Alight_ Book Two of the Generat - Scott Sigler Page 0,16

a thin metal needle with it. She injected him with something.

Farrar’s body lurches hard, then relaxes all at once. His eyes flutter open. I can see his irises. His chest heaves.

Spingate holds his face again, but gently this time.

“Farrar, it’s Spingate. Can you see me?”

His eyes widen, focus on her. He nods.

I feel my held breath rush out: he’s okay.

Farrar looks at me, confused, then at Bishop.

“What happened?”

“You ate the cookies,” Bishop says. “Everyone, make sure you do not eat the cookies.”

Bishop is so solemn and serious—I start laughing. The sound is awkward. I shouldn’t be laughing, because there’s nothing funny about any of this, but I can’t help it.

—

Spingate examines her twentieth bin. Bishop and Coyotl have been bringing them back from all over the warehouse. Coyotl even climbed up high to grab one, somehow managing to get all the way back down while holding it under one arm.

We watch the bracer on Spingate’s wrist as she waves her hand over the bin’s contents: a dozen dark-pink boxes that tease us with simple names for food.

The jewels flash orange.

I look over at Farrar. He’s sheened with sweat. It’s been maybe an hour since he ate the cookie, and he’s still breathing hard. Spin thinks he’ll be fine, but when we get back to the shuttle I’ll make sure Smith takes a look at him.

Spingate closes the bin she just examined. The jaguar’s jewel eye sparkles. She looks at Bishop.

“You’re sure this was from farther away?”

He points down the warehouse’s main aisle. “I got it from the end, next to the far wall. And I looked inside probably a hundred bins along the way—they all have the red powder.”

Spingate shakes her head. “The powder is a microorganism so small it can get into the containers, even get through the wrappers and right into the food. If we hadn’t acted as fast as we did, Farrar would be dead.” She looks up at me. “Once the mold contaminates food, there’s nothing we can do to make it edible again.”

She looks down, as if it’s her fault that we’re in a building full of food, yet we can’t eat any of it.

At least we have the shuttle’s supplies. We have time to figure out other answers.

I remember Brewer’s strange words back on the Xolotl—Hopefully you can break the mold. If you can’t, that was one very long trip for nothing.

Break the mold. He knew. One long trip for nothing…

“The mold,” I say to Spingate, “how does it spread?”

She stands up, brushes off her hands and shrugs. “My guess is the microorganisms probably make little eggs. No, that’s not quite right…they make spores, little bits so small they float on the air. They land on things and the process starts over.”

If it spreads through the air…

I grab her arm. “Could these spores get into the shuttle’s stores?”

Spingate’s eyes widen. “Yes, they could.”

A few minutes ago, we thought we had enough food to last for years. All we have is what’s on the shuttle—if that goes bad, we’re doomed.

Spingate looks at her water container. She turns it upside down; two drops come out, then nothing. She emptied it—and Coyotl’s as well—further cleaning out Farrar’s mouth. I emptied mine washing my hands until they stopped stinging. Bishop did the same with his.

Just like that, we’re almost out of water.

Spingate stares at the empty container.

“If the water in this city carries the same spores, we can’t drink it,” she says. “We’ll die of dehydration long before we get hungry. We have to find fresh water and test it.”

She looks at me, and I know what she’s thinking: the river. I remember the pilothouse map.

That waterfall isn’t far from here.

We stop and stare. The distant waterfall’s soft roar echoes through the streets, but no one is paying attention to that.

Coyotl breaks our silence.

“Those are some big godsdamned doors.”

I glance at him, annoyed. Does he need to curse? I can’t remember much of school, but Matilda’s memories give me the sense that cursing brought discipline. The paddle. Or something even worse…I vaguely remember a phrase…the rod.

He sees me staring, stares back. He raises an eyebrow, daring me to correct him.

In school, he’d be in trouble. But we’re not in school anymore. And I have to admit, he’s right—those are some godsdamned-big doors.

We stand in the middle of a wide street, facing east. The waterfall is somewhere off to our left, to the north. Buildings and ziggurats flank us, reaching up to the sky. Far ahead of us, the