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  © 2016 Jadah McCoy

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  ISBN 978-1-62007-493-0 (ebook)

  ISBN 978-1-62007-497-8 (paperback)

  For my parents and brother, who always made me feel as if I was somebody even when I felt like I was nobody at all.

  Maybe the only significant difference between a really smart simulation and a human being was the noise they made when you punched them.

  —Terry Pratchett, The Long Earth (The Long Earth, #1)

  Syl

  here is a sign, dingy and broken, half buried in the water and moss in front of me. Faded brown handprints streak across the large board, staining it with dried blood. It reads: If you died today, where would you spend eternity?

  I’ve heard stories of places called heaven and hell—children’s tales meant to keep you in line, make you act right.

  There is no “act right” on this planet anymore. The only line I follow is the edge of my blade plunging into the throat of one of those goddamn Cull. And if there’s anything I know, it’s that hell can’t be any worse than this place.

  “Syl, we need to hurry,” Serge says.

  He smacks my pack as he jogs past, and I nod. Lucca follows him, his gaze sliding off me with disgust.

  We’re running late.

  Waning sunlight reflects off the shattered windows of skyscrapers. Above us, the silhouettes of planets Zita, Zel, and KOI-10 are almost aligned, Zita’s rings shining and beautiful in the fading light. The marshgator chorus has begun, their croaks echoing in the humid air. Firewasps the length of my palm perch on swampy foliage and rusted metal, their needle arms washing one mandible and then the other. Each of these things is a warning that the sun will soon set.

  When the sky is bruised purple, when the shattered glass no longer glints, that is when they wake. We have until then to gather food and haul ass back to the Sanctuary.

  The last time I got distracted, people died. I don’t need Lucca’s hate-filled gaze to remind me of that, so I abandon my curiosity in the sign and follow the two men deeper into the city.

  I find Serge bent low to the ground, his fingers against the soft earth as he studies the tracks left by the animal we’re hunting. Both men remain silent and still as they wait.

  Wiping sweat from my brow, I crouch beside Serge, who puts his index finger to his mouth, warning me to be quiet before he points in front of us. I see it now, a moss-colored creature, each of its three heads grazing in the shade. It looks up at the sound of my feet rustling in the leaves. A vibrant red hood unfolds on each of the heads before it returns to grazing.

  Serge quietly, so quietly, aims his gun—a crude metal object passed down from his father and grandfather—at the ablak. Lucca stops him, placing a hand against the weapon as he gives Serge and me a smug smile. He aims his phaser cannon at the animal, and I raise an eyebrow at Serge, who shrugs in reply, though his tense brow tells a not-so-relaxed story.

  The shot rings out, and the tree beside the animal explodes in a spray of splinters. A blur of green and a panicked bleat tell me that ablak won’t be on the menu tonight. Bummer. I was looking forward to something other than century-old canned food.

  Lucca looks dejected, and Serge is red in the face. He’d spent all that time tracking the animal only for it to be spooked. I pat Lucca’s shoulder and give him a smug smile of my own. He shrugs away from my touch.

  “Better luck next time, hotshot.”

  Climbing vines make the skyscraper in front of us look like a slim lady in a green dress. We can’t go back empty-handed, and we haven’t searched this building yet. We avoid the larger buildings, as they tend to harbor not only vines, but nests of Cull as well. The bugs wait there in the dark bowels and tight spaces, still and quiet as the dead until someone happens upon them.

  The building’s double doors are warped and blown off their hinges, blackened with soot. Jagged glass shards glint on the ground around them.

  Broken granite, once a well-buffed floor, scatters with each step as I inch into a flooded, sunken lobby. I grasp a tree trunk growing out of the murky depths and leap into the water. The coolness chills my warm skin. It’s only thigh deep, but I’m careful to check where I step in case there’s an unexpected sinkhole.

  Lucca leaps in after me, and Serge, more dramatically, dives in and bursts to the surface. That boy’s had more than a bump or two on his head. He shakes the water from his sandy blond hair, his shirt clinging to his lean body.

  “You just took a Cull shit bath,” I tell him. “Congrats.”

  “Can’t smell any worse than my armpits right now,” he says. He splashes water under his arms and then in my direction and winks at me.

  I roll my eyes. He’s right; it’s way hotter up here than it is down in the Sanctuary. Sweat comes with the job.

  Lucca holds up his arm, and a pulse of light shoots out of the scanner attached to his wrist. A hologram appears, displaying the building’s three-dimensional blueprint. The display flickers in the air for a moment and then reappears after a few good raps to the side. Old piece of junk.

  Lucca touches the edge of the hologram and turns it to the left, swiping to get a closer look at the second level. His gaze is intense as he studies the map.

  Serge swats at the wispy flora dangling from the ceiling. Little mouths with tiny, jagged teeth at the end of the vines latch on to his shirt. He yanks them off and draws his gun, checking the lobby floor for any sign of bugs or other creatures that might have a hankering for human flesh. There’s no shortage of either above the sewers.

  “Well,” says Lucca, “it looks like the stairs above the eighth level are blocked. And the whole left wing of levels five through seven is demolished.”

  “Stairs are here,” Serge calls from across the room. “All clear.”

  “Let’s get this over with,” I say.

  Old papers flutter on a desk as wind whistles through the shattered windows. I run a finger across the glass surface of the desk, etching a path into the layers of dust. The particles float on a beam of sunlight, and I sneeze.

  “What do you think they did in these buildings?” I sniffle and rub at my nose.

  Lucca is a few paces ahead of Serge and me, checking each room for any sign of life—or food. He ignores me, as expected, and continues staring into his scanner.

  I stroll down the hall between the two men.

  “And why—”

  “Do you have a brain or a question factory in there?” Serge winks at me over the barrel of his phaser cannon, aimed and ready to shoot anything that might sneak up on us.

  I smirk. Pestering Serge has always been my favorite hobby.

  “There’s a difference between the two?” I return his smile.

  He looks over and gives me a mock glare. His face is young, but with worry lines carved into his forehead.

  I stop to study the greenery that grows through the tall, broken windows. From this vantage point, I can see the top of Elite City’s other buildings, crumbling and broken. Corroded metal contraptions line the streets and sidewalks below. They were automob
iles once, sleek and fast; now they are hunks of useless scrap metal—places to hide when being chased. I step closer to the window, my boots crunching on broken glass.

  “Be careful,” Serge says, his tone resigned. Always such a worrier.

  I think briefly about pretending to slip and fall out the window if only to have his vast collection of muscles press against my body when he “saves” me but decide against it. Lucca would never trust me again, and then I would lose all of this—the blue sky, the green jungle, the mystery of this place and its strange machines.

  Besides, Serge and me… that was a onetime thing. His muscles are the least of my concerns these days.

  Instead, I step away from the window and follow the boys. They tread through the rubble with an affinity for caution I’ve never possessed.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have let you come,” grumbles Lucca as he points his phaser into another empty room. “I didn’t sign up to be a babysitter.”

  Well, at least I can hit a fucking target. I stop just short of saying the words.

  “You couldn’t stop me,” I tell him. “I’d just follow you.”

  “Have you no fear?” Serge asks. I can hear the smile in his voice. That look is back—the starry-eyed one I always ignore. Maybe if I ignore it long enough, his feelings will go away.

  I kick a few pieces of glass out a window, watching as they bounce down the building. “No. My adrenal gland is full of curiosity.”

  I see it then, my keen eyes catching movement on the demolished floor below us—a blur of dark armor and hulking mass in my periphery.

  Cull.

  We’ve been talking, and that means we haven’t been listening. Even now, Serge’s and Lucca’s quiet voices are a constant background noise.

  “Serge,” I say, horror coloring his name.

  The two men stand as still as the strange plastic people I’ve seen lined up in shop windows. Birds trill in distress as they flee their nests, and worse, there’s the rustling of something coming toward us.

  I lied when I said my adrenal gland is full of curiosity. Curiosity isn’t what makes my blood thick and scalding in my veins, like magma. It’s fear.

  I touch the knife at my side. I was trained to shove my blade deep into the chest cavity and twist upward until my hands are slick with hot viscera. I refuse to be one of those wide-eyed women back at the Sanctuary—the ones who stare as the Cull’s pincers slice them in two.

  But Cull are ruthless creatures, monsters left over from a time when genetic warfare was the norm. They were people once, and that’s what scares me the most.

  “Serge,” I say again. His name sounds hollow.

  My companions make the decision between fight or flight for me. Serge grips my arm, and together the three of us run.

  The Cull’s scream vibrates through the floor. He’s found us. Any moment now the sting of acid spit will eat through the heel of my boots and bite my flesh. Panic and adrenaline make me light-headed.

  But Lucca rips me from Serge’s grasp, pushes me into a room, and leaps into a hall farther down, Serge beside him. I stumble over a desk and rush to press myself to the wall. The last thing I want is a creature with a fifteen-foot wingspan that spits hazardous material cornering me in this tiny room.

  I’m so mad at Lucca that I could hit him over the head with the handle of my knife. That’s just like him, shove little Syl out of the way so the menfolk can blow stuff up with their big, phallic guns.

  That anger disappears when the Cull’s acid spit rains down the hallway, causing a large green root to sizzle and shrivel up. Serge’s gun goes off, loud and echoing, followed by the sound of Lucca’s gun, which makes a deafening whirring noise as the plasma charge leaves the cannon.

  I hear the sick, fleshy smack of the plasma charge ripping through part of the Cull’s body, and the ting of what could only be Serge’s bullet hitting its hard carapace and bouncing off. The creature squawks, but its footfalls continue in the direction of Lucca and Serge.

  The doorway frames its shiny brown body. The anatomy of the Cull has always done what it was intended to do—terrify and confuse. The creature’s head is almost human, but sharp mandibles peek from each corner of its mouth. Its eyes are milky, unseeing. Cull are human in the way that a scrambled egg is still an egg.

  The creature makes a noise like laughter, but it’s a distorted mockery of the happy sound. Its synapses fire randomly. It can even say whole words, repeating the word again and again like a child.

  I creep toward the door with my blade in hand. I have my gaze locked on its bulky, muscle-bound neck. If I destroy that, the acid spit won’t be a problem—unless I nick an acid gland in the process.

  I leap into action, crossing the space separating me and the Cull in one strong bound. I latch on to its back with a battle cry, my weapon sinking into its throat before it has a chance to react. It bucks, but I slice and stab at its neck until the head falls to the ground with a thud. The wound squirts mildewy-smelling fluids, and I desperately hope my knife missed any glands. I flinch as dampness hits my face, but my skin doesn’t melt off right away, which seems like a good sign.

  “Sylvia!” Serge’s voice rises over the sound of my struggle.

  The Cull flails as I try to disengage from it. The carapace underneath me shifts and stretches until the shell extends on either side of the creature. Filmy, useless wings splay out around me and vibrate, making me lose my grip on the slick knife I’ve lodged in its shoulder. I fall under its feet and instinctively roll away.

  The Cull is faster than me, though. It rushes forward and closes the space between us. I shimmy farther back, trapped against a root, and push against the hard plate of its broad chest with my boots.

  Its pincers thrash inches from my face, begging for purchase on human flesh. I can see that Serge’s previous shot blew off one of the sharp appendages, so now it’s just a harmless stump wiggling around in the air. The other side isn’t so benign.

  “Now!” I cry. “Shoot it!”

  Click. Click-click. My heart drops into my boots. The sound of a jammed gun is not something you want to hear when your eyes are an inch from being clawed out of your skull. Damn that piece of shit metal weapon. This means my life rests on Lucca’s aiming ability.

  In other words, I’m screwed.

  Loud gunshots ring out—Lucca’s. Two land in the Cull’s soft underbelly and one rips apart a wing. I scream as the plasma shot grazes my arm. It’s just a flesh wound, but the blood pouring out of it makes it seem otherwise.

  The Cull warbles and stops moving and then teeters in my direction. I kick it away, and the body slumps against a pile of rubble and roots.

  Lucca drags me off the floor by my collar.

  “You’re too reckless!” he says. Anger vibrates through his wiry muscles.

  “Hey, man…” Serge places a cautionary hand on Lucca’s shoulder. “Leave her alone.”

  I rip my shirt from his grasp. “Wasn’t sure if you’d be able to hit him right there in front of you. Thought I was doing you a favor.”

  I retrieve my knife from the Cull’s cadaver and wipe the blood on my pants before sheathing the blade. When I look up, Lucca’s face is the most glorious shade of royal purple.

  “My father—”

  I meet his gaze, daring him to say whatever idiotic words were about to vomit out of his mouth.

  Whatever he sees in my face keeps him from finishing his sentence.

  “Don’t make this about your father. He made a choice.” I glare up at him.

  “What choice? There was no choice. He chose you—he always chose you.”

  Serge looks away, giving us the illusion of privacy.

  Lucca and I stand inches away from each other. He’s taller than me, but I refuse to be menaced by a beanpole with a superiority complex. Neither of us budges for a long moment, making our mutual dislike of each other known.

  “Syl.” Serge reaches for me. “Please.”

  The tips of his fingers brush mine
, and I pull my hand away, heading for the stairs. I hate the pity that softens his eyes. “Find the food on your own.”

  A house looms in front of me, quiet and ominous. It’s tucked away at the edge of the city, where the tree line gets thicker and more dangerous. It’s almost completely overrun with creep moss, the forest reclaiming the building after decades of disuse. It looks to be undisturbed, which means there might still be food there.

  Eclipse season is coming soon, and the months beforehand are always a scramble to get more scouting parties out, pushing the boundaries of how late we return. There’s always a shortage of food, and if we run out during the eclipse, well… Whoever draws the short stick better gear up and pray their flashlight doesn’t attract anything other than Cull.

  It couldn’t hurt to scout this one last building. Besides, Serge and Lucca won’t be heading back for a few more minutes, and there’s too much adrenaline in my system to retreat back into the sewers just yet.

  I glance up; the sky is orange. I’ll have to hurry.

  Creep moss cascades from the door. I brush it aside and the thin tendrils disintegrate into puffs of powdery green. I cover my nose and mouth with a hand; the stuff can cause hallucinations if inhaled.

  Inside, the building is mildewed and molded, the frame probably only held together by the moss and vines attached to it. Orange light shines through the stained windows, illuminating the dust motes in the air. The floor creaks as I pass through what looks to be a living room. A few feet away, something scurries in a small hole. Beady eyes peer out at me.

  Past the living room is a tiny rectangular room that was once a kitchen. The one window in the room is shattered. Flowering limbs press through and cover every surface, sealing shut the cabinets lining the walls. I take my knife and jam it into the crack between the two cabinet doors, sawing all the way down until I can pry the limbs away with my blade. They drip red onto the counters below, and the liquid bubbles as it eats at the material.

  I pull open the cabinet and… jackpot! Stacks of cans greet me on the other side. I reach for them and—