Bishop yanks the spear from my hands. Two steps take him into the hall. I give chase instantly, my legs finally my own again.
I see Bishop start to throw—the image burns into my eyes, my brain, my forever memory. His right arm cocked back, muscles straining the fabric of his shirt, the spear shaft balanced in his hand, the blade tip near his neck. His left hand extended, fingertips pointed down the hall, the straight arm a perfect continuation of the spear’s line. His bare chest, sweaty and gleaming in the torchlight, every fiber of him taut and fluttering. He is all the motion that has ever existed. He is a gemstone sculpted to look like a person: hard and permanent and flawless.
His right arm whips forward, driven by the twist of his shoulders and hips. My eyes follow the spear down the hall. It flies fast, far and straight. The tiniest bit of torchlight reaches out, and I see a glimpse of a black-furred leg before it is swallowed up by shadow.
The spear follows it, vanishes from sight.
A squeal of pain echoes from the darkness.
Bishop grabs a torch from Bello—I hadn’t even noticed her there, her or Okereke and his flag-bag full of oily strips—then sprints after the pig. El-Saffani follows him, as does Latu.
I glance back down the hall, see Farrar standing still and firm in front of fading torches, see the kids packed in behind him. We’re getting too spread out, and everything is happening so fast.
We found a pig—what else will we find?
“Bishop, STOP!”
He stumbles, surprised, then turns and looks at me. El-Saffani and Latu stop as well, their bodies seemingly desperate to rush down the hall despite what their brains tell them to do.
“Em, I hit it,” Bishop says. “It’s dead! Come on!”
He’s so excited. He’s a bright-eyed little boy on his twelfth birthday, and this game was his present, the best present he could ever imagine.
Another pain-laced squeal echoes along the stone walls. The pig sounds farther away—obviously, it’s not dead.
Bishop snarls and smiles all at the same time.
“It’s wounded,” he says.
The best game he could ever imagine just got better.
He’s coiled so tight he’s almost shaking with intensity. I instinctively want to back away from him, point the spear at him in defense like I pointed it at the charging pig. I force myself to stand firm.
“Em, come on,” he says. “Let’s go after it!”
He’s asking me to come with him. He took the spear, ripped it right out of my hands, but not because he wanted to be the leader. At that instant, he didn’t care about what the weapon symbolized; he used it for its true purpose.
The spear is for killing.
No matter what I tell Bishop to do, I know he’s going after that pig. If I tell him to stay, he’ll go anyway, and everyone will know my leadership can simply be ignored. That could hurt us even more than thirst or hunger. I have to keep control, I have to keep us united.
If people don’t have faith in me, we will all lose.
“Bello, give half the torch strips to El-Saffani,” I say. “Then you and Okereke take the rest back to Farrar and the others, wait for me there.”
O’Malley shakes his head. “Em, everyone needs to stay together. We can’t go chasing around in the darkness, we can’t get separated. The others are going to get upset.”
He’s right. People are already antsy. If I leave them with Aramovsky…
“O’Malley, you go back with Bello,” I say. “Tell everyone we’re trying to get food.” I hold my hand toward him, palm up. “Give me the knife.”
He looks at my hand, then doubtfully at Bishop.
“I should go with you,” O’Malley says.
“Give me the knife,” I repeat. “Keep everyone calm.”
O’Malley shifts from one foot to the other.
“Going after the pig is dangerous,” he says.
“O’Malley, the knife.”
He hands it over hilt-first, scowling at me and Bishop both.
I turn to Latu.
“Go with O’Malley. We’ll be back as soon as we can.”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m going with you. I want to be part of the hunt.”
This is the girl who punched Bishop in the face. I see the same look in her eyes I see in his: she’s going to go no matter what I tell her. I’m getting frustrated: I don’t know how to control the circle-stars, I don’t have time to argue with her, and I can’t lose that argument while everyone is watching. If Bishop can ignore me, if Latu can, then what’s to stop Visca, El-Saffani and the other circle-stars from going their own way?
“You stay at my side,” I tell her. “You protect me, agreed?”
Latu nods hard enough to make her frizzy hair flop back and forth.
O’Malley’s face wrinkles in anger. “What? Why does she get to go?”
Because Latu won’t do what she’s told, and you will.
“Just keep the others calm,” I say.