He began to run. It wasn't a fast run. It was more of aplodding quickstep, driven forward by the weight of his own body. He tried tomuster enough energy to scream, but his throat was too dry.
With his free hand he waved at the trucks, hoping thatthey wouldn't mistake him for one of the dead. Gunshots rang out, and he couldhave sworn he felt a bullet zip by his head as the back end of one of the largetrucks swung back into view as the driver straightened out the vehicle.
Then he saw something that made him pick up his pace,Amanda's face in the back of the truck. He saw her eyes go wide, and her armsspread out, as if she were trying to get the soldiers to stop for him. For afew agonizing seconds, they drove further down the road, the taillightsdisappearing behind the downward curve of the bridge.
Rudy ran as fast as he could. His head throbbed withpressure, and he was too dehydrated to even sweat. But Amanda was there. Thatmeant that he needed to be there as well. To his amazement, the vehicle grewcloser. They had stopped for him, and as he crested the apex of the bridge, hesaw the brake lights glaring bright red. They were waiting for him.
Amanda waved at him, her skinny arms beckoning for him torun quicker, and he wished he had wings. He wished he could lift himself off ofthe bridge and fly right into her arms. The soldiers' shots rang out all aroundhim, but he refused to turn and see what they were shooting at. That was thepast; that was not for him. Amanda was for him.
Black spots swam in front of his eyes, and his paceslowed. His throat began to tighten, and he could barely catch a breath. Theair was like quicksand in his lungs, and he felt as one would feel whendrowning. With his free hand, he searched his pockets for his inhaler, butthere was nothing. His vision began to fade, and though it was the middle ofthe day, he felt as if night were closing in. He stumbled over a severed legthat seemed to pop up out of nowhere, and then he went down on his knees, hisjeans ripping on the asphalt. He didn't even feel the pain.
He crawled, putting one hand in front of the other on thehot pavement. The muzzle flashes of the soldiers' rifles did battle with thestars in his eyes, and before he passed out on the bridge, he managed tofinally scream. "Amanda!" Then it was dark, and the trucksdisappeared.
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THE
ENEMIES OF OUR
ANCESTORS
By
The Vocabulariast
Here is a sneak preview:
THE ENEMIES OF OUR ANCESTORS
Prologue: The NightWhispers
Kochen walkedthrough the night, his bare feet testing for sharp rocks before he put his fullweight on the ground. In this way, he moved through the black-chilled air. Windblew through his obsidian hair, and his dusky brown skin raised gooseflesh inresponse. Kochen looked up and saw the outline of the canyon's rim against thenight sky, the faint hint of blackness against a dark blue. More stars than hecould count looked down at him. It was the time of the Lynx moon, the time ofthe bobcat. Its full, round face rose into the sky, bringing with it the onsetof spring. He could smell the change in the air. Though he was onlysix-winters-old, in a world where seasons meant everything, he had learned thesigns of change at a young age.
He walkedthrough the empty farmland, away from the mud and stone houses that hisancestors had carved and molded into the cliff, his toes sinking into the loosebrown soil. Kochen lived on the lowest terrace of the village nestled among thecliffs, so he needed no torch to descend down the variety of stone ladders thatled from the highest level to the rough stone ground. He had simply walked outof his family's small room where his mother and father slumbered, inched down asingle, thirty-rung ladder, and he was on the ground.
The farm soilhad already been broken up for the spring. The soil felt cool and soft againsthis toes as he plodded through the loose farmland, avoiding the budding shootsof corn. He stopped to relieve himself, pulling his loincloth to the side. Hisurine steamed in the night as it pattered to the ground, impossibly loud.
Behind him, heheard someone doing the same. He turned to look and saw his father.
"What areyou doing out here?"
"No, whatare you doing out here?" his father shot back.
Kochen had beentold over and over to not wander far from their house to relieve himself in thenight. No one had ever explained why; they just said not to.
"I had togo. Besides, it's good for the crops." Kochen finished up his work and lethis loincloth fall back into place. His father did the same. Kochen walked inhis direction, and his father cuffed him on the back of the head.
"That isfor thinking you know it all. Get your skinny rear-end back into thehouse."
Kochen ran inthe night, lest his father's ire turn into more than just a simple cuff. He wasusually slow to anger, but tonight he seemed different.
"Next time,you go from the ledge like everyone else."
Kochen heard thewords, but dared not give a response on the odd chance that it would be seen asdisrespectful. As Kochen put his first, rough hand on the ladder, he heard anoise, a low rumbling. It was not a noise he had ever heard before. It echoedthrough the canyon and across the farmland. A gust of wind blew the hair on hishead backwards as he turned around to see what was making the noise.
In the faintlight of the moon, he could see the blue shine of his father's skin runningtowards him. The tilled farmland was darker in the night than the untilled earthof the canyon floor, and when his father reached the edge of it, the earthopened up. A shape emerged, maggot-white, and twice as
