Alight (The Generations Trilogy #2)(56)

From all over the jungle, I hear the horns calling to each other.

I feel the heat before I smell the smoke or see the light: another wall of fire rages up in front of us.

The Springers are herding us, making us go where they want, but the fire will boil the flesh from our bones and we have no choice but to run from it.

We race through thick underbrush.

My legs scream at me to stop. My stomach heaves. I’m going to throw up again even though there’s nothing left inside.

We burst into a wide clearing. A plaza of some kind. Building remnants and tall vine-draped trees rise on all sides. In the middle of the clearing is what looks like a fountain, long since run dry.

My boots thud on stone tiles, chipped and cracked by age…no vines, no moss, no mud.

At the plaza’s edges, at least a dozen Springers.

They level their clubs at us.

Bishop stops. I stop. My stomach roils, my lungs burn, my legs shudder. Borjigin stumbles, falls hard. He rolls to his back, stomach and chest heaving—he can run no more. Coyotl stands next to me, bone club at the ready. Kalle points her little knife, defiant to the last.



The Springers that were giving chase tear out of the jungle behind us, cutting off any escape.

We are surrounded.

“Borjigin,” Bishop barks, “get on your godsdamned feet or die on your back like a worm.”

Borjigin finds some final bit of hidden strength. He stands, holds his knife in a trembling hand. The five of us huddle together, weapons ready as the creatures slowly tighten their circle.

I hear the fires they set to channel us to this place, the crackling of wood and the spitting of moisture. Thick smoke chokes the air.

Then, over the fire’s roar, I hear another noise—the sound of something big ripping through the jungle.

And…the sound of whining.

The Springers’ orderly approach disintegrates. They turn in place, aiming their clubs into the trees, looking for the source of that sound.

A giant spider rips out of the jungle and into the clearing.

Then a second spider. And a third.

The Springers squeal—a grinding, high-pitched, stuttering thing I’ve never heard before, but there is no mistaking those raw sounds for anything other than screams of horror.

The first spider scurries forward, kicking up sparks off the stone surface. A pointed foot raises high and plunges down, driving into a Springer’s head, through the body, until the tip chinks into the plaza hard enough to kick up shards of tile.

Bang!



Bang!

Bang!

Cones of smoke belch forth. I flinch each time, waiting for the tiny rocks to punch holes in my body, but the Springers are shooting at the spiders, not us. My back presses into Coyotl, into Bishop, into Borjigin, into Kalle—we pack together, facing death on all sides.

Bishop screams out orders.

“When I say now, we run! Stay behind me, and do not fall. Coyotl, protect our rear.”

A Springer leaps past us, fleeing for its life. The long hop is beautiful and impressive, but not enough to outrun a chasing spider. The flick of a yellow, three-foot-long foreleg bends the Springer in half like a wet twig, flings it against the long-dry fountain. I hear bones snap on impact. The Springer falls to the ground, twitching, three eyes glassy and unfocused.

Green eyes…like Spingate’s.

Another Springer crashes down in front of me, head torn away. The ragged stump of its thick neck gushes blue blood onto the cracked stone.

Springers flee into the trees. The spiders give chase.

Bishop’s voice, bellowing, all-powerful: “Now!”

I feel him go. I follow instantly, letting Kalle step in front of me so I can protect her. We sprint across the plaza toward the trees.

A spider erupts from the jungle directly in front of us, a ten-foot-tall explosion of spinning leaves and flying branches. Bishop tries to stop too fast; his feet slide out from under him—his head and back smack against the broken tiles.

The spider lurches forward, torn vines dangling from its legs and body, pointed feet driving down so hard I feel each step. One of its five legs drags limply behind it. The spider towers above us, a specter of unstoppable death.



I rush forward, plant myself between Bishop and the oncoming spider. I raise my spear and I scream a challenge.

The spider stops.

Coyotl is there, his thighbone raised. He shakes with fear, yet he stands beside me. The spider will have to go through both of us to get Bishop.

The spider doesn’t attack.

That fast-paced chinking sound again, but from behind. We turn: the other two spiders have closed in. We are trapped between all three of them.

Kalle and Borjigin struggle to help Bishop stand. Bishop tries to raise his axe, but he can barely hold on to it. The five of us huddle together.

The spiders are as motionless as the old stone fountain.

“Bishop,” I say, “what do we do?”

I feel him shrug. “I was going to ask you.”

Coyotl’s thighbone clatters on the tiles. He seems dazed. He walks toward the limp-legged spider.

I grab his arm. “Coyotl, what are you doing?”

He effortlessly shrugs me off. He shuffles forward, toward the spider, moving like he’s not even fully awake.

I want to rush in front of him, just like I did with Bishop, I want to attack the spider and save my friend, but suddenly my feet won’t move—whatever bravery I held inside of me has turned tail and fled.