The Soultakers (The Treemakers Trilogy Book 2) Page 10

  “Just three?” asks Emerson.

  I look to Smudge.

  “Those will be difficult to feed as it is.”

  I turn back to Emerson. “Yes, just three.”

  They return to us at the fence, and Emerson hands me the squealing babies so he can climb over. I put them into the cage, and then take Serna’s so Emerson can help her over, too. I add the third baby to the cage, then latch it shut. With one hand raised to light our way, Smudge grips the handle of the cage, and we collect our rope bundles, then head uphill. A glance behind us finds the shed engulfed, and the waterline has reached the corral fence. The poor things. They have no idea of the doom that’s about to end their story.

  With a red glowing finger, Smudge zaps the lock from the huge, rolling gate and slides it open to a leafy, green jungle.

  “How far back is it?” I ask.

  “A few feet. We’ll harness-up here, though. There’s more room.”

  “So, how do we do this, exactly?”

  “Tie everyone around the chest, beneath the arms, alternate the olders and the youngers, climb slowly, and when we get to the catwalk . . .” She kicks at the dirt.

  “What?”

  “Let’s hope it holds. It probably wasn’t built for this.”

  “Could this get any worse?”

  After a moment’s pause, she answers. “Yes.” She leaves a long section of rope out ahead of us and goes to work tying us together, Chloe in front of me, Pia between me and Mateo.

  “Momma Joy?” Pia hugs herself and sways side to side. “How’s Pedro gonna climb up there?”

  Pedro! Why did I not think of that? I scan the lantern-lit faces to find him a few people behind me. “Hey, Pedro!”

  “Yeah, sis?”

  “Can you climb?”

  “Yeah, it’s fine. I’ll use my wrist. Someone else can take the spear.”

  I give him a thumbs-up, then offer a nearby older boy my crossbow. “Will you keep watch for jumpers and bloodbugs?”

  “Sure, Joy.” He takes the weapon. “Better than standing here pretending I’m not scared.”

  “Momma Joy?” Chloe tugs at my shirt.

  “Yes?”

  “What about the piggies? Who’s gonna carry them?”

  “I’ll tie the cage to my rope,” Smudge yells from the end of the line.

  Baby shivers, tucks her head into my chest, and I reposition my bag over my shoulder. I take Tallulah’s knapsack, along with Chloe’s small bag, and I strap those on, too. This will be quite a feat.

  “I have to finish tying everyone together.” Smudge collects another two bundles of rope from the ground near me. “We have a few left. I’ll be back.” And she jogs back down the line to Ms. Ruby, who might be praying.

  I scan the alarmed faces of the children who’ll never be safe, it seems. The ones who’ll forever run and never be at peace. Lives I’m responsible for, and who I continue to fail at keeping out of danger. Once again, we flee one hell to feed the voracious jaws of another.

  How will I be able to keep my own child safe?

  At the end of the line, Johnny gets Cheyenne perched on his back, while hoisting his lantern high and scoping the surroundings. Cheyenne’s face is serene, reconciled; she’s already made peace with this disastrous outcome. Or maybe . . . she knows we’ll be okay. I’m hoping it’s that, because if so, her halo of serenity means we’ll all get out of here alive.

  Once the knot’s tied around Cheyenne and Johnny, Smudge turns to leave, but Johnny grabs her arm. He swings her back to him and plants a kiss right on her lips. After a few seconds, Smudge stumbles back, and Cheyenne grins. Johnny tips Old Jonesy’s hat to her, and she jogs back up the line.

  “Well? How was it?” I ask.

  “I’m . . . not sure yet.” Her giggle’s cut short with the swipe of sweat from her neck.

  The water is now to the center of the corral. Animals scurry to the other end to escape it, but . . . there’s nowhere else to go.

  “Everyone is secure,” says Smudge.

  “Are we all ready?” I call behind me.

  The chorusing screams of “Yes!” rise into the air.

  Smudge leans inside the gate. “Some of these leaves may be poisonous.” She holds out both hands, and purplish-blue orbs shoot from her palms. They expand, blowing leaves off of their branches on contact, leaving a trail of twisty, bare branches in our path. “About the best I can do.” And she walks farther in, repeats the action, then farther still, and again, until the last orb reflects in the silvery-black bars of a ladder against the back wall.

  After returning to our group, she ties the remaining section of rope through the handle of the piglet cage, then around her body twice, securing it with a strange, complicated knot. “Ironically, this is called a ‘water knot.’”

  “Let’s hope it holds.”

  “It will.”

  “Is that the same type of knot you used to tie Cheyenne to Johnny’s back?”

  “Yes. Cheyenne will hold on to him, too.” She waves us forward. “Try to stay away from the branches.”

  “Steer clear of the branches!” I announce. “And let’s move!”

  But a few feet into the leafless path and we’re met with a familiar sight and sound: a hissing, red-eyed jumper perched on the ladder. Chloe screams and stumbles into me, but with split-second aim, the older boy behind us plants a crossbow bolt in the jumper’s fat body.

  “Nice shot,” I say.

  “Thanks.”

  Smudge removes the bolt, hands it back to him, then kicks the twitching rodent aside. “Come on, Chloe.” She steps up onto the first rung. “Time to be brave.” And she slows on the third bar, waiting for Chloe to ascend.

  “Come on, sweetheart,” I coax. “We have to climb now.”

  Chloe plucks her thumb from her mouth and, with trembling hands, begins her climb.

  “Good job!” I peek over my shoulder to Pia pressed up against Mateo. “Now you have to be brave, too, Pia, okay?” Mateo plants a quick kiss on my cheek, then I follow Chloe up the ladder. The bars are cold and rough, easy to grip. That’s a relief; smooth and slippery would be a huge problem.

  Above Chloe, the piglets squeal in their cage, while Baby Lou whimpers against my chest. “Shh, Baby, Momma’s here. We’ll be okay, I promise.” I tuck her head down into the sling, then loop my and Chloe’s bags all the way onto my shoulder, and I begin to climb. Already sweating from my cargo’s weight, and sheer terror, I pant harder with each rung. A few feet from us and covered in shadows, a line of bloodbugs climbs the wall. I pray the children are too focused on the ladder to notice. Especially Chloe.

  Below us, the water surges, engulfing the corral, sweeping over the helpless bodies in a tragic fold. A few try to swim, but having nowhere to swim to, their frenzy will be short-lived. High above Zentao, in what was once the beautiful, never-ending blue sky, Chloe reaches the catwalk above me, and then I climb up, guided by Smudge’s helping hands. A foot above us, sheer material, inlaid with crisscross lines that might be wires, waves violently with the moving air.

  “Stay in a line,” Smudge says. “Don’t gather all in one spot; we want to keep the weight dispersed. Once everyone’s up, I’ll head to the front and guide us to the vent.” She unties her knot and hands me the piglet cage. Now I’m at full capacity; my weight alone might make the catwalk rip away from the ceiling.

  Chloe takes her place behind me with Pia, and once Mateo clears the ladder and climbs up, I inch ahead, the cage in one trembling hand. I’ve never been afraid of heights, but this is a different kind of height—suspended over the worst possible ending to a dreadful life. One wrong move could mean crashing into it. From here, the light from the Watchtower windows shine down on the rising water, now swallowing up the Center, the amphitheatre, and the orchard. The tops of the trees, already in four feet of water,
wave goodbye.

  In the Watchtower, Mr. Tanner’s and Professor Al’s silhouettes still stand watch. I guess they’re making sure we get out before they let the townspeople into the secret transport harbor.

  Screams come from the ladder, and I squint down. A body dangles from the rope halfway up—little Tristan—and scrambles to grab hold of the rungs. Above him, Pedro hangs on for dear life, a lantern swinging from his waist, while below Tristan, an older girl uses one hand to push him back into place. Black gushes from her nose. He must’ve slipped and fell into her.

  Johnny shouts from the ground. Three more to go until he and Cheyenne reach the ladder, and the water’s mere feet from them. And all I can do is watch in horror, inching forward another foot with each new body that arrives on the catwalk.

  Tristan regains his footing and his grip, and starts climbing. The line starts to move and seconds later, Johnny’s knee-deep in water when the girl in front of him grabs hold of the rungs. But those on the ladder inch along too slow. I douse my urge to scream at them to hurry, because that could prove even more disastrous.

  The greenhouses collapse from the weight of the flood, echoes of shattering glass, and another world of life is wiped clean. The last of the swimming animals disappear beneath the surface shadows of the lantern-lit water, either devoured by the giant, hungry creatures hunting them, or because they had no choice but to give up the fight. Something pierces my heart, its shrapnel finding raw soul, a forever scar with the others imprinted there.

  I breathe when Johnny steps from the waist-deep water onto the ladder, with Cheyenne dripping wet on his back. But he’s struggling to climb with her weight. The line slows again because of it, and the water level has risen to Johnny’s feet again.

  Reflected in the light of the lantern strung to his hip, a circling five-foot fin stops on the other side of the gate. The yellow-green eyes and scaly body of a Teuridon rise to the surface, and it seems to spot its next meal.

  “Come on, move!” I scream, and the line moves forward as they see the danger and scramble up as best they can. Still not fast enough, though, because of Cheyenne on Johnny’s back.

  The Teuridon sinks down, disappears under the surface, and I’m praying it loses interest and goes the other direction. But seconds later, the fin pokes up from the water again, this time inside the fence. Its jagged jaws rise up, inches from Johnny’s ankle.

  The unimaginable occurs. In one swift motion, Cheyenne cuts the rope, much to the panic of Johnny, who grabs her arm.

  “Cheyenne!” I scream. “Johnny!”

  The Teuridon jumps and snaps its long jaws shut around Cheyenne’s body, then disappears beneath the surface, leaving her severed arm in Johnny’s hand. All at once, everyone’s screaming at him, and so am I, to move, move, move!

  With the release of her weight, and the terror below, Johnny’s reached the halfway point of the ladder in seconds. The gluttonous beast snaps at the air below his feet, and something long, black, and skinny pierces through its giant pupil. My spear. I’m not sure who was holding it. The monster screeches and flips away.

  I fumble with the knot at my waist. I need to get to Smudge, but then I remember her words: Keep the weight dispersed . . . once everyone is up, I’ll head to the front and guide us to the vent.

  Baby Lou wails in my arms, and I realize I’m squeezing her too tightly. Chloe clutches my leg, and Mateo gives my arm a squeeze, while Pia and Raven huddle against him.

  Another minute later—which could be an eternity, watching the water rise closer, closer—Smudge hurries toward me from the rear of the line, lit fingers held high. Wrath on her face, a murderous stare beyond me . . . When she gets to me, she sweeps by, a brokenhearted whirlwind, and I think of Aby losing her hair at the hand of Emanuel Superior, then losing Miguel—the catastrophic break, the loss of things pure and irreplaceable.

  “Smudge, slow down!”

  She continues on.

  “Sadie!”

  She stops. Slowly, we reach her, still tied together, and I take her arm, make her face me. She collapses into me, weeping.

  Footsteps clack against the catwalk behind us. “I . . . I tried!” Johnny drops to his knees. “I’m so sorry, I . . .” He cradles his head in his hands. “Before she cut the rope, she said . . .” He clenches his jaw and fists.

  “What did she say?” I ask, nervous about our weight all in one spot. Smudge was right. Things could get worse—they did—and they could continue to.

  Johnny runs a shaky hand over his face, wipes wetness from his cheeks, and peers up at Smudge. “She said a time will come where my love will save you, like hers saved me. She said . . . saving me, was saving you, too.”

  Tears stream down her face, slip into the creases of a quivering frown.

  Someone tugs on my shirt. “Joy?”

  I break my blank stare into the dark water below to find Tristan looking up at me. “Yes?”

  “Something fell on me. I think it came from your pocket. It landed on top of my backpack and I was gonna leave it there, but then I was afraid it might fall. After a few more steps up I tried to grab it to put it in my pocket, and . . . that’s when I slipped.” His guilty heart weighs his gaze to the catwalk floor. “I’m sorry I didn’t get it, and it’s my fault Cheyenne died. I made the line stop. It’s my fault.” And he begins to bawl.

  I stuff my hand into my right pocket, finding the paper Professor Al gave me and Aby’s father’s pocketknife. But my left pocket’s empty. I try to remember what I had in there . . . and then it dawns on me: “The shell.” Cheyenne had painted it herself; a gift from Smudge to me. It must’ve dislodged from my pocket during the climb.

  I kneel, take Tristan’s hand. “No . . . it wasn’t your fault—”

  “It was no one’s fault.” Smudge trembles with dammed fury. “It was meant to happen this way. She kept her soul until the end. She was victorious. She always said she would be.”

  Zentao has vanished, and at least six visible fins now circle less than a hundred feet below us.

  “We have to move,” says Mateo.

  A quick check on the girl with the bloody nose and I find Emerson with his shirt off, applying pressure.

  “Is she okay?” I yell.

  He gives me a thumbs-up.

  “We have to spread out.” Smudge dries her face with her sleeve. “We can’t all be in one spot.”

  “I’m right here if you need me.” Johnny edges toward the end of the line, stopping near a hysterical younger boy. He loosens the knot at the boy’s waist, picks up the six-year-old, and affixes him to his back. The boy plasters himself against Johnny, a death grip around his shoulders.

  Smudge leads us forward again until we reach a fork in the catwalk veering off in three directions. We continue down the middle one at a slow pace, toward the center of Zentao. To our right, Mr. Tanner and Professor Al still stand in the Watchtower window, hands clasped, while the others scream or sob and hold each other. Why are they so frightened? Are they scared for us?

  “We’re almost there.” Smudge points ahead, and we follow her a few more feet. We stop beneath a circle in the horizon screen, where she yanks, ripping it from its silver clasps. Behind the screen, the ceiling is lined with long tubes that might be the light source, and directly above our heads is the huge fan blades that circulated air through Zentao.

  “What now?” I say.

  Smudge traces the outline of the fan’s covering with a glowing, red finger. Sparks fly, and the cut metal separates from the outer rim. The covering must weigh at least five tons. About halfway around, something slams against it, and out thrashes an enormous, black arm with claws that gash Smudge’s cheek. The creature howls, pushing through the opening, and lands on the catwalk. We scream and scramble backwards to get away from it—a Reaper—and I almost trip over the piglet cage, which the monster dives for.

  In secon
ds, Smudge has it blasted over the edge, and she slams the grate back up into place. The Reaper plunges with a heavy splash into the black water below. It claws and hisses, struggling to stay above the surface, until the long, pointed jaws of a Teuridon swallow it like a crumb.

  “Are you all right?” I go to Smudge’s aid, horrified by the gash on her cheekbone.

  “I’ll heal. But there are more up there.”

  “Well . . . what do we do now?”

  She holds the heavy cover in place, her cheek sealing itself in seconds. “I . . . don’t know.”

  “Is there another way?” Mateo asks.

  “No. This is the . . . only . . . way.”

  “What about the Watchtower?” I ask. “Can we get in from the top somewhere? Break a window, maybe?”

  She shakes her head.

  Pia, Chloe, and Raven all sob and stuff hands into their pockets. They draw out their “magic” stones and toss them into the water, then they encircle their white-and-pink speckled piglets, praying for the magic to work.

  “It’ll work, right, Momma Joy?” Chloe’s bottom lip quivers, and Pia sniffles, holding her new sister’s hand. I kneel and kiss them, take their hands into mine and prepare to tell them the truth—that there’s no magic here. We’re going to die . . . and this is goodbye.

  I’m startled by lights in my peripheral, from the water below us.

  Has the power come back on?

  “What’s that?” I ask Smudge.

  She traces a bluish-white glowing finger around the same line she cut into the grate, searing the metal circumference to seal it. When it’s secure, she peers over the side. “It’s him.”

  Something massive emerges, similar in shape to a Teuridon, except this one has lights and a window. A familiar face appears once the water’s swept from the glass.

  “Raffai!” Smudge waves.

  He waves back, then cringes. After a few sweeps of the console in front of him, three retractable legs beneath the ship form a tripod, which raises it the rest of the way out of the water. Once it reaches the edge of the catwalk, a top panel slides open.