Alight (The Generations Trilogy #2)(67)

Purple snatches up a fallen musket. He tries to aim, but the snake-trunk whips sideways, sending him tumbling into the wet underbrush.

Spingate pulls desperately at my arm.

“Get up! Please, run!”

I can’t, but not because of fear. Purple is trying to save his friends. I killed Ponalla—I have to help Purple, I have to make things right.

The monster’s pincers snatch up a Springer corpse, shove it into the wide mouth. Bite, rip—the body is torn in two. A leg falls free into the mud. Chomp-chomp, swallow.

It stops eating: it sees the crawling Springer. The monster drops the half-body and moves toward this live prey, clawed feet splashing against the trail.

My spear. I rush to it, snatch it up. The handle is slick with mud. I tear off the stupid white flag and toss it away.

The Springer with the broken leg crawls toward me. Just past it, the monster.

A flashfire memory, but not one of Matilda’s…Bishop, in the hallways, hurling the spear at the fleeing pig. A vision of magnificence. I saw how he threw…I can do the same.

I heft the spear in my right hand, find the balance point. My fingers close on the shaft. Loose, not too tight.



My target: a crack in the beast’s breastplate, leaking pink blood.

The monster’s long-toothed mouth opens, roars, and on it comes, clawed paws splashing in the thin mud.

The wounded Springer crawls faster. Not nearly fast enough to escape.

I step back with my right leg and point my left arm forward, toward the charging nightmare. I push off my right foot, lunge forward, plant my left foot and I throw.

The spear hisses through the rain. The metal spearhead thonks into the bone plate, in and through.

The monster staggers. Six black eyes blink. Spear sticking out of its chest, the monster changes its target—it starts toward me.

Purple rushes out of the jungle, short-handled axe in one hand, long-barreled musket in the other.

The monster sees him coming, swings a huge, mud-trailing paw at Purple, but the Springer ducks, slides across the wet ground, under the claws. Purple plants big feet, hops up and jams the musket barrel into the cracked, bleeding breastplate right next to my spear.

Boom!

Not much smoke this time—because most of it went inside the beast’s big body.

The monster’s legs wobble. Stagger-stepping right, it falls hard on its side. Big chest, heaving. Snake-trunk twitching, coiling absently. Legs stretching out as if the creature just woke from a nap.

It’s still moving, but not for long: Purple attacks with the hatchet, hammering a spot between the two rows of black eyes. Swing, thonk! Swing, thonk! Swing, thonk!

I tear my eyes away from the brutal finish.



Spingate is kneeling next to the Springer with the broken leg. It trembles and twitches. From pain or terror, I’m not sure.

The rain washed away some mud from Spingate’s face, exposing a huge cut on her forehead that gushes red. She puts her hands on the Springer’s body, talks in a soothing voice.

“We won’t hurt you. It’s over. It’s over.”

She’s trying to help, just like she did with Yong back on the Xolotl. That boy, that terrified boy, lying on the dust-thick floor between us, crying for his mother, bleeding to death because I stabbed him in the belly.

Was that only a few days ago? We were so young, so scared. It feels like a lifetime has passed since that moment.

Spingate pets, coos, keeps talking softly. It seems to be working. The Springer’s shaking diminishes, even though I still see pure terror on that strange face—it is hurt so bad it can’t flee, and it is at the mercy of what it must think of as two hideous aliens.

The jungle noises fade in. A few howls, an echoing hoot, and then the buzz of life joins the roar of the rain.

The monster is dead.

I turn.

Purple stands there, only a short hop away. In one hand, the hatchet, dripping pink, spotted with wet chunks of white. In the other hand, my spear, the blade coated in pink slime.

Purple glances down at the wounded Springer, at Spingate. She doesn’t bother to look up, she keeps talking softly, keeps petting.

“We tried to help,” I say. “We saved your friend.”

Green eyes flick back to me. Still so full of hate, but there is something else there, something I can’t read.

“I’m sorry I killed Ponalla,” I say. “I truly am.”



Seconds pass. The four of us—two humans, two Springers—do not move. I listen to the rain. I listen to the jungle.

Purple raises the spear. I close my eyes—I’m just too tired to fight anymore.

Something hits the ground in front of me.

I look—my spear lies flat at my feet.

Purple shoves the handle of the gore-splattered hatchet into its belt, then hops to its friend. Spingate scoots back, wanting desperately to help, knowing she can’t.

Purple’s thick hands grab the wounded Springer’s leg, one on either side of the disgusting break. The wounded Springer says something soft and short, then Purple yanks. I see the bone slide back into flesh, hear a disgusting crunch-snap. The wounded Springer’s toad-mouth opens in a silent scream.

Purple beckons me to join him. He pantomimes, points to the wounded Springer, points to his own narrow shoulders, points down the trail. I think he wants me to help carry his friend. I don’t know if I’m strong enough, but I have to try.