Carry the Flame (24 page)

That's the promise you broke.
She was thinking of her dream again.
The one to
keep
surviving.
She'd violated the heart of every decision she and Eden ever made: to protect their daughters. Though Jessie didn't know where the girls were or what was happening to them at this moment, she knew all the younger ones like Ananda were now imperiled by the most depraved men she'd ever met—those who had taken them to the City of Shade, and those who would turn them into child brides at the Alliance. Even if the girls were not harmed tonight or tomorrow or the next day, it was only because they were seen as the most valuable commodity on earth.

And what of Bliss and Teresa and Bessie, unprotected by the spare immunity of age and innocence? And the boys? A man had already tried to rape Jaya.

She'd failed all the children. And the loss of their exclamations and awe—even their soft breaths and sudden stillness—left only echoes of silence, in dreams as in life.

Even after reviewing the pressing reasons they'd fled the drought-whipped reservoir, she came up with nothing that could justify dying in the mouth of a beast, or leaving children to the horrors hiding in the City of Shade. The caravaners wanted more from life, but that had always been the fatal fallacy of humans. She blamed herself because she, of all people, should have known better. She'd seen millions of species fall prey to the planet's most ruthless horde. To think that more of anything but agony could ever be claimed without a staggering price was the most murderous conceit ever embraced by—

“Tonga's a little more laid back than Chunga,” Burned Fingers said.

Tonga?
Jessie was so consumed by worry and guilt and regret that it took her a moment to remember the second dragon. “He's digesting,” she replied at last, the image so ghastly she despaired of saying so.

“That makes sense. I wonder how long he'll stay satisfied. Be nice to think we'd have only the one to deal with.”

“It's still two. They'll kill anything that looks edible, including each other, and eat it later.” She could scarcely believe he'd found encouragement of any kind in going up against a Komodo dragon so hungry or wounded that it was still hurtling itself against the gate that kept it from a meal, or revenge, or whatever drove its instincts.

“They can get by on a dozen meals a year,” she said, recalling the detail from a graduate level herpetology course, “although judging by the one we saw, they've been eating a lot more than that for a long time.” More facts came back to her: “And they digest something like ninety percent of what they eat. The rest—the hair, horns, claws—they cough up in a disgusting ball. It's supposed to really stink.”

“That's just what this fragrance counter needs,” Burned Fingers said, spurring faint memories of wondrous scents she hadn't actually smelled in decades, and which otherwise would have been unimaginable to her. He said something else she didn't catch, lost as she was in the pleasant realm of the distant past.

“I'm sorry, can your repeat that?”

“I was just wondering if there's any way we can kill
them
?”

“With a rocket launcher.” She wasn't entirely kidding.

“How about with a damn sword?” he asked. The weapon the Mayor had promised them.

“Let me think.” It was hard to reconcile fighting a pair of Komodo dragons with an ancient weapon.
Like St. Michael and the dragon.
Except that was myth, no matter what some people believed. Even thinking of taking on those beasts felt like nine parts resignation and one part resistance. But she was impressed that Burned Fingers could even strategize, and it sparked a dim hope in her.

“If they let both of them in the pit at the same time, it's possible—not likely but
possible—
they'll rip into each other for the right to eat us. That could buy us a little time. And if one of them gets torn up so bad it can't come after us, we might have a chance to fight the other one. But I just don't see the Mayor letting his two big attractions tear the crap out of each other. Which is why I think he's going to be really pissed when he sees what you did to his pet.”

“What's the worst he can do to me, Jess? Throw me in a pit with a disgusting beast from the back of the evolutionary bus? He's already done
that.
I may lose some sleep down here, but it won't be over slicing and dicing some goddamn Komodo's tongue.”

She couldn't argue with that. “Our only hope is stabbing them in the heart with a sword or spear, something sharp enough to cut through their hide and sturdy enough that we can really drive it deep into their chests. But that's got to happen fast because if we get bitten, it won't be long before that venom basically paralyzes us.”

Chunga roared and smashed the gate again. It creaked loudly, like it might shatter. The ground shook.

“This could be over awfully fast,” Burned Fingers said.

“If we're lucky.”

“But if we're still here come Friday, the Mayor's going to make us wait before he brings the dragons out. I'll bet you anything he's planning on us being the big finale. He'll have us up there in chains watching all the hors d'oeuvres getting snapped up by God knows what.”

Now Chunga roared, like he was in pain, and they heard a ghastly, guttural noise. Within seconds the worst odor yet wafted over them.

“Tonga just coughed it up,” Jessie said, hand over her mouth and nose.

“The fur ball?” Burned Fingers sounded like he was also covering his face. “Makes me want to scream, too.”

“It's called a gastric pellet, but ‘fur ball' will do.” It was so malodorous the frickin' beasts were known to rub their faces in dirt to try to get rid of the stink. Tonga was already banging around back there.

“That's the single worst thing I've ever smelled,” Burned Fingers said, “and that's saying a lot.”

Jessie agreed, but at least she could catch a full breath now. “What did you mean about him making us wait on Friday night?”

“I just think he'll have all sorts of fights lined up with all kinds of creatures. They'll be the undercard; we'll be the main event. Just like in the old days.”

“You mean boxing?” she asked. “Hardly.”

“No,” he said, “I mean the fights to the death.”

“Organized ones?”

He grunted.

“I never heard of them.”

“I guess not, because you sure wouldn't have forgotten,” he said.

“By the time I was old enough to notice anything, there wasn't even Internet. But you do have a few years on me.”

“Yeah, I guess I do. Well, they'd get poor fuckers from Africa or Asia, South America, sometimes from the developed world, including this country when people got desperate enough, and you could vote from home on the kind of weapons they'd use—chains, pipes, clubs, crowbars, stuff like that. Hammers, anything you could bludgeon with. No guns or knives—they didn't want the fights ending fast. Then they'd dangle a big bucket of food and it would be a fight to the death. Their families had to agree to be right by the cage, so you'd see starving, pathetic kids screaming at their fathers at the top of their lungs, ‘Kill him, kill him.' Didn't matter what the language was, you knew what they were saying. It was the highest rated show on the old Execution Channel.”

“I guess I missed that one, too.”

“ ‘Twenty-four hours a day,' ” Burned Fingers intoned in the deep voice of an announcer, “ ‘live death, when you want it,
how
you want it.' Doesn't that ring a bell?”

“No, it doesn't.”

“There's going to be more than just us on the menu, that's all I'm saying.”

“With the dragons?” Jessie asked.

“No, I doubt that. He'll be saving them for us.” Chunga roared with such timing it was as if he were agreeing with Burned Fingers. “But I think the Mayor will have something else going on to keep the crowd juiced.”

A whole series of bloodlettings sounded so dismal that Jessie figured he was right. They'd never waste the girls by throwing them in the pit. But boys? They'd probably see them as expendable as the dogs. Maybe more so. The older girls, too. She guessed that men with burn tattoos would find lots of entertainment in gladiator girls. Some of the adult women, like Maureen Gibbs and Solana—even with her machete wounds—were plenty strong and could put up a good fight. So they'd be seen as good sport. Same with the men, of course, especially Maul, although Jessie hadn't spied him on the march there, or his little sidekick, Cassie. Burned Fingers hadn't seen them, either.

“Maybe Maul got away,” she said. “He's tough. There's some hope.”

“I can't believe I've got to pin my hopes on a guy who wanted to murder me a few weeks ago.”

“We all did, in case you've forgotten. Anyway, you're here.”

“Because you wouldn't let him.”

“You were useful,” she said, laughing softly, surprising herself. “So be useful now.”

“There's no rabbit in this hat, Jess. But let's try hacking up their tongues one more time before someone comes around. You take Tonga, and I'll deal with big mouth over here.”

Jessie pulled out her knife from under her pants and walked along the curved wall till she felt the wooden gate. She tapped it and listened to the dragon stir. Then she crouched and waited for the beast to get curious. When nothing more happened, she rubbed the blade against the bottom of the door to try to draw his attention. The opening wasn't much, about five or six inches, but it proved ample for that slimy tongue. Much as she was prepared for it, she almost screamed when it darted out with enough force to knock the blade from her hand. The forked organ enveloped her wrist. She feared the beast would drag her hand under the gate and into his mouth. But he withdrew his tongue and offered a short bellow, modest by Chunga's enraged standards.

She wiped off glops of saliva, then searched for her knife, careful not to impale herself; dragon bacteria could be deadly.

Chunga roared on the other side of the pit. As Jessie wheeled around, the beast smashed the gate once more. She could just see Burned Fingers's dark outline jump up and start dancing with his arms in the air. He looked like a crazy man.

But he knows war.
Always reminding herself of this in the worst moments.

When she spied the silhouette of his knife waved above his head, she realized the absolute blackness of night was retreating, and that light, however weak, had invaded the City of Shade.

Only seconds later a soft voice drifted down from the top of the pit. Jessie looked up and could just make out a man crouched above them, but not what he'd said. Neither did Burned Fingers.

“Missed that, partner.” The marauder spoke warily.

“I've got food and water for you,” the man said in little more than a whisper. “I'll lower it down, but we've got to hurry. I can't have anyone finding me here.”

A chain rattled the still air as he lowered a bucket. The prisoners put away their knives. They found a metal canister, a handful of hard round vegetables, and two chunks of meat with a smoky smell. The chicken, Jessie thought.

“Just pull us out of here,” she said, taking hold of the chain.

“Not now. We'd all be dead,” he responded urgently. “Trust me, just drink the water and put it back in the bucket. And take the food. But
don't
hoard it. You don't want them finding it on you. I'll be back, if I can.”

He seemed to look around everywhere at once, but it was still too dark for Jessie to make out his features. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Never mind. And I heard what you were doing to the dragons. It's a bad idea. If they catch you they'll cut off your fingers or hands to even the score. He really babies those monsters.”

She and Burned Fingers took turns gulping the water and returned the canister to the bucket. The man pulled it up, put it aside, and scurried away without another word.

“Who is he?” Jessie didn't expect Burned Fingers to know, and he confirmed this by shrugging his shoulders and taking another bite of the chicken. But then he leaned forward, as if to say something, so she did, too. Their cheeks brushed, sending a shocking tingle through her system. She recoiled, so intent on avoiding a further intimacy that she almost missed what he said:

“That's someone who doesn't have the best interests of that madman at heart.”

“I hope he's got some allies,” she responded in a tight, quavering voice that belied her fear—or unbidden desire. Or fear
of
unbidden desire; even she didn't know. She looked away, took steadying breaths, and tried to eat.

“Unless he's suicidal, I'm guessing he's working with at least somebody else. I'd say things are looking pretty damn bright compared to a few minutes ago.”

Bright?
She wouldn't go that far, but the man had brought them more than sustenance. He'd brought them hope.
And you?
Her eyes settled back on Burned Fingers.
You just brought me—

Chunga roared louder and longer than he had before, shutting down Jessie's thoughts and turning her gaze toward the frightening eruption. The beast was thrusting his entire head through the narrow gap above the gate, wresting chunks of hard earth from the low tunnel ceiling. Then the reptile smashed his heavy chest against the boards, repeatedly driving himself forward on the strength of his huge, powerful haunches. The wood screamed like it would shatter. He whipped his head back and forth, raining more dirt clods into the pit.

Jessie and Burned Fingers jumped to their feet. She backed into the wall, swearing to herself.

Chunga's claws, long and thick and sharp as railroad spikes, gripped the top of the gate. They raked the edge furiously, like a hefty dog trying to scrabble up a big boulder. Wood chips exploded into the air.