We should go get Bishop, get more circle-stars. I should say something, but my mouth doesn’t want to work any more than my feet do.
She’s five coffins from the last one…then four…
O’Malley moves to stand next to me, the long knife held out in front of him.
Three coffins…then two…
A deep snort.
That sound—it’s not a kid like us. It’s not an adult. It’s not human.
Something moves, pops up out of the last coffin, something with shiny eyes, something covered in black, greasy hair that reflects the torchlight, and I know monsters are real—because that is a monster.
I take a step away. O’Malley takes two. Latu slowly backpedals, her torch angled toward this sudden threat.
We look at the monster. The monster looks at us.
An old memory flares to life, but not just from what I see—it’s also from what I smell. That awful odor that I couldn’t identify. It’s from when I was little, at school…no, not at school, on a field trip with people from the school, a field trip to a special place.
To…to a farm.
The awful smell is animal droppings.
The black-furred thing standing in the coffin, it’s not a monster at all.
It’s a pig.
NINETEEN
The pig is just tall enough that its head hangs over the coffin wall. It’s not very big. It’s black, or at least its head is, because that’s all we can see. Is that the color of its fur, or is it completely covered in grease and dirt? So hard to tell in the flickering torchlight, which makes the animal’s black eyes waver with glimmering reflections.
“I can’t believe it,” O’Malley says. “That’s a pig. I think I’ve seen one before.”
Latu keeps backing up until she stands next to us. “Em, what do we do?”
I have no idea. What is a pig doing here?
My heart kicks so bad I feel it in my throat. When that black head popped up, I was sure Spingate was wrong and Aramovsky was right, that monsters were real and one was about to attack us.
“A farm,” O’Malley says. “I saw one on a farm.”
His words are light and dreamy, like the word farm is a discovery to him, a happy memory come to life.
Latu leans close to O’Malley without taking her eyes off the pig, which is still looking at us.
“What’s a farm?” she asks him.
“A place where they grow food,” O’Malley says.
My hunger pangs and pains return all at once, rush back with more intensity than ever before.
“Food,” Latu says. She shakes the torch in the pig’s direction. “Is that thing food?”
The tone of her voice is full of want, full of need.
“Yes,” O’Malley says. His voice doesn’t sound dreamy anymore—it sounds hungry. “Yes…pigs are definitely food.”
The pig grunts. Its right ear twitches. It’s staring at me. The pig is food, food that’s still alive. I don’t know what this animal is doing in here, but it isn’t hurting us. If we’re going to eat it, it has to die. Hasn’t there been enough death in this place already?
But we don’t know if we’ll find food somewhere else. There are twenty-four of us, so many mouths to feed. Reality is what it is whether we like it or not: the reality is that we’re starving.
Before we can eat that pig, someone has to kill it.
“O’Malley,” I say, “go get Bishop.”
He quietly turns and walks out of the room.
Latu nudges me. “Em, give me the spear. I’ll kill it right now.”
“Do you know how to kill a pig?”
“No,” she says. “I’ll…I’ll stab it until it stops moving.”
She doesn’t want to kill the pig, I can tell by her voice, but she knows what must be done and she’s willing to do it.
“Wait for Bishop,” I say.
“Em, give me the spear before the thing runs away!”
Latu’s yelling spooks the pig. Hooves paw at the coffin wall, filling the room with deafening noise, clak-crack-clak.
Behind me, I hear heavy footsteps rush into the room. It’s Bishop. He takes one look at the situation, then shouts at me.
“Em, give me the spear!”
The pig leaps out of the coffin and into the aisle. It hits the ground running, charges straight at me, squealing so loud it hurts my ears. I thrust the spear out in front of me, more to protect myself than to stab the animal. The little head bobs left and then the pig is running right, brushing against my left leg as it shoots past, too quick for me to react in time.
I turn to give chase—and almost drive the spearpoint into Bishop’s chest. He twists at the last moment, so fast, his hand grabbing the shaft as the blade hisses through the empty air where his heart had been a split second earlier.
O’Malley and El-Saffani have a chance at the pig, but scoot out of its way instead of diving on top of it—the pig scampers out of the room.