Alight (The Generations Trilogy #2)(51)

The underbrush shudders and parts as something big rises up—the snake is only part of this predator, some kind of elongated nose. The beast stands on four long legs. Tawny fur splotched with brown stripes. Below where the thick snake meets the head, a wide mouth filled with white teeth as long as my fingers. Powerful shoulders and chest slim to narrower hips and muscular legs. Just like with the pig-creatures, the three glistening black dots on either side of the head must be its eyes.

The baby’s squeals, so loud.

The snake-trunk suddenly whips down, smashing the baby into the trail so hard I feel the impact through the ground.

The squeals change to wet grunts.



The snake lifts it again—the baby is still twitching—then slams it down again.

No more grunts. No more movement.

The snake-trunk curls inward, placing the dead animal into the long-toothed maw. Close, chew, crunch.

Swallow.

The snake-trunk suddenly rises up, stops. I see four little flesh spots on the end, above the pincers. They open, draw in air, close, open.

My blood runs cold: Does it smell me?

The snake-trunk twists this way and that, sniffing.

The monster’s head is heavy, bony. Beneath the dirty fur, I see twitching muscle and shapes of ribs so flat and thick they make me think of armor. Its chest is a solid plate of curved bone, a shade darker than its fur. My hands tighten on my spear—if this thing attacks, I don’t even know where to stab it.

Sniff-sniff…

Without a sound, Bishop is crouching next to me, axe clutched in his hands.

The snake swings to Borjigin’s plant. The only thing between him and those gore-smeared pincers is a single wide, thin leaf.

Sniff-sniff…

The yellow-furred animal takes a step back. The trunk contorts, the pincers lurch up and away—a stream of goo shoots from each of the nostrils.

Did it just sneeze?

The beast turns and runs into the jungle. As big as it is, it instantly vanishes into the underbrush.

A few moments pass. Then, almost as if someone slowly turns a hidden dial, noise returns to the jungle.

Coyotl slides out of the jungle onto the trail, runs past us, straight to Borjigin’s plant. Coyotl rips the leaf away, revealing a shaking, terrified boy, then kneels, puts his arm around Borjigin and speaks so softly I can’t hear.



Bishop and I stand. I feel wobbly, like I was just in a fight, even though nothing touched me.

“I don’t understand,” I say. “Why didn’t it attack? That little animal couldn’t have been more than a mouthful.”

Visca appears as unexpectedly as Bishop did. I will never get used to how the circle-stars move with such silence.

“We didn’t smell right,” Visca says. “We must not smell like food.”

Kalle steps out of the underbrush.

“An allergic reaction, perhaps,” she says. “Maybe it has never smelled anything like us before.”

Bishop shakes his head. “I doubt that. Someone built the fire pit, someone built the city. There are people on Omeyocan.”

Visca shrugs. “Then our clothes, maybe? Could be a smell on those?”

More questions for which we do not have answers.

“We keep moving,” Bishop says. “The next animal might like the way we smell. Visca, move out.”

Visca turns and walks down the trail, barely making a sound.

I’m supposed to be in charge, but out here, Bishop is giving the orders. That’s fine for now—my pounding heart is crushing my chest and lungs. I don’t think I could focus on anything other than staying on the trail.

Bishop points at Borjigin. “And you need to be quiet.”

Coyotl steps between them.

“Leave him alone, Bishop. He’s doing the best he can.”

Borjigin says nothing, just stands there, shivering.

Bishop glares at Borjigin, then at Coyotl, then turns and heads down the trail.

—



We walk through the jungle. Tiny bugs are starting to land on me, but they don’t bite. It’s more annoying than anything else.

That big predator scared the hell out of me. An hour later and I’m still not feeling right. It was like a bear or a giant wolf, with an elephant’s trunk that ended in ant pincers. What do we even call it? Snake-wolf? Bear-bug? Hard to think of a name, because there are no easy comparisons to Matilda’s memories.

The buzzing of the blurds. The hoots of unseen animals echoing through the canopy. The heat. The humidity. The red sun blazing off yellow leaves. We are in so much trouble right now, yet my love for Omeyocan overwhelms me. This is my home. It was my home before I ever set foot here. I don’t want to be anyplace else. Not ever.

Up ahead, Visca stops. He holds up a fist.

Bishop jogs back to us. The leaves seem to part for him, he seems to slide through them as if he has no substance at all.

He puts one arm around Kalle, the other around me, nods toward a tree trunk on the right side of the path. He wants us to hide.

The three of us kneel behind the tree trunk. I look around: Visca has vanished. Borjigin is on the other side of the trail, hiding behind a fallen log. Coyotl is with him, vine-wrapped and nearly invisible.

The wind changes slightly—I catch a faint wisp of burned toast.

Then I hear it. A noise, soft, regular…branches sliding off something…a faint crackle of twigs snapping underfoot…