It had done little to ease his gnawing belly, but at least his senses were his own again.
Each time the food human arrived, the creature acted out its charade, squinting and groveling for putrid drugged rat as if it were a delectable morsel from a king’s table.
Zens had underestimated him. One day he’d have revenge on this bunch of pathetic tharuks with their pitifully short claws and stumpy tusks. But it wouldn’t be today. No rats had sneaked into his cave for a couple of days, so he was barely strong enough to stand. He had to eat, even if it was drugged food designed to torment him.
A faint whiff on the air—the human and his meal.
The rat landed on the dirt with a thump.
He snaked his neck along the arid earth to snatch his rotten flesh. The male stumbled and toppled to the ground, face down. Dead? The creature nudged him with his snout. Then growled, and nudged again.
The male dragged himself to his feet and shambled off, leaning on his shovel for support.
The creature doubted he’d see this one again.
Life in Death Valley
Tomaaz’s shovel bit into the earth, the stench of the latrines making his eyes water. They’d made a pit that morning. Now, they were digging drainage ditches toward overflowing outhouses. They’d been at it all day, without food—only sips of tainted water from communal skins. With all the slaves under the watchful eyes of their tharuk overseers, he hadn’t dared refuse the numlocked water.
It hadn’t taken him long to learn that the tharuks called each other by the numbers tattooed on the bald spot inside their wrists. That’s what Lovina had meant when she’d told him tharuk 274 had liked her drawings.
Tomaaz flung dirt out of the trench onto the pile behind him, and dug again. He was used to hard work. These slaves were, too. They dug without a word, blind to their surroundings. Even the littlings were silent, with hollow faces, skinny little arms, and legs as thin as wheat stalks.
Working next to Tomaaz was the boy who had stumbled earlier, causing the diversion that had let Tomaaz join the slave crew. He was pitifully thin, and so weak he lifted one shovelful for every six of Tomaaz’s. Each time the boy threw the dirt out of the ditch, he leaned on his spade, panting, his shoulders jutting out like chicken wings, before he dug again. They were about the same height, but the boy’s muscles had wasted and his cheekbones protruded from his gaunt face. Half his right ear was missing as well as two fingers on his right hand. It was as if he had half a hand. No wonder it was hard to dig.
In fact, many of the slaves had missing fingers or ears.
“You,” snapped tharuk 568, flicking a whip in the air behind Half Hand. “Speed it up.”
Half Hand leaned forward to dig, but stumbled, landing on his knees.
Tomaaz kept up a steady rhythm, not daring to lift his eyes as Half Hand got to his feet.
Another tharuk roared with laughter. “Problem controlling vermin, 568?”
568 reached into the pit and dragged Half Hand out by the scruff of the neck. “On his last legs.” 568 shoved him back into the canal. “But he can dig more.”
Half Hand sprawled face down in the dirt.
568 guffawed. “Get up and dig. Or it’s the flesh pile.”
Two canals over, slaves scrambled out of their trench. A man swung a pick. He swung again, breaching the latrine pit. There was a gurgle and a wafting stench as effluent flowed into the ditch and down the slope to the waiting pit.
Tomaaz fought back a gag, trying to school his features into blank dumb acceptance. He battled the tension that ricocheted through his limbs, making him want to flee, screaming, from this gruesome hell.
“Rest time,” called the tharuk leading that slave gang.
The slaves collapsed where they stood, right next to the stinking canal. Other crews kept digging.
Great. One latrine was done and only about fifty to go. There must be thousands slaving underground. Soon, the sinking sun would touch the tips of the mountains, plunging them into shadow. The pit had taken half a day, and the canal had taken most of the other half. With around a hundred slaves working in five crews, perhaps they could manage ten latrines a day. That meant another week of this stuff. Tomaaz’s mouth soured as he struck the dirt again. A whole day here without finding Ma. He’d planned on questioning slaves when he’d arrived—not knowing they’d all be muted by numlock, every heartbeat scrutinized by tharuks.
His drain had almost reached the latrine, and he was at the front of the line. Tomaaz gave a mental groan. He was actually looking forward to hitting sewage so he could rest. His life had been reduced to this—and he’d only been in this nightmare place for hours. It had to be worse for slaves who’d been here moons or years.
Anger burned in his empty stomach. Zens was a monster, ruining the lives of thousands. The worst were the littlings, no longer running in meadows, laughing or playing; just digging, heads down, like whipped dogs. And for what?
Zens valued something. Something above human lives. Something deep in those misty chasms in the mountains where hundreds of slaves had headed that morning.
Tomaaz’s shovel hit softer dirt. Brown liquid seeped through the soil, trickling into the trench. He didn’t dare risk saying anything, but he nudged Half Hand, before he loosened the dirt with a few taps of his shovel. A thin stream of sludge spurted out. He scrambled out of the ditch, half dragging Half Hand with him. The rest of the
