The pigs ripped her to pieces. Her shirt—what’s left of it—is a mess of red-soaked white.
They tore open her stomach.
They shredded her shoulder, the bitten one, chewing away so much muscle that I’m not sure if the arm is still attached or if it’s just lying in the right position to make it look like it is.
Parts of her are scattered about the hallway, lying among the bloody hoofprints of her killers.
They ate her feet. Her feet. Sticks of red-smeared broken white jut out from where her ankles used to be. I see gnaw marks on the bones.
The pigs murdered her.
The pigs devoured her.
The pigs are food for us. We are food for the pigs.
Did Latu scream? Did she fight? I will never know.
I lean against the wall. My shoulder presses into a carving of a man harvesting wheat. I close my eyes.
I want to go to sleep. I want to go to school. I want to take a bath and put on clean clothes. I want Dad to cook me dinner. I want O’Malley’s sandwich, Yong’s pasta with cheese, I want Aramovsky’s cupcake.
Why won’t someone come for us?
Because…because we’re not loved. That has to be why. We are discarded. We are unwanted. Our parents, they left us in this nightmare. They left us alone.
It stinks in here. It smells of pig shit and death.
I use the backs of my hands to wipe away tears.
Latu’s dead eyes are looking at me. I know they are. Looking at me, blaming me.
My tears come faster, harder, making my sight shimmer, making Latu waver. Her face, it changes.
Now it’s Yong.
How many more will die, Em? he asks. How many more like Latu and me?
“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know how many.”
I wipe the tears away again, harder this time, and look down at the body. It’s not Yong. It’s Latu. And she can’t talk to me, because she’s dead.
Things could have been different. I can’t remember school, but I know I used to go to one. What if I’d met Latu in class? We could have sat at the same table at lunch. We could have played together at recess.
I would have invited her to my birthday party.
She would have invited me to hers.
Is it still our birthday? I don’t know. There is no day down here. No night.
Latu and I would have been friends. Best friends.
We would have been kids.
But we’re not kids. We have been thrust into these older versions of ourselves. This body…I’m different in it. I can’t remember details, but I didn’t cry this much before. I know I didn’t. I never wanted to touch a boy’s chest. I never got so angry I wanted to hurt someone, like I wanted to hurt Yong.
Is it my fault Latu is gone? Yes. And Bishop’s fault? And El-Saffani’s? Yes, even Latu’s fault, too, because she insisted on coming when I told her to go with O’Malley. Choices have consequences. We all own a piece of the blame—but only a small piece, because we wouldn’t have made those bad decisions if someone hadn’t put us down here in the first place.
The people that did this to us, they are the ones responsible. Latu’s death is on their hands. So is Yong’s. All the pain and hunger and thirst, all the blood, it’s their fault.
I want to find out who they are. I want to make them pay.
Footsteps echo down the hall. Human footsteps.
Moments later, I see the torchlit faces of Bishop and El-Saffani. They stand there, shocked, staring down at Latu’s mutilated body.
Bishop looks at me. “Pigs?”
I nod.
“It’s horrible, she—”
“—must have screamed so much.”
If I yell at El-Saffani for leaving Latu alone, it won’t make any difference. It won’t bring her back, so I stay silent.
I squat down on my heels. I don’t kneel, because I don’t want Latu’s blood on my skin. I reach out and take her left hand. It’s free of blood, somehow, and it’s still warm.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her.
I realize I said those same words when I cut the pig’s throat, and that infuriates me. The people that put us here…I want to cut their throats. I want to kill them all.
I rest Latu’s hand on her chest. I don’t touch her right hand, because two of the fingers have been chewed off.
When I stand, I look away, and I will never look at her body again. I choose to remember Latu with her frizzy hair flying because we’re on a swing set, side by side, laughing in the sunshine during recess as we dare each other to go higher and higher.
“Bishop, take Latu into the dome room,” I say. “Put her on that stone circle, and bring me the spear.”
He pauses for a moment, then bends to scoop up my friend. I don’t watch.
“El-Saffani, put a new rag on Latu’s torch and give it to Bishop,” I tell the twins. “Fix your own torch as soon as you’re done. Divide the remaining rags into two piles. Bishop and I will take half, you’ll stay here with the rest.”
The twins glance at each other, afraid, doubtful.
“We’re staying here—”
“—and you’re leaving us?”