Half Way Home

concept. I thought if we all stayed put, it would go away and everything would be fine.

Then I heard the whistling.

The first bombfruit smacked the ground not ten feet in front of me. The whistling grew louder and more menacing as the sounds seemed to come from everywhere at once. A dozen more of the skull-sized fruit struck the earth all around me, some of them exploding in a shower of fragmented rind and tossing seed and fruit meat into the air.

I ran for the mess tent, shifting side to side as the ground continued to vibrate beneath me. When I saw one of the bombfruits slice right through the fabric of the tent and explode on one of the metal tables, I changed course, sprinting toward the old vat module instead.

A dozen other colonists had the same idea. A girl ahead of me was nearly taken out by one of the fruit; it exploded in front of her and she went down, slipping in the meat. I stopped to help her up and we both nearly went down as a large tremor rippled through the solid rock. We scurried forward, trying to reach the others inside the module, and finally crashed through the doorway and tripped over those already inside.

All of us pushed our way deeper as we tried to make room for those coming behind. It was a bizarre recreation of our birthday, but played out in reverse—we packed ourselves into the module, seeking safety in the place we had once fled.

Numerous strikes landed on the roof above with enough force to hurt our ears. We cringed in unison at each one, but the waiting between the strikes was even worse. The anticipation would draw out our nerves into thin wires, and then the next bombfruit would pluck them.

Our little group settled in, hugging our shins and each other. People asked how long it would last as if any of our guesses had merit. We hoped aloud that the other colonists had found shelter as well.

During a lull in the vibrations, I left the girl I had helped and made my way back toward the door, needing to see what was going on outside. Before I got there, Kelvin staggered through, his arm around Tarsi, both of them covered in blood.

I ran forward, cursing, not sure which of them to grab. Tarsi looked up, her eyes wide and full of fear. “Help,” she mouthed, the sound of her voice cut off by another strike above.

Kelvin practically fell into my arms. I lowered him to the decking as gently as I could. Half his face was covered in blood. I reached for his neck, trying to remember my first aid and mumbling to myself whether we should be elevating his head or his feet.

“Sit him up,” another colonist said, coming over to help. I was pretty sure she was right. A few of us struggled with Kelvin’s arms; we dragged him back against a vat. He seemed to weigh a ton. I ran my hands over his head, searching for the wound, and my palms came away sticky with fruit meat and blood.

Kelvin’s eyes opened briefly, flickered, then widened. They rolled around, unfocused, as he blinked rapidly. “Where am I?” he asked.

Someone passed me their shirt, and I began wrapping it around Kelvin’s head. “You’re okay,” I said. “Just rest.”

“I feel shaky,” he told me.

“That’s the ground,” Tarsi said. She grabbed my arm and scooted closer to us both. “What’s going on?” she asked me. “Is this an earthquake?”

I nodded. “I think so.”

Even as we discussed it, the rumbles seemed to fade away, almost as if receding into the distance. The whistles and strikes continued for a few more minutes, but none of us ventured outside until they had ceased completely.

After what felt like half an hour with no whistles, we exited   the module to find the rest of the colonists staggering from their own chosen shelters, all of us marveling at the level of destruction and the green fruit meat that littered the ground.

Out of habit, or time of day, or maybe the sight of so much food, we coalesced around the mess tent—or what was left of it. I went to get some water out of one of the gold rain barrels to wash Kelvin’s wound when Oliver came running up, a red-topped blur of excitement.

“Did you see it?” he asked me.

“See what, the shit storm of bombfruit? Everyone saw it.”

“It was a miracle,” Oliver said, his face dead serious. “A miracle.”

I reached deep into the water barrel with my bowl; the level had lowered due to a direct hit from a bombfruit, which rested, intact, at the bottom. “I need to see to Kelvin,” I told Oliver. “I don’t have time for this.”

“But don’t you see?” He tugged on my arm. “You went to Colony because the people had grown hungry, and what happened?” He spread his arms. “Manna from the gods,” he whispered.

“Yeah, well, the gods have good aim. See if you can find some clean rags, Kelvin’s head nearly got split open.”

Oliver clapped his hands together and ran off. I watched him as I made my way back to my friends, but he didn’t go looking for a rag or anything practical. I saw him tugging on others, pointing toward the command module and up at the sky, spreading talk of gods and of our salvation.

• 9 • The Golden Bullet

For the rest of that day, the ground and my stomach remained thankfully quiet. The grumblings among the colonists, however, didn’t seem to abate. The calories from the bombfruit were worked off with complaining, rather than being focused on the tasks at hand. I heard more than one person question why they were wasting their time on a rocket when more important things needed doing, and I realized I needed to speak with Colony again.

Before I could work out how to get around Hickson to do just that, Kelvin came to me at dinner with another, far more serious problem. He plopped down on the ground across from me, his bandaged head hanging low. I was about to ask him how he was feeling when his hand slid across the table toward me.

Just as I looked down at it, the hand pulled away, leaving behind a single golden bullet.

“Where did you get this?” I asked. I knew immediately what it was—just as I knew an earthquake.

“I made it,” he said flatly.

“Why?” I looked up at him, wondering what procedures I’d missed in the concussion analysis tests I had him perform over lunch.

“Hickson pulled me off farm detail. All of us, in fact. The tractors are no longer allowed to be used for anything. Anyway, two other construction guys are in a room we converted in the tool module. I haven’t seen what they’re making, but I saw the pipes going in, and I had someone ask me about rifling barrels.”

“They’re making guns?” I asked, my voice as low as I could make it and still be heard.

Kelvin nodded.

Oliver and Tarsi walked up with two of the support people I recognized but didn’t know very well. My hand immediately covered the bullet. I slid it off the table and into my lap, reminding myself for the third or fourth time that day that I needed to sew a few pockets into my new garments.

“You boys look serious,” Tarsi said. She jerked her head my way. “If you’re thinking of changing your earlier diagnosis, I should warn you that he wasn’t too bright to begin with.”

She smiled at Kelvin, who smirked and scrunched up his face for effect. “Actually,” he said, “we were just arguing over who should have to sleep on the floor tonight.”

“It’s our night,” she said, scooping up some fresh fruitpaste with one of the bright yellow spoons.

“Yeah,” Oliver said. “My back can’t take two nights in a row on the floor.”

“No,” Kelvin said, his face still creased with sarcasm and false hurt. “I was just telling Porter that it’s no fair I’ve had to sleep with you every night, and that he should have to take a turn.”

Tarsi put down her spoon and turned to me.

“He’s just playing with you,” I told her. “I never said that.”