Not much smoke this time—because most of it went inside the beast’s big body.
The monster’s legs wobble. Stagger-stepping right, it falls hard on its side. Big chest, heaving. Snake-trunk twitching, coiling absently. Legs stretching out as if the creature just woke from a nap.
It’s still moving, but not for long: Purple attacks with the hatchet, hammering a spot between the two rows of black eyes. Swing, thonk! Swing, thonk! Swing, thonk!
I tear my eyes away from the brutal finish.
Spingate is kneeling next to the Springer with the broken leg. It trembles and twitches. From pain or terror, I’m not sure.
The rain washed away some mud from Spingate’s face, exposing a huge cut on her forehead that gushes red. She puts her hands on the Springer’s body, talks in a soothing voice.
“We won’t hurt you. It’s over. It’s over.”
She’s trying to help, just like she did with Yong back on the Xolotl. That boy, that terrified boy, lying on the dust-thick floor between us, crying for his mother, bleeding to death because I stabbed him in the belly.
Was that only a few days ago? We were so young, so scared. It feels like a lifetime has passed since that moment.
Spingate pets, coos, keeps talking softly. It seems to be working. The Springer’s shaking diminishes, even though I still see pure terror on that strange face—it is hurt so bad it can’t flee, and it is at the mercy of what it must think of as two hideous aliens.
The jungle noises fade in. A few howls, an echoing hoot, and then the buzz of life joins the roar of the rain.
The monster is dead.
I turn.
Purple stands there, only a short hop away. In one hand, the hatchet, dripping pink, spotted with wet chunks of white. In the other hand, my spear, the blade coated in pink slime.
Purple glances down at the wounded Springer, at Spingate. She doesn’t bother to look up, she keeps talking softly, keeps petting.
“We tried to help,” I say. “We saved your friend.”
Green eyes flick back to me. Still so full of hate, but there is something else there, something I can’t read.
“I’m sorry I killed Ponalla,” I say. “I truly am.”
Seconds pass. The four of us—two humans, two Springers—do not move. I listen to the rain. I listen to the jungle.
Purple raises the spear. I close my eyes—I’m just too tired to fight anymore.
Something hits the ground in front of me.
I look—my spear lies flat at my feet.
Purple shoves the handle of the gore-splattered hatchet into its belt, then hops to its friend. Spingate scoots back, wanting desperately to help, knowing she can’t.
Purple’s thick hands grab the wounded Springer’s leg, one on either side of the disgusting break. The wounded Springer says something soft and short, then Purple yanks. I see the bone slide back into flesh, hear a disgusting crunch-snap. The wounded Springer’s toad-mouth opens in a silent scream.
Purple beckons me to join him. He pantomimes, points to the wounded Springer, points to his own narrow shoulders, points down the trail. I think he wants me to help carry his friend. I don’t know if I’m strong enough, but I have to try.
“Spin, gather up the muskets,” I say. “And take the bags of the two dead ones.”
Booted feet splash through the mud as she runs to obey.
I look at Purple, nod.
It grunts something unintelligible. We both get under the wounded Springer’s arms, and we lift.
Good gods, it is heavy.
Struggling to stay upright, I let Purple guide us down the trail.
The wounded Springer, it’s warm. The Grownups were cold, disgusting. The Springer is neither: if I close my eyes, I could believe I was helping one of my own kind. It would feel much the same.
It is all I can do to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. The wounded Springer’s weight is harder on Purple than it is on me. He can’t hop, he has to put one foot in front of the other—a movement that turns him from graceful leaper to stumbling, awkward walker.
We struggle on for a long while until Purple finally stops. He points off to the left. Through the trees and the pouring rain, I see a six-sided ruin. Most of it is knocked down, vine-strangled like everything else on this planet, but part of it still stands. Matilda’s memories call up something from our childhood—am I looking at a church steeple?
At the very tip, a copper sphere. Two rings surround it, the inner one with two opposing dots, the outer with four.
Spingate catches up, struggling under her load of muskets and bags.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” she says, staring up at the steeple. “That’s the same symbol we saw on the Observatory. If we’re the first people here, how can the Springers have that same symbol?”
I don’t know. I don’t care. I just want to help keep this wounded Springer alive. Maybe that will balance against all the killing I’ve done.
Maybe.
Purple adjusts his position under his injured friend. I do the same. Together we walk toward the steeple.