Visca drops the animal, stands, grips his hammer with both hands as the sound echoes away through the jungle.
A white spot on the wall that wasn’t there before, surrounded by the blue-green moss, like someone chipped away a piece of stone.
Another bang—Visca’s head snaps back.
He falls, limp.
Clumpy splatters of red goo on the wall’s blue-green moss, wet chunks sliding down yellow vine leaves.
Visca doesn’t move. He stares up. Eyes blank. Mouth open in surprise. A bloody hole above his right eye.
I hear Bishop shout something about running, but his voice is a distant dream, slow and meaningless.
That hole…
No…no-no-no…
I grab Visca, shake him. His head lolls to the side. The back of his skull is gone, blown apart. Chunks of bone dangle from his bloody, white-haired scalp. Brain smashed like fruit—red paste instead of yellow.
Bang: something hits the wall, showers me with bits of stone.
Bishop’s hand on my arm, yanking me up.
We’re sprinting for the crater. I clutch the spear, Bishop has his axe—it’s red, the color of Visca’s blood.
Motion on my right, past the clearing’s broken wall. A Springer, pointing a wood-and-metal club at me.
That roaring bang again—a cloud of smoke billows out the end. Something whizzes past my head, moving so fast I hear it but don’t see it.
We leap over the crater’s edge. Legs kick empty air. Feet hit the downslope, I fall, the spear flies from my hands. The world spins. Something hard drives into my shoulder. Up, stumbling. My spear, there, I grab it and run. Bishop on my left. Up ahead, racing through the shallow pond, Borjigin and Kalle, Coyotl behind them.
My boots, splashing.
A bang, a split-second pause, then a small plume of water rises just in front of me.
Rushing up the far slope. Legs pounding, feet slipping on hidden rubble, up and up and up. I don’t want to die like Visca. I don’t want to die.
Over the lip and into the jungle, plowing through vines and leaves. Branches and burrs tear at my skin, leaves slap at my face.
Another bang, then another, both from behind me. They sound farther away—we’re escaping.
A Springer to my left, close, so close, maybe twenty steps away, half-hidden by wide leaves. Rags tied around arms and chest and legs and tail blend it into the jungle. The flat end of its club is on the ground. It’s jamming a thin rod into the other end, over and over again.
Its fumbling hands toss the rod aside, a hurried motion—the end of the club snaps up, follows me as I run, targets me.
Bang: billowing smoke—my shoulder burns like I ran into a flaming branch.
It hurt me. It…it shot me.
(Attack, attack, always attack.)
I skid to a stop, boots sliding on muddy leaves.
I face my enemy.
The Springer takes a hop back, surprised.
Visca is dead. These creatures killed him. All we wanted to do was talk—these savages murdered my friend.
My face, so hot. My skin, prickling, poking, from my scalp down my arms, across my neck. My fear dies, drowned by that now-familiar rage. It blossoms up from an internal well of pure hate, threatens to engulf me, control me.
And this time, I let it.
The Springer plants the wide end of the club on the ground, fumbles with the bag on its hip. Shaking hands dig inside.
The club…it’s not like the Grownups’ bracelets that can be fired over and over. The club has to be reloaded every time.
“Em, come on!” Bishop, calling from the jungle up ahead.
I ignore him.
I lower my spear, and I charge.
The Springer pulls a wad of cloth from the bag, jams it into the club’s metal end.
I tear through the jungle toward it, spearpoint leading the way.
Its trembling hands pull a small, round object out of the bag. Thick fingers fumble the ball, catch it, shove it into the end of the club.
My legs feel perfect, each sprinting step sure and firm. My feet find the soft places.
The enemy realizes the thin rod is on the ground. It bends, snatches it up along with a few twigs and dried leaves. Three wide eyes snap to me, lock in on my spear tip.
Ten steps.
A new scent, like wet charcoal, but so acrid it almost burns—the smell of its weapon.
My enemy slides the rod into the club’s end, spastically jams it up and down.
Five steps, so close I see the color of its eyes: dark yellow. Almost like Bishop’s.
Rod pulled out, tossed away.
The Springer lifts the club, holds the wide end tight against a narrow shoulder. Wrinkled purple fingers pull back some kind of metal catch, which clacks into place.
The narrow tip swings up, toward me—
My spearhead drives through the creature’s belly with a squelching sound that’s almost drowned out by my scream of revenge.
(Kill your enemy, and you are forever free.)
The toad-mouth opens. Purple skin, skin that seems young, healthy. Dark-yellow eyes stare out. The look on its face…
…Visca, lying on the ground, the back of his head ripped apart…
…Yong, surprised, confused, terrified, betrayed…