And I didn’t have to. I could have run.
“I’m so sorry.” I know Purple can’t understand me, but the words come out anyway. “We were attacked, and it was confusing and I was mad, and…I’m so sorry.”
The green eyes watch me. Rage and loss recede briefly, replaced by confusion. Purple looks at the limp fabric in its two-fingered hand, then stuffs the drawing into its bag.
Spingate moans.
“Stay still,” I say. “We’re in trouble.”
She slowly lifts her head. Blood and mud sheet her face like a dark mask.
Purple takes a single hop back, raises the musket, points it right between my eyes. I’m staring into a circle of blackness, knowing it will be the last thing I ever see.
The other three Springers hop over, raise their weapons. The four of them stand side by side. They are going to execute us.
Time slows. The smell of the wet jungle in my nose. The feel of damp air in my lungs. Perfection. The sky, red sun blocked by clouds. The rain on my face. The taste of my own blood—everything is so wonderful. How could I not have savored these things every second I lived? Even the Springers are beautiful in their own way. Sights, scents, sounds…
Wait…I only hear the rain.
The jungle makes no noise.
Behind the Springers, something silently rises up. Something dirty-yellow…
A snake-trunk snaps forward. Pincers drive deep into the far-left Springer. It screams, a wet sound of shock and surprise as bluish blood spurts from its mouth.
At the edge of the trail, the monster rises up. Much bigger than the one I saw before. The snake-trunk coils, lifting its victim high. The other Springers turn, their long guns awkward and hard to bring around. The snake-trunk whips down, smashing the already-dying Springer into another, crushing them both to the muddy ground.
Bang!
A Springer fires. If the bullet hits, it does nothing. The snake-trunk lifts—one Springer hangs limply from the pincers, another stays facedown in the mud, shattered and still. In the same instant, the dangling victim is again used as a weapon; the trunk slams it into the Springer that just fired. I hear bones snap on impact, see the shooter’s upper leg bend where it should not.
Spingate pulls at my arm. “Come on, Em, run!”
The ground seems to hold me tight.
Purple stays calm despite the murderous beast standing only a few steps away. Purple takes aim—bang! Chips splinter from the bony chest plate. The monster stumbles. Pincers open—the broken and battered Springer drops onto the muddy path. It doesn’t move; it will never move again.
The broken-legged Springer crawls down the trail, desperate to escape. A white bone juts from its thick thigh. Blue blood spills from that wound out into the mud.
Purple snatches up a fallen musket. He tries to aim, but the snake-trunk whips sideways, sending him tumbling into the wet underbrush.
Spingate pulls desperately at my arm.
“Get up! Please, run!”
I can’t, but not because of fear. Purple is trying to save his friends. I killed Ponalla—I have to help Purple, I have to make things right.
The monster’s pincers snatch up a Springer corpse, shove it into the wide mouth. Bite, rip—the body is torn in two. A leg falls free into the mud. Chomp-chomp, swallow.
It stops eating: it sees the crawling Springer. The monster drops the half-body and moves toward this live prey, clawed feet splashing against the trail.
My spear. I rush to it, snatch it up. The handle is slick with mud. I tear off the stupid white flag and toss it away.
The Springer with the broken leg crawls toward me. Just past it, the monster.
A flashfire memory, but not one of Matilda’s…Bishop, in the hallways, hurling the spear at the fleeing pig. A vision of magnificence. I saw how he threw…I can do the same.
I heft the spear in my right hand, find the balance point. My fingers close on the shaft. Loose, not too tight.
My target: a crack in the beast’s breastplate, leaking pink blood.
The monster’s long-toothed mouth opens, roars, and on it comes, clawed paws splashing in the thin mud.
The wounded Springer crawls faster. Not nearly fast enough to escape.
I step back with my right leg and point my left arm forward, toward the charging nightmare. I push off my right foot, lunge forward, plant my left foot and I throw.
The spear hisses through the rain. The metal spearhead thonks into the bone plate, in and through.
The monster staggers. Six black eyes blink. Spear sticking out of its chest, the monster changes its target—it starts toward me.
Purple rushes out of the jungle, short-handled axe in one hand, long-barreled musket in the other.
The monster sees him coming, swings a huge, mud-trailing paw at Purple, but the Springer ducks, slides across the wet ground, under the claws. Purple plants big feet, hops up and jams the musket barrel into the cracked, bleeding breastplate right next to my spear.
Boom!