Текст книги "The Earth Dwellers"

Автор книги: David Estes

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

I fall back, hoping gravity will be quick enough to save me.

A bullet whines over my head, shattering the window-wall behind me, sprinkling my face with shards of glass that prick and sting.

Rolling, rolling, rolling, I scramble out of sight, hugging the wall. I prop my gun hand on my elbow.

A guard runs around the bend, perhaps thinking I’ve run off, perhaps trying to be a hero, perhaps just scared and making a stupid decision. Right into my crosshairs.

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM! I pull the trigger three quick times in succession. The first shot hits him in the midsection, and each successive blast climbs higher up his body as the gun bucks in my hand. The final shot smashes into his chest and throws him back, his automatic weapon spraying bullets into the ceiling, raining plaster onto my head.

I hold my breath, waiting patiently, hoping Jocelyn’s found somewhere to hide out of sight. Two guards. That’s what Jocelyn said and that’s what I saw. But what if there are more? I’ll be screwed.

A gun pokes around the bend. Cautious. Careful. This guard saw what happened to his buddy and he doesn’t want to meet the same fate. I aim at his hand, but there’s no chance I’ll hit him and I can’t waste the bullets as I’ve used too many on the first guard already. Patience is the key.

His head snaps out and then back. He saw me. Knows exactly where I am and that I’m a sitting duck on the floor. No time to lose.

I scramble backward just as he flings himself into the open, fire spewing from the muzzle of his gun. Bullets chew up chunks of the floor I was occupying a second earlier.

BOOM! I shoot, miss, devastating the pane of glass to his right.

He shoots again, takes out more of the floor. Another blast and I feel a sharp pinch in my shoulder. I cry out, drop my gun, clutch at my injured arm, burning with pain.

No. It’s over. No.

Wait.

“Jocelyn!” I cry out, rolling back, my eyes wildly trying to find her. She has to take my gun, has to shoot the guard, has to help me like she said she would.

But no.

She’s gone.

Jocelyn is gone.

Siena

My pointer joins a flock of other pointers, swarming through the air, some clanking off the sides of the fire chariots and others hitting the Glassies riding ’em, sending the baggards flying off into the durt.

My injured ankle’s burning like it’s stuck in a fire, but I ignore it. The pain is nothing because…

My people are dying.

In front of me, my people are falling, dying, hit by magic or weapons or whatever the fire sticks do. They’re bleeding and crying and all being ignored by the rest of us fighting for our lives.

I stop shooting when the black Riders reach the fire chariots, which stop to let the Glassies pile out. CRACKS and BOOMS and deafening blasts fill the air as their weapons seem to explode in their hands. Some of the horses topple over, right onto their Riders, while others lose their Riders but kick and gallop at the Glassies, fighting still.

And my people are all charging, taking advantage of the distraction caused by the Riders, a stampede of dust and sharp blades held above our heads so we don’t accidentally poke one another.

Circ’s beside me with Skye and Wilde in front, and Feve sorta diagonal. I spot Grunt not that far off, running faster’n I ever seen him do anything. He’s red-faced and sweaty, but looks determined too. Will he run away at the last moment like he did against the pack of Cotees? I almost hope he will, for Veeva’s sake.

I hurdle a fallen horse, its black hide streaked with red stripes.

And then the Glassies are amongst us.

They’re still trying to use their fire sticks, but more like clubs now, swinging at us or poking at us with these long spikes that are stuck to the front of some of ’em. Skye rips through ’em, slashing one and then another. Circ and Feve get in front of me and Circ shouts something I can’t hear on account of all the screaming and the blaring of that searin’ noise from the city, but I know exactly what they’re doing. Protecting me so I can keep shooting.

I nock a pointer and release it into the neck of a Glassy who was pushing Wilde back. A dangerous shot, but these are dangerous times.

Another pointer finds its way into the gut of a Glassy who tries to double up on Circ, who’s already grappling with an enemy soldier. He looks so strong I’d never guess he’s got an injured arm and leg.

Circ’s muscles strain and he gets the advantage, whipping the guy’s neck hard to the side.

I reach for another pointer—the last one. Whirl ’round to find a good target. I see Grunt get hit in the side by a fire stick. He falls over, still gripping his useless sword. The Glassy points the stick at him.

Twang!

Thock!

The Glassy slumps over, feathers sticking from his chest.

Grunt’s eyes are bigger’n the water country ocean. “Run away!” I yell, thinking only of my promise to Veeva. This is no place for Grunt. No place for any of us. ’Cept maybe Circ and Skye and Feve.

Grunt nods and scrambles to his feet, running on unsteady legs toward where we came from.

“Siena!” Circ shouts from the side and I spin ’round to see what he’s hollering ’bout.

His cry was too late and I’m too slow, although I duck as the fire stick arcs toward my head.

Crack! It catches me in the face, but sorta on an angle so it doesn’t get me with full force. Even still, it’s enough to send me star-seeing to the ground, tasting durt and blood on my lips.

I look up to see three Glassies, identical, all pointing fire sticks at me. Circ’s yelling something but it sounds so far away, too far away to save me.

The three Glassies shift and fade in and out and then combine into one man, wearing a snarl. “Die you little bitch,” he says.

A big blur flashes from the side, yelling something, thumping into the Glassy with the force of a tug. The Glassy disappears from sight and I’m left staring at a puffy yellow cloud full of shards of light that I think are just a trick of my eyes.

Circ stands over me, speaking, reaching toward me. I can’t hear him, just see his lips moving. He’s saying something like, “Far two to fight.” That can’t be right.

I blink again, try to reach for his hand, but nothing’s working right.

I see Feve behind him, thrusting his sword into the gut of a Glassy, shoving him down.

With a roar, my hearing comes back in booms and clanks and the sound of Circ’s voice. “Are you all right?” he asks, and that makes much more sense.

“Who?” I ask, ’cause all I can seem to think ’bout is that tug of a human who came out of nowhere and saved me.

Grunt appears next to Circ. “I couldn’t run,” he says. “I saw you and I couldn’t…”

“Shanker,” I say, but I take his hand and he and Circ pull me to my feet, holding me up as I get my balance. I feel like I should thank Grunt, hug him or something, but there’s no time to think or do anything, not when there’s death all ’round.

I notice that it’s not just Feve protecting us, but Skye and Wilde too. There are Glassies everywhere, and it seems like less’n less of my people and the Stormers are standing with every second that passes. We’re being slaughtered, just like the Icers.

I give my head a shake and the cobwebs fall out and the stars fade and, although the pounding in my brain is still there, I’m steady on my feet. Drawing my short blade, I say, “We die t’gether.”

As one, we charge into the fray.

Tristan

When we’re less than half a mile from the New City, we hear the gunshots, hammering across the desert like cannon fodder.

Oh no, I think. The Tri-Tribes have arrived first.

“Move!” I shout, feeling somewhat sick all of a sudden. Memories of bodies in the sand flash through my mind. We have to hurry or I’ll be seeing the same thing again, only it’ll be brown bodies this time.

Like legions of ants, we pour over the final dune separating us from the city, gaining speed as our feet find purchase on more solid ground, cracked and hard, specked with small stones rounded by wind and sand. A loud sound is emanating from inside the Dome, like a siren or an alarm. A call to war perhaps?

Abruptly, it stops.

I have the urge to pause, to wait to see what happens, but we’re like a flowing river now, moving forward until something stops us.

The gates—the ones Adele got in through—to the New City open.

Soldiers swarm through.

Adele

Even as my mind is stuttering over the fact that Jocelyn isn’t behind me anymore, the alarm stops.

The silence that follows is eerie, almost as if more than just the gut-wrenching sound has been sucked away. Soulless. Dead.

My shoulder’s on fire, like it’s being roasted from the inside out. Not a clean wound. The bullet’s in me somewhere. Blood squirms between my fingers as I try to stop the bleeding.

Glass crunches underfoot around the bend. Does the guard know I’m shot? He must, the way I cried out, but he can’t know the extent.

My pistol is a few inches beyond my feet.

Slowly, slowly, I ease a toe forward, gritting my teeth because my nerves are screaming. I hook the gun and slide it back toward me. The sound of metal scraping against the tile is loud enough to wake the dead.

Crunch, crunch. The guard’s gun comes into view. He’s still being cautious, regardless of whether he thinks I’m hit or not.

My left hand leaves my shoulder to bleed.

Grips the gun, forefinger resting lightly on the trigger.

Breathe in, breathe out, through my teeth.

Heart racing—ignore it.

Drops of sweat quivering on my brow—doesn’t matter.

Focus.

The guard steps out and fires, a heavy blast meant to end this game, but I’ve already shrunk back another foot and his bullets sing and chirp and glance harmlessly off the wall.

The moment he stops shooting, I push to my feet and rush forward, one arm damaged and dangling, and the other held steady in front of me.

He’s reloading, scrambling to snap a new clip into his weapon.

I aim—

–point blank at his chest—

–and I fire.

He’s thrown back by the speed of the bullet ripping through his skin and veins and bones and heart.

His gun clatters to the floor, along with the clip.

I approach slowly, my gun never leaving its target. The guard’s not breathing, not moving. His eyes are open, unblinking. Dead.

I’ve made too much noise. Surely Lecter will be gone, having escaped through some back door. Or he’s waiting inside with ten more guards. But either way, I have no choice. This is my mission, my destiny.

The heavy wooden door stands before me. What lies beyond?

My right arm is useless, so I have to stuff the gun in the back of my pants and use my left hand to turn the handle. It’s unlocked and opens inward. Pushing it forward an inch, I grab my gun and kick it the rest of the way.

Crash! The heavy door reverberates off the inside wall, shuddering slightly.

It can’t be. It can’t. He’s there, waiting, just staring at me from across the large room, seemingly weaponless.

The man from the propaganda videos.

Lecter.

With a wave of his arm, he beckons me inside, like an old friend.

I aim my gun at the thickest part of his body and step inside, trying to guarantee I’ll hit him with the first shot. Just a step closer and there’s no way I’ll miss.

Before I can react, I feel the cold press of metal against the side of my head.

“Drop the gun,” Tristan’s mother says.

Siena

Feve goes down, hit by a fire stick. Wilde’s got blood all on her front, bubbling from a deep slash ’cross her belly. Circ’s being held from behind while another Glassy smashes his face. They don’t have fire sticks, so they musta lost ’em during the battle. Even Skye looks ’bout ready to topple over, though she’s still giving the Glassy baggards scorch.

Me, I’m surrounded by three Glassies. At any moment, they could send fire and magic shooting from their sticks, finish me off. But instead they’re having fun with it, laughing and poking at me with the knives on the ends of their weapons. They think they’ve won.

I dance away from a jab and they roar with laughter.

I duck a slash and they taunt. “This one’s still got fight in her! Might have to take her alive!”

But I won’t surrender. They ain’t taking me alive—that’s one thing I know.

With a wild yell, I leap at the one who said that, slash at him with my blade. He tries to jump back, but I’m too quick and I slice open his throat. His last words bubble out through his neck.

Then I stumble over my own two feet, fall, almost on top of the man I just killed. Even as I land face down in the durt, I know it’ll be my last clumsy, awkward moment, the last time my two left feet trip me up. But I roll anyway, ’cause if there’s anything I learned from my big sister, it’s that you hafta keep fighting, never give up.

Crack!

The sound of a fire stick exploding rings out so close I know I’m dead. I don’t feel nothing, so I keep rolling.

And then:

A shout. And another. Some close, some far. What’s happening? Why ain’t I dead?

I look up and there’re hundreds of boots running through the dust, thundering onto the battlefield. Familiar boots. It takes me a moment to place where I’ve seen ’em ’fore.

Water country.

The kind they wear on the decks of the ships.

The Soakers have arrived.

Still not dead, I push to my feet and see one of my tormentors taking aim at the newcomers. Rage filling me from gut to heart to head, I charge him, stab him from behind, not caring whether that’s fair.

He drops his searin’ stick. The third Glassy shoots fire from his stick and a Soaker falls in front of him, but there are ten more to take his place and they swallow him whole, trampling his bleeding carcass as they surge forward, moving on to other enemies.

I whirl ’round, the desert spinning like a dust devil: dead bodies and injured folks crying out and the Soakers finishing off the Glassies. And Skye, still fighting with ’em, killing another enemy, her brown skin glistening with sweat and exertion.

Somehow I always knew she’d be the last of us fighting.

I spot Grunt, who’s pulling himself to his feet, staring in amazement as the remaining Glassies flee for the safety of the city. He’s hobbling, one leg bleeding heavily from a hole near the top. He spots me and in his face I see horror and relief and pain, and the man who saved my life. I’ll never look at him the same way.

I throw myself at him, and almost knock him over, but his sheer girth holds up my skinny frame. He’s sweaty and durty and even less attractive’n usual, but I hug him with everything I got left. “Help me find Circ,” I say to him, my chest heaving. We pick through the bodies. Each one I turn over chips away at my heart. My people. Dead. So many dead. The tears are flowing down my face, hot and dripping, but I keep looking, ’cause I hafta see him one way or t’other.

Grunt calls out and I stumble toward him, fearing the worst.

My legs give out when I see the body, which is too small to be Circ.

I slump over her, bawling, unable to hold back the tears flooding from my eyes. And then Skye’s ’side me too, dripping all over her—all over Wilde.

She’s barely breathing, her chest rising and falling in a way that ain’t natural. The slash ’cross her stomach is so wide and deep it almost looks fake.

She’s trying to speak, her eyes dry, her tongue moistening her lips. “You’ll…”

“Don’t,” Skye says, choking.

“…always be my sisters.”

“No,” Skye says, but it’s too late, ’cause Wilde’s eyes are closed and she’s gone. The sun goddess took her.

We huddle t’gether, crying, crying, pouring everything we got left out of the deepest pits of our souls.

Skye, always the stronger one, stops ’fore I do. She kisses my forehead, tucks my head to her chest. “We hafta find Feve and Circ,” she says.

“No,” I say, ’cause I can’t do this again. I’d rather die.

“T’gether we can,” she says, but I don’t believe her.

She pulls me up and it’s all I can do to cling to her arm, which is so strong. There’re a few Stormers riding their horses toward the Soakers, who’re coming back from chasing the Glassies to meet ’em.

More’n more brown-skinned folks are on their feet, not dead, helping to find and tend to the wounded, even though they’re hurt too. None of ’em are Feve. None of ’em are Circ.

“C’mon,” Skye says, pulling me forward. My feet barely scrape the ground.

We find Feve next. He’s facedown and under the bodies of two Glassies, his blade still sticking into one of ’em. Even taking his last breath he was fighting.

I’ve got nothing left to cry so my whole body just shakes against Skye’s as we mourn another friend, one who I’d only begun to believe in.

“Stay with him,” Skye tells Grunt, who’s sticking close to us, I think ’cause he don’t know what else to do.

He nods and sits down.

“No,” I say, ’cause I don’t want to go any further. I’m done.

Skye scoops me up, carries me, trudging over bodies and ’round piles of the dead.

My heart’s in my throat, which is burning and dry. My breath’s coming in ragged heaves and shudders. How is Skye holding me t’gether when I’m in so many pieces?

I know every inch of him, so I spot him first.

It’s just his hand, sticking out from a pile of the dead. Not moving, like he’s sleeping. Just sleeping. Sleeping, sleeping, sleeping, I keep telling myself, again and again and again and again, and I’m not gonna stop saying it in my head, even when fresh tears burst out like blooming prickler flowers, even when a dreadful groan escapes my lips, even when my heart stops beating and I stop breathing.

His hand moves.

I squirm like a fussy baby in its mother’s arms and Skye releases me. On all fours I crawl to him, to Circ, who’s blinking at me, his eyes rolling ’round in their sockets. His face is puffy and bleeding.

“Where’reyouhurt?” I spew out in a single breath. Even if he’s cut open like Wilde, I’m gonna fix it, hold him t’gether with my bare hands if I hafta.

“Siena?” he says, like he’s all surprised to see me. “Thank the sun goddess you’re alive.”

“Areyouhurt?” I say. His eyes are having trouble staying open; is he dying, fading out like Wilde?

“My head,” he says, reaching up to touch his hair, but stopping halfway there, touching my cheek instead. I run my fingers through his hair, feeling ’round ’til he winces. There’s a big ol’ lump on his head. “What happened?”

“The Soakers came,” I say. “They saved us all.”

He nods, as if not surprised. “I got whacked,” he says.

“Wilde’s dead,” I blurt out. “Feve, too.” And then I’m hugging him and crying into him and it’s not all ’cause our friends are gone, but ’cause I’m ashamed that I’m feeling so much relief and joy right now. ’Cause Circ’s alive.

We stay like that even as we hear explosions to the west.

Tristan

We’re dying; they’re dying; the world’s full of smoke and blood and mortal shouts.

Even with our five thousand soldiers, the earth dwellers have the advantage in numbers, wearing sinister dark masks. Slowly, slowly, they’re pushing us back, cutting us down, winning.

A truck roars toward where General Rose and I are ducking behind piles of the dead, using our fallen brothers and sisters to save our own lives. Anna pops up and shoots three times in rapid succession. One of the front tires bursts and the truck swerves and then rolls, flattening a soldier wearing star dweller blue. Earth dweller soldiers fly from the back, landing hard in the dirt.

“We can’t hold them back much longer!” I shout above the gunfire. I pull the trigger and blast at an earth dweller who gets too close. She falls back with a cry.

“No,” General Rose says. “But we have to try. There’s nowhere to retreat to.” She pulls a grenade from her belt, rips the pin out with her teeth, waits three heartbeats, and then hurls it toward an enemy pack, which scatter like a discarded handful of pebbles. The explosion is so loud it’s as if it’s inside my head.

I look around, trying to think. Our forces are spread out, disorganized, splintered by the strength of the earth dweller attack. We’re pinned down, immobile. “We need vehicles,” I say.

Through the smoke-filled haze, Anna stares at me. Nods. “Spread the word.”

I peek over the dead soldier at the top of the pile, ducking as a bullet whines overhead. Then I run, keeping my head as low as possible. A crouch-run, awkward and slow, but the only thing that saves me from the enemy fire that buzzes around me. “We’ve got to get the trucks,” I tell each living soldier I see.

I move on before any of them can so much as nod in understanding.

When I reach the truck with the blown-out tire, I pause to catch my breath. An earth dweller groans, trapped beneath the mangled vehicle. It’s a wonder he’s still alive.

Across the battlefield, I spot Anna, who’s picking her way over to an abandoned vehicle, her eyes darting every which way, occasionally shooting the random enemy who gets too close. She reaches her goal and pulls the door open, slipping inside.

The truck springs forward and I rush out to follow its path, throwing caution to the gusting wind.

I can barely see her in the cab, as she’s ducking low, practically steering blindly into the midst of the earth dwellers, hitting one, then another, throwing them up and over the windshield and roof.

Another truck is tearing for her, spitting up dust and rocks in its pursuit. No, not pursuing…joining! Another stolen vehicle. The word is out.

Could this work?

Just as a shred of hope fills my chest, I see them:

A dozen trucks erupt from the New City, heading right for General Rose.

Bright spots of gunfire rip from them, sending sparks dancing along the sides of Adele’s mother’s vehicle, spiderwebbing the windshield. Two tires burst at the same time and the truck flips, the back soaring over the front, crashing onto the hard ground, sliding twenty feet on its roof before coming to rest.

My heart sinks. There are too many, but if there’s any chance Adele’s mother is still alive, I have to get to her before the enemy does.

I steel my resolve and prepare to charge into the open.

That’s when I hear the chorus of shouts, not from the New City, but from the south. I crane my neck, my breath hitching when I see them. The rest of the Tri-Realm soldiers, come from the remaining subchapters. Five thousand strong and already shooting at the enemy, which suddenly doesn’t look like too many.

With renewed vigor, the soldiers around me are popping up and pushing forward, the weaker side of a pincer attack. I dart out, shooting at anything that moves, killing one earth dweller, then another, as they try to decide which direction to look.

One of the new trucks explodes, presumably from a hit to the gas tank.

The earth dwellers are dying in waves and some of them are losing their resolve and fleeing back toward the city, only to be cut down by the force from the south. We’re winning. No, we’ve won.

I let the soldiers clean up the remaining enemies, veering off toward the upside down truck. Toss my gun aside. Dive to the dirt. Anna’s slumped inside, covered in glass, the windshield having shattered inward. Her arm is contorted awkwardly against the steering wheel. But she’s looking at me with blinking eyes.

“I’m gonna get you out of there,” I say.

“That’d be good,” she says.

“Are you okay?”

“I think my arm’s broken,” she says, whistling out a sharp breath through her teeth. “Other than that, I’m fine.”

“This is gonna hurt,” I say, getting a firm grip on the arm that looks okay.

“Just do it quick.”

With everything I have, I pull her from the vehicle. Her mouth opens like she wants to cry out, but she doesn’t, just screws up her face. She slumps over when she’s free of the carnage. “Tristan,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“Find my daughter.”

Adele

I could shoot—I could. But I’m not the best shot in the world, and if I miss or don’t kill Lecter with the first bullet, then I’ll be dead and so might the fire country natives. Tristan, too.

So I do it. I drop the gun, hating the dull thud it makes at my feet, and hoping I’ll get another opportunity to kill Lecter.

I want to ask Jocelyn why she’s doing this, but I don’t, because I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t understand the answer anyway. Her head is all screwed up, brainwashed by the very person she hates and loves.

My mission has failed because of the very person who started everything when she paid an unexpected visit to my mother.

“Bravo,” Lecter says, clapping slowly. He walks across the room, which is full of screens with colored dots, and blinking lights on shining metal panels. The room where he controls the world he’s created, where tracks the implanted chips of his people. “I’m glad I don’t have to use this,” he adds, holding out a gun I didn’t even notice.

“Of course not, darling,” Jocelyn says, her eyes narrowed. “I told you I’d do it.”

“And you did,” Lecter says. “You’ve come so far from the skeptical, questioning person you were a few years ago. I’m most impressed.”

“You’re sick,” I say. “Both of you.”

Jocelyn gives me a surprised look. “Don’t you see, Adele? Borg has created everything that my former husband refused to. An equal world, where everyone gets the same amount of food, the same living conditions. There are no Realms. There is no poverty, no crime. It’s a perfect world…one that deserves to grow.”

“You’re delusional,” I say.

She shakes her head. “One day you’ll understand,” she says.

“No,” I say. “I’ll never understand either of you. Tristan would say the same thing.”

Hearing her son’s name, she jerks slightly, just in her face, her gun remaining firm against my temple. “You may be right,” she says. “But I’m willing to try to explain to him too. To teach him, like I always did.”

This woman can’t be reasoned with, can’t be talked out of the disease that’s consumed her. I can’t be a prisoner in this world. Even though it’ll only take the slightest squeeze of her finger to end me, I have to try to do what I came here to do.

I don’t tense my muscles in preparation. I can’t give any indication of what I’m about to do.

“You’re the crazed soldier,” Lecter says. “Why are you doing this? Who sent you? Was it Nailin?”

“Nailin is dead,” I say, trying to keep the conversation going, waiting for the perfect opportunity to make my move.

Lecter tries to cover his surprise, but I see it in his eyes. I’ve shocked him. “How?” he says.

“I killed him.”

More surprise. “But why?”

“Because he was evil, like you.”

“You’re an assassin.”

I’ve never been called that before, never thought of myself that way, but I guess it’s not that far from the truth. I shrug.

“Kill her,” Lecter says to Jocelyn.

I’m running of time. I’ve got to do something or Jocelyn might actually…

Jocelyn grabs my wrist with her other hand just before I start to bring it up to attack. “Don’t,” she says. There’s something in her eyes, something different…

She pulls the gun from my head and aims it at Lecter, who doesn’t even have his own weapon raised. “Die,” she says and pulls the trigger.

A puff of red plumes above his scalp a split-second before he falls back, blood oozing from the hole in his forehead.

My eyes are bulging and my mouth is open in shock, but every instinct in my body is telling me to act, to seize the opportunity to gain control of the situation. I lash out, chop at Jocelyn’s arm to dislodge her weapon, but the gun is already slipping from her grasp, falling to the floor. She collapses on top of it.

I just stand there, gasping, my heart bouncing around wildly. What just happened?

Lecter’s not moving. There’s no way he could survive a direct headshot.

Below me, Jocelyn’s weeping, caved in, her knees to her chest and her arms wrapped around them. A broken woman. The savior of the world inside a damaged, abused shell of a person.

Kneeling down next to her, I rub her back with the palm of my hand. “It’s okay,” I murmur. “You did it. You’re okay now.”

It was all an act. Her words, her icy cold voice, the gun to my head. It was the only way she could make Lecter trust her, lower his guard, get him close enough to do what she had to do.

She fooled me and she obviously fooled him.

Beneath my hand, her body continues to shake with emotion.

“Tristan will be so proud.”

Only at the mention of her son does her trembling cease. She opens her moisture-filled eyes.

“Where?” she says.

“Outside the city,” I guess. “Attacking with the natives.”

She grabs my arm and I pull her up.