When I reach the last branch, O’Malley is kneeling, half-hidden behind the wide trunk. I drop to the ground next to him, feel the rhythmic stomp-stomp-stomp of the marching army.
“Em, we have to get out of here!”
For once, I don’t mind his whispers.
I peek around the trunk. Through the dense underbrush, I can see them coming—a line of alien soldiers hopping straight for us, weaving around trees, dipping down the far side of jungle-choked craters only to hop out the near side.
When I turn and run, O’Malley is right behind me. We stay low and sprint down the trail. Our booted feet eat up the distance, enough that I start to think we got away clean.
And then I hear the long, droning note of a horn.
They’ve spotted us.
We sprint through endless jungle ruins, doing our best to keep to the trail. Overhanging vines and encroaching leaves slap at us, splashing us with beaded drizzle that soaks our hair and runs down our faces into our coveralls.
A flash of lightning. Thunder follows two seconds later. As if the deafening noise ripped the bottom from the clouds themselves, the rain pours down again.
The horn echoes through the trees.
They are chasing us.
I think we’re a little bit faster than the Springers, but hopping and landing on both feet makes them more stable on this rough, wet ground. I’ve fallen once, banged my chin on a tree root. O’Malley has fallen twice. He’s bleeding from a cut on his temple. Each time we hit the ground, we’re up before our momentum slows. We are wet and muddy and running for our lives.
I try to see where we are, but all the jungle looks the same. Are we near the church? Have we already passed it?
A double burst of lightning pulses across the night sky, and in that split-second glare I see it: the steeple, the rings with the six dots.
I turn off the trail, sprint headlong into the underbrush. I hear O’Malley crashing in behind me.
We enter the dark steeple. It’s empty. O’Malley quietly shuts the double doors while I stumble to the wall, around the statues, until I find the trapdoor. I open it and urge O’Malley in.
From outside, I hear the horn again. Then, an answering call from the other direction—so close they must have been just ahead of us on the trail. Did they see us come in here?
O’Malley rushes down the rickety stairs, stands in water up to his knees. I descend a few steps, lower the trapdoor slowly, ease it into place, then join him.
Grunting and chirping outside: the Springers are close.
I look out the slot made by the missing board. Thin moonlight reveals two long blue feet tied up with strips of cloth. The feet are so close I could reach through and touch them.
We hear the Springers talking.
The floor above us creaks. There are at least three of them up there—if they find us, we’re dead.
O’Malley’s cold, wet hand takes mine. His strong fingers grip me tight. He is calm, resigned to this situation. I admit I didn’t expect this from him. I would have thought he’d panic, or do something stupid to give us away. Instead, his steady presence gives me strength. His eyes tell me something deep and overwhelming: if he has to die, he is glad he gets to spend his final moments with me.
I loved this boy before he even woke up. I was the first thing he ever saw. Will I also be the last?
The floor above us creaks again, the sound of a Springer hopping from one spot to the next. Then the creaks move closer to the trapdoor.
The creaks stop.
We wait.
I peer out the slot, through the underbrush. No feet, just rain.
We stand there, still and motionless, for a long time. Any simple noise—a cough, a sneeze, a heavy breath—could mean our death. We listen to the rain come down. We wait.
I hear the horn blare. Distant, barely audible: the hunters have moved on.
When the floor creaks again, I start to shake.
Short hops, each producing a creak, the creaks coming closer to the trapdoor. A straggler? Or is it a squad of them, five or more, hoping to flush us out so they can shoot us dead? If it is only one or two, maybe we have a chance.
I grip my shovel with both hands. O’Malley draws his knife.
Maybe we will die, but we won’t go easy.
The trapdoor slowly opens. Darkness beyond, hints of motion…a Springer. They have found us. If we can’t see them, they can’t see us. I wait, coiled and ready to strike. When the stairs creak, I will thrust the shovel point up at my enemy.
I can’t breathe, I don’t dare breathe.
“Hem?”
That single syllable makes me sag with relief.
Barkah has come for us.
Soaked and freezing, I climb the stairs.
Barkah hops back, giving me room.
He is not alone.
He stands with three Springers, all with lush, young, purple skin like his. I instantly recognize Lahfah, by both his face and the wooden splint on his leg. His face contorts in what I can only think of as an alien sneeze, and he lets out that broken-glass laughter.