and the next begins.
A bunch of people are screaming now and I can see some of ’em turning to run, but most stay, I think. I don’t look though, as I’m trying to block everything out ’cept nocking another pointer and aiming and—
My bow sings and a Cotee at the front drops, cutting a line through the animals as they stumble and crash over it.
They’re getting closer, the air filled with pointers. Surely some of ’em must be dying, but it’s impossible to tell ’cause there’s so searin’ many of ’em. Even as I shoot again, I see Circ’s hand tighten on the handle of his sword beside me.
Will we really die now? Having come this far, having endured so much?
I load, aim, shoot, right into the snapping jaws of a big one, with gaunt cheeks, saliva crusted on its maw. Desperate and starving and now dead.
Drawn by…….what?
It hits me. Perhaps the funeral fire last night wasn’t bright enough or high enough to draw the attention of the Glassies, but with the wind blowing hard south like it was, surely the scent woulda carried a long way, reaching the noses of this army of Cotees, whipping ’em into a frenzy of hunger.
Making ’em run all night till they reached us. And now they want to eat us.
My next pointer rips into a Cotee’s eye, jerking him back and leaving him twitching on the durt.
They’re too close now and I frantically swing my bow ’round my neck, withdraw a pair of short knives, even as Circ is pulling his sword back, preparing to…
He swings and so do I, snapping my knives forward in quick succession, jamming ’em into the neck of a leaping beast, feeling warm blood spatter on my face as it lands on me, its fur swallowing me up like a blanket.
“Siena!” Circ shouts, but I can’t answer him ’cause I’m eating matted, smelly fur and tasting coppery blood from the dual wounds I inflicted.
People are screaming to the left, to the right, behind and in front; some are cries of war, of violence, of attack, and others, well, they’re the screams that nightmares are made of.
I gotta get up, but I’m drowning under the carcass of my victim. “Argh!” I cry out when I feel something grab my ankle, its teeth sinking in deep, cutting into me. I kick at it, shake my leg, try to dislodge it, and the pressure releases. The dead Cotee falls off of me.
Circ grabs my wrist, my hands still clutching the knives. He doesn’t have time to say anything ’cause there’s a shadow jumping at him—
—and he turns
—and slashes
—and the dismembered head of the attacking Cotees goes flying past me, spraying crimson life in a surreal arc.
My ankle’s on fire, but it ain’t gonna kill me, and there’s more Cotees running toward us. I throw down my knives and draw my bow in a flash, sending two pointers off in short succession, ending the miserable lives of a pair of mangy Cotees.
A third one leaps over its dead comrades and is coming right at me and I’m struggling to nock another pointer and Circ is too far away, slicing at three or four Cotees that are surrounding him…
Acting on instinct without really knowing what I’m doing, I drop my bow—the Cotee’s leaping at me now—and fall backward. As the Cotee is flying over me, I shove the pointer in my hand up as hard as I can, feeling my wrist bend backwards when the momentum of the beast carries it past me.
I leap to my feet, stumbling slightly as my two left feet both decide to turn the same way, b
ut maintaining my balance enough to see the Cotee slump over and die, the feathers of my pointer sticking out of its flesh, right above where its heart should be.
My bow’s at my feet, and I grab it, fit another pointer, whirl ’round to locate another Cotee, and see—
Circ’s down, animal bodies piled on all sides, a beast chewing on his foot and another on his arm, even as he’s slashing at ’em with his sword. I’m not thinking, just acting, like that time I almost got us both killed during that Killer attack so long ago. But this time I have something to offer more’n my two left feet and tentpole skinniness.
I shoot and shoot and shoot, the first pointer cutting into a Cotee’s ear, the second into one of their eyes, and the third, well, that one goes right down the throat of another Cotee that was looking to bite Circ in the head.
Circ’s still slashing at them, yelling himself hoarse, not realizing they’re already dead. I rush to him, crying, “Circ, Circ!” and he stops, looks over.
His eyes widen and I spin ’round, thinking maybe he sees something scary behind me, like a dozen Cotees snarling and leaping, but there’s nothing. The last few Cotees are dying at the hands of Skye, who seems to be the only one still fighting, like she’s somehow attracting the final, desperate attackers. I watch her slash one across the neck and impale another one through the gut ’fore I turn back to Circ.
He’s clutching at his arm and at his leg at the same time, which is ’bout as awkward as I’ve ever seen Circ look, but he’s smiling while he’s doing it. If my heart weren’t still pounding so much and if I weren’t still hearing the cries of the injured, I’d almost want to laugh at how wooloo he looks amongst a sea of fur, lying all crooked like that.
Instead I drop my bow and go to him, help him escape his furry prison, pull him down in a patch of empty durt.
I check his leg first, and it’s not too bad, no worse’n my leg. A few bite marks, yeah, but we’re Heaters, not some weakling group of pale-faced Glassies. His arm is worse, and I can see from the way he’s holding it that it hurts something fierce.
