The mention of that name almost spoils the moment. Of course Aramovsky will attribute this to the gods, when clearly it was people who built this city and made this food.
Coyotl pulls a bin from the rack, sets it on the floor and opens it. “Hey, cookies!” He tears open a pink package and pulls out a small black circle. The sight of it makes my mouth water; Matilda had treats like that when she was little. But we don’t know if it’s safe to eat.
“Coyotl, put it down,” I say.
He looks at it wistfully, then sets the cookie and the package back in the bin.
Farrar drops his shovel and sprints to the bin. He pulls out the same cookie that Coyotl held. Farrar’s smile is so bright it could light up the entire warehouse.
“Finally—sweets!”
Before I can tell him to drop it, he pops the whole thing into his mouth and crunches down.
“The gods provide,” he says, chewing and grinning.
Coyotl is frowning. He stares at his fingers like there is something wrong with them, flicks them like he’s trying to shake off a bug.
Movement on my left. Bishop, wiping his hand against what’s left of his pants, a worried look on his face.
“My fingers are tingling,” he says. “They sting a little.”
I hear a sharp beep: the sound comes from Spingate’s bracer. The jewels all flash a bright orange—an obvious color of warning.
She stands quickly. “The red powder is mold. It’s toxic.”
The word stabs through my chest.
I drop my spear, sprint to Farrar.
“Spit it out! Spit it out!”
Still chewing, he looks at me like he doesn’t understand what I’m saying—then I realize he’s not looking at me at all. His eyes are glassy, unfocused.
“These cookies taste awful,” he says in a sleepy voice, then stumbles backward. I try to catch him as he falls, but his weight drags us both down. I scramble to my knees, hearing feet slapping against the floor as the others run our way.
Farrar gags. His eyes roll up, showing only whites that gleam ghostly in the flashlight beams.
Spingate slides down next to me, grabs Farrar’s face, jams her fingertips and thumbs into his cheeks, forcing his jaw open.
“Em, get it out of his mouth before he swallows!”
I reach in with my fingers, scoop out half-chewed cookie and throw the black mess aside. I slide fingertips between his lips and gums, under his tongue, fling more poison away—my skin is already tingling.
“Coyotl, water,” Spingate barks. She turns Farrar’s face to the side. “Wash out his mouth!”
Coyotl aims his container at Farrar’s open mouth and squeezes—a jet of water splashes across Farrar’s tongue, dribbles onto the dirty floor.
Farrar starts to twitch. He convulses, body contracting violently—his forehead smashes into Spingate’s cheek, sends her sprawling.
Bishop locks his arms around Farrar’s upper body, holds him tight.
All our flashlights are on the floor, except for Coyotl’s, the beam of which dances madly across Farrar’s face.
Spingate is there again, blood coursing down her cheek. She’s looking inside the white case Smith gave her, trying to find something specific. She removes a small white device barely bigger than her pinkie, presses it to Farrar’s throat.
I hear a small snikt sound. She pulls the device away, drawing a thin metal needle with it. She injected him with something.
Farrar’s body lurches hard, then relaxes all at once. His eyes flutter open. I can see his irises. His chest heaves.
Spingate holds his face again, but gently this time.
“Farrar, it’s Spingate. Can you see me?”
His eyes widen, focus on her. He nods.
I feel my held breath rush out: he’s okay.
Farrar looks at me, confused, then at Bishop.
“What happened?”
“You ate the cookies,” Bishop says. “Everyone, make sure you do not eat the cookies.”
Bishop is so solemn and serious—I start laughing. The sound is awkward. I shouldn’t be laughing, because there’s nothing funny about any of this, but I can’t help it.
—
Spingate examines her twentieth bin. Bishop and Coyotl have been bringing them back from all over the warehouse. Coyotl even climbed up high to grab one, somehow managing to get all the way back down while holding it under one arm.
We watch the bracer on Spingate’s wrist as she waves her hand over the bin’s contents: a dozen dark-pink boxes that tease us with simple names for food.
The jewels flash orange.
I look over at Farrar. He’s sheened with sweat. It’s been maybe an hour since he ate the cookie, and he’s still breathing hard. Spin thinks he’ll be fine, but when we get back to the shuttle I’ll make sure Smith takes a look at him.
Spingate closes the bin she just examined. The jaguar’s jewel eye sparkles. She looks at Bishop.
“You’re sure this was from farther away?”