are dark-pink packages, each marked with simple letters. The letters look worn, fuzzy, but we can make out the words: PROTEIN, BREAD, VEGETABLES, VITAMINS.
“That answers that,” Spingate says. “The packages are a different color, but other than that, they look exactly like what we found in the shuttle. The Grownups built this place.”
Bishop reaches in with his left hand, pulls out a package labeled BISCUITS. He switches the package to his right hand, then looks at his left—red dust on his fingers. The package isn’t actually dark pink: there are white spots where his fingers held it.
Spingate frowns. “Bishop, put it down. Let me see if it’s still edible.”
Bishop sets the package on the floor.
Spingate waves her bracelet over it.
Farrar gives the bin a light kick as if to make sure it’s real. He looks up at the endless racks.
“So much,” he says. “We can eat forever and ever.”
Not forever, I know, but there is enough to last us years. This will give us plenty of time to learn farming and hunting. It’s hard to control my excitement. I want to dance and shout, I want to celebrate.
Coyotl walks down the long center aisle, craning his head, looking left and right, trying to take it all in.
“The gods provided for us,” he says. “Aramovsky speaks the truth.”
The mention of that name almost spoils the moment. Of course Aramovsky will attribute this to the gods, when clearly it was people who built this city and made this food.
Coyotl pulls a bin from the rack, sets it on the floor and opens it. “Hey, cookies!” He tears open a pink package and pulls out a small black circle. The sight of it makes my mouth water; Matilda had treats like that when she was little. But we don’t know if it’s safe to eat.
“Coyotl, put it down,” I say.
He looks at it wistfully, then sets the cookie and the package back in the bin.
Farrar drops his shovel and sprints to the bin. He pulls out the same cookie that Coyotl held. Farrar’s smile is so bright it could light up the entire warehouse.
“Finally—sweets!”
Before I can tell him to drop it, he pops the whole thing into his mouth and crunches down.
“The gods provide,” he says, chewing and grinning.
Coyotl is frowning. He stares at his fingers like there is something wrong with them, flicks them like he’s trying to shake off a bug.
Movement on my left. Bishop, wiping his hand against what’s left of his pants, a worried look on his face.
“My fingers are tingling,” he says. “They sting a little.”
I hear a sharp beep: the sound comes from Spingate’s bracer. The jewels all flash a bright orange—an obvious color of warning.
She stands quickly. “The red powder is mold. It’s toxic.”
The word stabs through my chest.
I drop my spear, sprint to Farrar.
“Spit it out! Spit it out!”
Still chewing, he looks at me like he doesn’t understand what I’m saying—then I realize he’s not looking at me at all. His eyes are glassy, unfocused.
“These cookies taste awful,” he says in a sleepy voice, then stumbles backward. I try to catch him as he falls, but his weight drags us both down. I scramble to my knees, hearing feet slapping against the floor as the others run our way.
Farrar gags. His eyes roll up, showing only whites that gleam ghostly in the flashlight beams.
Spingate slides down next to me, grabs Farrar’s face, jams her fingertips and thumbs into his cheeks, forcing his jaw open.
“Em, get it out of his mouth before he swallows!”
I reach in with my fingers, scoop out half-chewed cookie and throw the black mess aside. I slide fingertips between his lips and gums, under his tongue, fling more poison away—my skin is already tingling.
“Coyotl, water,” Spingate barks. She turns Farrar’s face to the side. “Wash out his mouth!”
Coyotl aims his container at Farrar’s open mouth and squeezes—a jet of water splashes across Farrar’s tongue, dribbles onto the dirty floor.
Farrar starts to twitch. He convulses, body contracting violently—his forehead smashes into Spingate’s cheek, sends her sprawling.
Bishop locks his arms around Farrar’s upper body, holds him tight.
All our flashlights are on the floor, except for Coyotl’s, the beam of which dances madly across Farrar’s face.
Spingate is there again, blood coursing down her cheek. She’s looking inside the white case Smith gave her, trying to find something specific. She removes a small white device barely bigger than her pinkie, presses it to Farrar’s throat.
I hear a small snikt sound. She pulls the device away, drawing