Alight (The Generations Trilogy #2)(84)

Our best chance is to find the church. Hopefully, Barkah is there, and—hopefully—he’ll talk to me. If he’s not there, then it will be time to use the flashlight and wander the jungle. If O’Malley and I are lucky, the first Springers we meet will want to talk, not shoot.

I found that first fire pit. I’m surprised I can follow the trail easily, even at night. I like to think that Visca would have been proud of me.

O’Malley is noisier than I would like, but I admit I’m impressed. He’s quieter than Coyotl was, and way quieter than Borjigin. If we make it through the night alive, he might learn to be as silent as I am.

And when he talks, he whispers—for that part of creeping through the jungle, at least, he’s a natural.

“You did a brave thing, coming out here,” he says.

“You’re out here, too.”

He’s behind me, so I can’t see him, but I’m sure he’s nodding. I hear a sharp slap as he smacks a bug that landed somewhere on his face or neck.

“It’s been at least an hour,” he says. “How much farther to this church?”



“You mean, if we don’t get killed by a snake-wolf? Or shot by Springers? Or attacked by one of the other animals we hear?”

A pause.

“Yeah. If none of those things happen.”

“I’ll tell you when we get there. More walking, less talking.”

It’s almost funny to think about how confident he was back in the pilothouse, when he kissed me. In the safety of the shuttle, he swaggers. Out here, he’s scared. I shouldn’t tease him about that, though—I’m scared, too.

The animal noises fade, then go silent.

“What’s happening?” O’Malley asks.

“Predator. Come on.”

I lead him to the same kind of wide-leafed plant Borjigin hid beneath. We tuck under the leaves and wait.

Beneath my feet, a small tremble. A regular tremble, not the mad stampede of animals. O’Malley feels it, too—he looks at the ground quizzically.

“Uh, Em…just how big is this predator?”

Something’s wrong. When the snake-wolf came, I didn’t feel anything like this. The vibrations grow stronger, thump-thump-thump-thump.

Memories of our time on the Xolotl come rushing back. A rhythmic pounding, an organized stomping. Getting louder and louder. Shaking the ground.

O’Malley figures it out a split second before I do.

“Marching,” he says. “But it would have to be so many. Thousands.”

He looks at me, half in fear, half in disbelief.

“Springers,” I say, and ice creeps across my heart.

I stand, scan the jungle. I need to get higher and see what’s going on. There, a big tree, the trunk massive and gnarled, wider than most. If it’s wider, maybe it’s also taller.



I hand O’Malley the shovel.

“Stay here,” I say.

Thick vines run up the big trunk, creepers that root in the ground and cling to the bark with hundreds of thin white tendrils. The vines—still wet from the drizzle—hold my weight, let me climb high enough to grasp a branch. I move quickly but carefully, mindful that everything I touch and step on is damp and slick.

Higher.

I draw even with the canopy, see the tops of trees all around me. I was right: this tree is taller than most.

Higher still.

The leaves rattle harshly just above my head—something yellow and small leaps from the tree. Arms spread, skin flaps catch air, and the animal is gone in an instant, banking to slide through vines and out of sight.

My heart hammers. That thing startled me…maybe I startled it. It was the same kind of animal I saw when Spingate and I were walking through the jungle. This close, though, I saw more of it. Seemed like it was holding something…maybe a stick?

I climb higher.

The trunk narrows, the branches thin. I reach the top—here the trunk is so slim the tree wobbles from my weight.

As if the gods are real and want to help me, the wind drops off and the last of the drizzle stops. One of the two moons escapes the clouds and turns the jungle into a maroon landscape.

I look out across the trees.

“Oh…oh no.”

The canopy blocks most of my view, but through it I see so many Springers it looks like the entire jungle floor is moving.

A line of them march shoulder to shoulder, hopping in unison. The line stretches off into the distance. I can’t even see where it ends.



Some carry muskets. Most carry other weapons: axes, knives, swords and spears.

Behind the first line, a second.

And a third.

Thousands of them. My people are hopelessly outnumbered. The war machines will be our only hope of survival.

Closer the marchers come. I have to move soon or I won’t be able to get down without being seen.

Wait…in the middle, straight out from me, behind the second line. Springers hacking at trees and vines, cutting away underbrush. Stretching out behind them, a maroon streak through the jungle—they are clearing an old road.

Something on that road. I squint, lean forward, as if those extra few inches can make a difference. I recognize the design. The toys Barkah showed me, the ones with the long, straight wooden tails, the carts that smashed spiders…they weren’t toys at all. They were models of something real.