Alight_ Book Two of the Generat - Scott Sigler Page 0,98

of it. Seemed like it was holding something…maybe a stick?

I climb higher.

The trunk narrows, the branches thin. I reach the top—here the trunk is so slim the tree wobbles from my weight.

As if the gods are real and want to help me, the wind drops off and the last of the drizzle stops. One of the two moons escapes the clouds and turns the jungle into a maroon landscape.

I look out across the trees.

“Oh…oh no.”

The canopy blocks most of my view, but through it I see so many Springers it looks like the entire jungle floor is moving.

A line of them march shoulder to shoulder, hopping in unison. The line stretches off into the distance. I can’t even see where it ends.

Some carry muskets. Most carry other weapons: axes, knives, swords and spears.

Behind the first line, a second.

And a third.

Thousands of them. My people are hopelessly outnumbered. The war machines will be our only hope of survival.

Closer the marchers come. I have to move soon or I won’t be able to get down without being seen.

Wait…in the middle, straight out from me, behind the second line. Springers hacking at trees and vines, cutting away underbrush. Stretching out behind them, a maroon streak through the jungle—they are clearing an old road.

Something on that road. I squint, lean forward, as if those extra few inches can make a difference. I recognize the design. The toys Barkah showed me, the ones with the long, straight wooden tails, the carts that smashed spiders…they weren’t toys at all. They were models of something real.

These are too big to call carts—I think wagons is a better word for them. The tent-poles-without-a-tent frameworks brush against overhanging branches. The thin, straight tails stretch out twice the length of the wagons themselves.

The wagons are big enough for several Springers to ride on top, although no one is riding. Instead, there are five Springers on each side, pushing the wagons over the broken, bumpy, just-cleared road.

Springers are marching on our city. They are prepared to take on the spiders and win.

My people will be slaughtered—I have to go back, I have to warn everyone.

The way the Springer lines angle away…

I turn and look back, see the city of Uchmal rising out of the jungle. Oh no…there is no way O’Malley and I could make it to the gates without the Springers seeing us. The only hope of escape we have is to continue along the trail as fast as we can go.

The Springer church…the cellar where Barkah hid Spingate and me…

Omeyocan’s second moon slips from behind the clouds, adding pale blue light to the jungle. It’s too bright—if even one of those thousands look up here, they’ll see me.

I start down, dropping fast. My hands and feet slip on wet bark. I smash my knee, then my shin, but the pain doesn’t slow me. I lose my footing a third time, fall into a branch that hammers my ribs. Can’t stop—if I stop now we’re dead.

Branches, vines, feet, hands…faster and faster.

When I reach the last branch, O’Malley is kneeling, half-hidden behind the wide trunk. I drop to the ground next to him, feel the rhythmic stomp-stomp-stomp of the marching army.

“Em, we have to get out of here!”

For once, I don’t mind his whispers.

I peek around the trunk. Through the dense underbrush, I can see them coming—a line of alien soldiers hopping straight for us, weaving around trees, dipping down the far side of jungle-choked craters only to hop out the near side.

When I turn and run, O’Malley is right behind me. We stay low and sprint down the trail. Our booted feet eat up the distance, enough that I start to think we got away clean.

And then I hear the long, droning note of a horn.

They’ve spotted us.

We sprint through endless jungle ruins, doing our best to keep to the trail. Overhanging vines and encroaching leaves slap at us, splashing us with beaded drizzle that soaks our hair and runs down our faces into our coveralls.

A flash of lightning. Thunder follows two seconds later. As if the deafening noise ripped the bottom from the clouds themselves, the rain pours down again.

The horn echoes through the trees.

They are chasing us.

I think we’re a little bit faster than the Springers, but hopping and landing on both feet makes them more stable on this rough, wet ground. I’ve fallen once, banged my chin on a tree root. O’Malley has fallen twice. He’s bleeding from a cut on his temple. Each time we hit