Alight (The Generations Trilogy #2)(50)

Finally, Visca leads us to the fire pit. It’s now a puddle of black water filled with wet charcoal. The five-walled building shows no sign of anyone having been here since we left.

“I’ll start a sweep,” Visca says, and creeps off into the jungle.

“Let’s rest,” Bishop says. “Stay inside the walls, out of sight. Spiders could be out here.”

Borjigin is only too happy to sit. Kalle waves her bracer over moss on the walls. At first I think she’s being ridiculous, then my stomach rumbles, and I wonder if moss is tasty. The bracer jewels flash orange; looks like I don’t have to worry about that.

I find a place to sit and rub at my sore thighs. They’ve loosened up some, but still ache plenty.

Bishop drops down next to me. He takes a drink from his water bottle, then offers it to me. That’s so nice of him. I take a swig, hand it back.



“Do you think Visca will find a trail?”

He shrugs. “Maybe, but don’t get your hopes up. He’s way better at it than I am, though. Perhaps—”

“I found a path,” Visca calls out.

Bishop is up instantly. In moments, we are on the move again.

—

At first I couldn’t see the path, I just kept following Bishop, who was following Visca. After two hours of marching through the jungle, though, I recognize it, could easily follow it on my own.

At eye level, I see it as a narrow gap winding through the underbrush. At my feet, it is a wet, irregular strip of brown notched in among the creepers and ground cover. Shallow depressions filled with water might be footprints, although there is no way to tell how big the feet were. On either side of the path, branches scrape at us, vines smear us with juice.

The going is tiring and messy, and I don’t care. The fire-builders made this path. It has to lead us to them.

I hear my footsteps, the rustle of vines and fronds being pushed aside before flapping back into place. As usual, the circle-stars don’t make a sound. Except for Coyotl far behind us—I can hear his movements. Kalle makes very little noise, perhaps because she’s tiny, but Borjigin is so loud he might as well be shouting.

Bishop raises a fist. Kalle and I stop instantly. Borjigin stumbles into us, making all kinds of noise.

“Sorry,” he says.

Bishop strides toward us.

“Borjigin, please be quiet,” he says, making a visible effort to control his annoyance. “Watch where you step. Put your heel down first, then let your weight roll forward to the ball of your foot.”



Borjigin nods quickly, intimidated.

“Good,” Bishop says. “You’re behind Em, so just watch how she does it.”

Bishop slides silently forward to join Visca, and we’re moving again.

Borjigin glances at me, nervous and awkward.

Despite the heat of the jungle, my face feels even hotter than it did a few moments ago. Bishop pointed me out as an example of how to move quietly? I’m stunned, embarrassed in a good way. I can’t even get my head around it. He’s impressed by what I can do, not just by the way I look or my position as leader. In my short memory, in everything I can recall from Matilda’s childhood, what Bishop just said is the best thing anyone has ever said to me.

I walk, Kalle right behind me. Borjigin isn’t as loud as before, but he sure isn’t quiet. I make each step a careful thing—I don’t want to let Bishop down.

The jungle’s animal noises fade, then die out. Save for the buzzing of the blurds, everything is silent. Neither Bishop nor Visca raise a fist, but they don’t have to—we all stop walking.

Something is coming, something that the animals fear.

A new sound: a rustling, a fast scurrying across dead leaves and past soft vines.

Bishop looks at me, makes a motion for me to hide. I kneel, look back down the trail: Kalle is already out of sight, but Borjigin is standing there like an idiot.

“Borjigin,” I whisper, “get down.”

He looks at me, dumbstruck and afraid, then slips under a yellowish-green plant with leaves bigger than he is.

The rustling increases. I hear it from several areas at once, all to my right. Something is coming our way.

A creature runs across the trail—brown with yellowish spots, four legs, about the size of the pigs we saw on the Xolotl. It doesn’t have eyes like us, but rather a line of three shiny black dots down each side of its strange head. The creature vanishes into the underbrush on the other side of the trail.



Could we kill that, eat it?

I remember how good the pig tasted.

On my side of the trail, rattling and rustling; more of the odd brown creatures, following the first. And behind them, something strange—it looks like a big snake, dirty-yellow and as thick as my thigh, silently rising up from the underbrush. Long, wicked-looking barbed pincers spread wide, ready to strike.

A second brown animal scurries across the trail, then another, and another. A chubby little one scrambles between Borjigin and me. Smaller than the rest…it must be a baby. Its foot catches on a root; it tumbles forward, rolling, splashing up mud.

It is so close I could reach out and grab it.

The snake-thing shoots forward: pincers snap together, punching through the little animal’s flesh. The baby squeals in pain and terror. The snake rises up, its prey held between the pincers. Short legs kick helplessly. Pinkish blood pours down.