He misses.
The blade sparks when it skips off the stone floor just behind the running pig. The spear clatters against the wall.
Bishop roars and sprints at the pig. El-Saffani angles left, trying to cut off the animal, while Latu positions herself in the room’s narrow opening, blocking any way out. The circle-stars didn’t communicate with each other, yet they act as one, four people who instantly work together like they’ve done it a hundred times before. I have no idea what to do, so I stay near Latu.
The pig pauses, its head flicking side to side as it looks for somewhere to run. Bishop launches himself at it—the pig hops over his outstretched arms and darts away. Bishop grunts in pain when he crashes to the stone floor.
The twins rush the pig at the same time, but they might as well be trying to catch the air itself. The solid animal bobs left and right as it slips through the grasp of Boy El-Saffani. Girl El-Saffani snatches at its rear ankles: she grabs the right one, but is yanked off-balance as the pig powers along on three remaining legs. She stumbles, trips and lands hard on her shoulder.
The pig barrels straight at Latu and me.
Latu is still blocking the exit. She waves her torch back and forth; the whipping flame makes shadows lengthen and shorten, lengthen and shorten.
The pig stops, confused by the fire.
“Em, stab it,” Latu screams. “Stab it now!”
The long knife, I forgot it was in my hand. I have to kill the animal. We have to eat, there isn’t any choice….
The pig glances back at Bishop, who is scrambling to his feet, then at Boy El-Saffani, who is closing in—then at Latu. I can almost see the pig make a decision of its own: better to face the fire than to be trapped in this room.
It rushes at Latu. I step between her and it, thrust out with the blade. The pig sees my attack and scoots to its left, so fast. I whip the knife sideways and feel it dig in deep, but it flies out of my grip, spins through the air and clatters on the stone floor.
Squealing in pain and terror, the pig launches itself at Latu, slamming into her and knocking the torch from her hands. Latu tumbles backward, grabs the pig in both arms as she falls. Pig legs thrash, trying to find purchase, but Latu has her arms wrapped tightly around the animal’s thick middle.
“Em! Help me hold this thing!”
I move to grab it, but the pig moves faster.
It twists its neck and bites down hard on Latu’s shoulder. Her scream echoes off the dome roof. The pig thrashes its head side to side. Latu’s feet kick, she tries to push the pig away, but the animal won’t let go.
I am on it before I know it, punching and shouting, my fists slamming hard into the solid body, splatting against greasy, stinking fur.
The pig scrambles away, hooves clattering on stone. It sprints for the hallway that leads deeper into unexplored areas—in seconds, it is lost in the shadows.
It’s gone.
Latu moans. Her right hand clutches her left shoulder. Blood seeps through her fingers, spreads across her white shirt. I grab her, try to sit her up.
“Latu! Are you okay?”
A stupid thing to say, but I don’t know what to do. Blood is everywhere. Her face is a scrunched wrinkle of agony. Her lips curl back, and she forces her words through clenched teeth.
“Go…get it,” she says. “Kill it.”
I try to see how bad her wound is.
“I’m staying with you.”
Her eyes pop open, go wide with sheer fury.
“Em, kill it before it gets away!”
Bishop stumbles past us. He’s limping, favoring his right knee.
The knife is in his hand.
I look back through the broken archway doors. A fading torch lies on the floor. In the fluttering flame’s light, I see Boy El-Saffani trying to help Girl El-Saffani to her feet. She’s struggling to get up but her arms and legs seem weak and uncooperative.
Bishop limps off after the pig. He doesn’t have a torch. He’s going to get lost in the darkness.
Latu’s bloody hand locks down on my wrist.
“Em, I’m okay, just go.”
I grab her torch from the floor and scramble to my feet. I chase after Bishop.
It’s not hard to see where he’s going: a trail of pig blood lines the way. The gleaming liquid looks more black than red under my torch’s glow. I see him up ahead, limping along.
“Bishop, stop! Come back, Latu’s hurt.”
He keeps going, taking two steps with his left foot for every one with his right. His bare feet slap against the blood-covered stone, leaving red-black footprints that mark his path. Sometime in the past few hours, I don’t know when, he took off his socks and left them behind.
“Bishop! Stop!”
He does, and whirls toward me. His face is something I barely recognize, a mask of insatiable rage.