His scrambling stops.
He slowly gets to his feet. He shakes his head, smiles in proud astonishment.
“You scared me,” he says. “You certainly look different.”
I do. Vines tied around my chest and waist and legs break up my outline. The skin of my face and hands is covered in plant juice and dirt. Twigs and leaves are woven into my hair.
“I saw Bishop talking to you when you left,” he says. “I knew he was planning a way to get you help.”
Of course O’Malley saw it—the master of whispers wouldn’t miss such a thing.
“Why didn’t Bishop come himself?”
“He couldn’t. Aramovsky was watching him closely, rushing him out to the spider nest. I waited until Aramovsky wasn’t looking, asked Bishop what I could do. He told me to get you any weapon I could find.”
O’Malley picks up the shovel, offers it to me. I drop the rock and take it. The shovel is heavy and unbalanced.
“Be careful with it,” he says. “Gaston helped me. He used a machine in the shuttle to sharpen it.”
I drag my thumb across the edge, the way Coyotl showed me. It’s very sharp. Probably sharper than the knife O’Malley wears on his belt, the one I used to kill Yong.
“What about you?” I ask. “Won’t Aramovsky notice his right-hand man is gone? That’s what you do, isn’t it? You help the leader?”
“He’ll notice eventually, but not right now. Opkick is his advisor—seems I’m not needed anymore.”
Oddly, I feel bad for O’Malley. If Aramovsky had picked him, would he have still come after me? I don’t know. Maybe it doesn’t matter: I needed help, and O’Malley came.
He steps closer. He reaches out, slowly. His fingertips trace my hairline, as if he needs to touch me but doesn’t want to mess up my camouflage. The drizzle wets his face, makes his cheeks gleam slightly from what little light penetrates the clouds.
“I didn’t come just because Bishop couldn’t,” he says. “I came because…because I love you.”
He has no idea that I almost killed him just now.
I’ve got one boy who won’t tell me how he feels, and another who won’t stop telling me how he feels.
“You should head back to the shuttle,” I say.
He leans away, almost like I slapped him.
“But…but I’m going with you.”
This wasn’t just a delivery run. He’s ready to head into the jungle with me. He knows how dangerous this will be. But he has no experience fighting, no survival training as far as I know. He’s a politician—away from the safety of the group, he’s useless.
Still, O’Malley is smart. He’s strong. And just because he doesn’t know how to fight doesn’t mean he will back down from one. If I don’t find the Springers, it’s war; I’ll take what help I can get.
“Keep up with me,” I say. “And be quiet.”
—
The jungle is alive with noise. Low hoots, squawks, yelps, growls and an occasional dying squeal. The stiff wind has carried away some of the cloud cover, giving us enough moonlight to walk by. I’m grateful for that, because the flashlight would make us easy targets for a musket shot. Barkah and Lahfah aren’t the only Springers out here.
Our best chance is to find the church. Hopefully, Barkah is there, and—hopefully—he’ll talk to me. If he’s not there, then it will be time to use the flashlight and wander the jungle. If O’Malley and I are lucky, the first Springers we meet will want to talk, not shoot.
I found that first fire pit. I’m surprised I can follow the trail easily, even at night. I like to think that Visca would have been proud of me.
O’Malley is noisier than I would like, but I admit I’m impressed. He’s quieter than Coyotl was, and way quieter than Borjigin. If we make it through the night alive, he might learn to be as silent as I am.
And when he talks, he whispers—for that part of creeping through the jungle, at least, he’s a natural.
“You did a brave thing, coming out here,” he says.
“You’re out here, too.”
He’s behind me, so I can’t see him, but I’m sure he’s nodding. I hear a sharp slap as he smacks a bug that landed somewhere on his face or neck.
“It’s been at least an hour,” he says. “How much farther to this church?”
“You mean, if we don’t get killed by a snake-wolf? Or shot by Springers? Or attacked by one of the other animals we hear?”
A pause.
“Yeah. If none of those things happen.”
“I’ll tell you when we get there. More walking, less talking.”
It’s almost funny to think about how confident he was back in the pilothouse, when he kissed me. In the safety of the shuttle, he swaggers. Out here, he’s scared. I shouldn’t tease him about that, though—I’m scared, too.
The animal noises fade, then go silent.
“What’s happening?” O’Malley asks.
“Predator. Come on.”