The Drowned Cities (Ship Breaker #2)(57)
Tool nodded. “So.”
He straightened and went over to the coywolv Mahlia had chopped with her machete. It still writhed on the ground, whimpering and baring its teeth. With a swift motion, Tool snapped its neck, then set his grip on the animal’s body. His muscles bulged.
The coywolv’s ribcage shattered like matchsticks.
“If we are pack, then conquest is our sustenance, sister.”
He plunged his hand into the coywolv’s frame. With a wet tearing, the heart came out, glistening and full of blood, veins and arteries torn. The muscle of life. Tool held it out to her. “Our enemies give us strength.”
Blood ran from his fist. Mahlia saw the challenge in the half-man’s eye.
She limped over to the battle-scarred monster and held out her hand. The heart was surprisingly heavy as Tool poured it into her palm. She lifted the muscle to her lips and bit deep.
Blood ran down her chin.
Tool nodded his approval.
PART TWO
THE
DROWNED
CITIES
26
MOUSE’S FACE BURNED, a constant reminder of his new associates: Slim and Gutty, Stork and Van. TamTam and Boots and Alil, and dozens more.
They stood around and laughed and pointed their guns at the prisoners where they lay flat on the ground with their hands on the backs of their heads, and every one of the soldiers carried the same burned brand on his cheek that Mouse carried on his own.
“You’re Glenn Stern’s now, warboy,” Gutty said, holding a pistol up to Mouse’s head. “Elite! Best of the best.”
Mouse held still, not sure what he was supposed to do. The barrel of the gun pressed behind his ear.
“Half-bar like you, there’s only one question…” Gutty went on. “Do you got what it takes?”
Mouse hesitated.
Gutty jammed the gun hard into his head, and Mouse finally understood.
“Yes,” he said.
“Yes, what?” Again the pistol jab.
“Yes, I got what it takes?”
“Then say it!” Gutty shouted. “I want to hear my warboy say it proud!”
“I got it!”
“GOT WHAT?”
“I got what it takes!”
“WHAT?”
“I GOT WHAT IT TAKES!” Mouse shouted as loud as he could, sure Gutty was going to blow his brains out.
“I CAN’T HEAR YOU, SOLDIER!”
“I GOT WHAT IT TAKES!”
“YOU A SOLDIER?”
“YES!”
“YOU CALL ME SIR, HALF-BAR! YOU CALL ME SIR!”
“YES, SIR!”
“THAT’S RIGHT, HALF-BAR! SING IT OUT!”
“I GOT WHAT IT TAKES, SIR!”
Mouse was shouting so loud his voice cracked. Gutty started laughing, doubled over with hilarity. Some of the other warboys were laughing with him.
“Damn,” Gutty said. “You got what it takes, huh?”
Mouse wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do, so he shouted again, “YES, SIR!”
Gutty slapped him upside the head, hard. “Shut up, maggot. You keep shouting like that, you’ll bring Army of God down on us, get us all killed.” He slapped Mouse again. “Now go get us some water. Fill our canteens.”
He tossed a bunch of plastic bottles over to Mouse, a big pile of them, all covered with pictures of Accelerated Age cars. One of them said MOTOR OIL on the side. A big yellow one read ANTIFREEZE.
“Move, soldier!”
Smoldering with fear and humiliation and adrenaline, Mouse gathered up all the bottles.
Every minute with the UPF soldiers felt like he was balancing on a slime-slick swamp log, always about to slip and drown. He clutched all the bottles to his chest, and then, with a surge of hope, he realized that he was being sent away from the camp.
Just himself.
He was a dog sent to fetch, and they didn’t take him seriously. But if he was quick about it, he could simply slip away. Disappear into the swamp, make like a lizard and disappear into the greenery.
Mouse glanced around, gauging the soldiers. They were all busy guarding prisoners. Talking with one another. Kicking back after their march. He gathered up the bottles and started off, forcing himself not to glance back, not to give away his intentions.
Don’t look sneaky, he told himself. Pretend like you’re a good soldier boy.
He walked quietly, listening to the jungle. No one was following. He was sure of it. He moved on through the jungle to where swamp water turned the ground squashy. Just a little farther. He reached the water.
Now, he thought. Run.
It was his chance. He needed to do it while they were distracted setting up camp. But something stilled him. Instead, Mouse crouched down and started filling bottles, listening to the jungle around him. Something didn’t sound right. He listened to water gurgling into the jugs, and to the jungle, trying to figure it out. It was too quiet.
With a chill, he realized that he wasn’t alone. Someone was watching him. He filled another canteen and casually let his eyes wander the greenery, as if he were simply bored and watching butterflies.
Nothing. But he was almost sure that he was being watched.
He finished filling the bottles. Straightened. Still nothing. But he couldn’t get rid of the fear that he was being watched. Mouse knew the jungle. He’d lived in it and hunted it, and foraged it, and there was someone out there.