17 – 4
Behind the spray of splinters comes the serpent, a slime-slick slide of pale, sinuous flesh with a head like a rot-flower's bloom. Dozens of small, round mouths line the inside of the petals, each one pulsing and flexing. Its tongue, thick and worm-like, emerges from the muscled ring of its throat to lick the air as if tasting it, tasting us. That's how it found us, back in the Bend at the Bend, how it followed us, unerring, from there to the overgrown park, and how it will keep finding us until we either escape it or are brought down in the attempt.
The teeth in those horrid mouths glisten hungrily in the pallid daylight. My heart hammers, blood roaring in my ears. All the aches of my body are gone, the flush of fever forgotten in a rush of stinging, silvery cold down my spine.
When it strikes, I'll bring us both to the ground. The weight of its own effort will send it flying overhead and, if we're lucky, get tangled up in something. From there, we'll go into the alleys, the narrow ones behind all the houses. If that same luck holds, we can put some distance between it and us, maybe even enough to escape. If it doesn't, all those corners and dead ends should slow it down.
Clarke's in the corner of my eye, her breathing shallow, raspy, and short. The sprint from the Bend to the park had caused such a strong coughing fit that she was moments from passing out. The next one might succeed or worse, kill her outright. She can't run.
What, then? How do I get us out of this alive?
In that instant, the serpent strikes. The muscles beneath its pale, slime-slick flesh bunch grotesquely to launch its hideous, rot-flower head at us with incredible speed. Clarke and I grab each other and fall together. We land hard. She rolls us out of the way of the serpent's downward strike. It hits with a wet, flat slap, followed by a grinding screech as those horrid mouths bite deep into the stone street.
Clarke rolls us again, off the street and onto the grass. Her eyes are terror-wide. “It tricked us,” she gasps, “It tricked us!”
The serpent lifts the rot-flower bloom of its head from the hole it made, dripping pink-stained saliva, small chunks of stone, and broken pieces of its own glistening teeth. It stays low as it slithers towards us in a languid curve, lashing the air with its worm-like tongue. I roll to my knees and pull Clarke up with me. We scrabble like children until we get our feet beneath us. “This way,” I take her by the wrist, “come on!”
The serpent snaps its maw, a bite that sounds like the dry snap of breaking bone and misses by scant inches. I push Clarke ahead of me as we slip into the maze of narrow alleys. This way, if she stumbles, I can catch her; and if she's struck by another fit, I can do what, exactly? Carry her? Die first? We take a turn, a sharp left, that leads to a two-pronged split.
She's in the corner of my eye, breathing hard and raspy, digging the heel of her palm into her chest. The serpent is gaining. I can hear the gentle scrape of its body on brick and the wet slide of it over the hard earth beneath our feet. I think the left prong will eventually turn north, towards the hills; the right, probably back towards the center plaza.
Which one will it be, then? Which one do we take? She can't run, so it doesn't matter. Whichever one we take, the serpent will catch us, and it won't miss a third time.
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Whichever one we take.
I can get its attention, lure it away from her, and lead it down to the fork towards the center plaza. The further I can get it, the more time she'll have to escape. She won't have to run and risk another fit. I turn to her. She sees it before I can open my mouth.
“No.”
“I can–”
“Zira, no!”
The scrape-and-slide grows louder. We only had a scant handful of seconds; now, we don't even have that. “Go north where you can,” I say quickly, “I'll meet you at the hilltop.”
She shakes her head. “I won't –”
“You will,” I interrupt, “You – have – to.” She's holding her piece of ice, gripping it so tightly her hand shakes. She wants to argue, to stay, but she knows: if she does, we die. She hates it, is filled with anguish, guilt, and fear by it, but she knows. She takes a step back, down the left prong. “I'll see you soon.”
It's a promise. She nods. “On the hilltop,” she says.
“On the hilltop,” I echo. Then, “Go. Go!”
She goes, leaving me to face the serpent rounding the corner; it's head broad and flat like a spade, tongue poking through the starburst-scar center of its mouth. I bare my teeth at it, heart in my throat and my blood alight. Get its attention, lead it away, and buy her time. Simple.
- - -
The serpent pauses, the petals of its maw rippling, scar-like seams tearing and sealing as it tastes the air once, twice, and thrice. It has neither face nor features, yet it looks confused. Kicking it in the face won't clarify matters either. Eight days of hiding, of cowering from everything, comes pouring out in the heel of my boot, driven into its pallid, slime-slick hide. The impact jars my aching joints, turns my bared teeth into a viciously satisfied grin.
It snaps at me, little mouths hungry, and closes on empty air. I'm already gone, skipping back with the dancer's grace that Mother gave me, sure-footed over the hard-packed earth. “First, we make our circle,” I tell it, then step, right foot over left, until I stand at the beginning of the fork's right prong. The starburst-scar follows me, petals rippling, tongue licking the air. I take a step back, then another, and it follows.
There's something wrong with me. There must be. Why else would I be smiling?
My foot catches on a rock, and I kick it loose. Bend down to pick it up without looking, fingers sliding over cold, gritty stone, and tuck it behind my back. I lead the serpent down the prong, stopping when I back into a wall. The path splits again: north to my right, south to my left. The serpent lifts its head, scar-seams splitting open. Its mouths pulse and flex, worm-like tongue lashing the air.
“Now we dance,” I say, then whip the rock at the muscled ring of its throat as hard as I can. I miss, and the air fills with the dry, chalky crack of breaking teeth as I hit one of the mouths instead. The rock falls to the ground, coated with bloody saliva, and I turn on my heel and run. I've always been fast, but now nothing can catch me; not the serpent, not even the wind.
I fly.
Sharp turns are nothing, darted 'round to south and east while the serpent crashes through them, snapping at the empty air behind me. Futile strikes dig furrows in the ground and in the walls that flank us. Pieces of brick and chunks of earth fly, gifting me with stinging bruises and seeping scrapes. Thus passes the first movement of our dance.
The second begins with a change in tack, not from me but the serpent. A half-dozen paces fly by before I realize: it's no longer behind me. I slow to a jog, then to a walk, breathing hard and covered in sweat. Have I lost it? I can't see it, nor can I hear the scrape-and-slide of its moving. Maybe it gave up, doubled back to pursue the sicklier of its prey, the one it knows its faster than.
No, it can't have; we're too far. By now, she should be quit of the town's confines and on her way up the hill. I swallow, taste the river on the air, and swipe sweat from my eyes. We're not far from the plaza, from the well it first came from. Maybe it's there, waiting to ambush me?
The ground beneath heaves, buckles, and a sinkhole opens up, right beneath my feet. I can't react, can't do anything but fall in a shower of earth and stone, landing hard but on my feet.
I'm in a tunnel, half again as tall as me and twice as wide as my outstretched arms. The air smells of mold and river, of mire and rot. The walls are wet and worn smooth, and the only light is from the hole overhead; well out of reach. A stream of water trickles along the bottom. I hear it, along with the slime-slick slide of something much larger than the serpent that chased me here. The sound seems to be coming from both ahead and behind. I stare into the dark, my fingers closed around a cold, gritty stone, and wait.