he told of the Spewer village.
By the time the soft earth of the forest turned into the loose rocks and sand of riverbank, Tanner had almost convinced himself that escape was a certainty. But now he felt that optimism fade like a lantern running low on oil. He could see the torches of the villagers now, bobbing through the forest like giant fireflies. And they were so fast, the savages: some of the closest ones looked like blurred streaks of light as they darted through the trees and he heard a voice, much too close for comfort, screech out what he assumed was the child’s name.
Behind him, the river roared like an angry god as large waves crashed over partially submerged boulders. The previous week, it had stormed so heavily that it seemed as though the deluge would never end. Torrents of rain had pounded against the tin roof of his sleeping quarters and the ground had become so saturated that every squishing step caused water to rise up within the grass. While the sun had dried the earth, the river still raged with after effects. It’s waters, even on a moonless night, were green and murky; toppled trees undulated on the white crested waves, hundreds of pounds carried effortlessly by nature and tossed about as if they were no more than splinters.
“ Asham! I’m coming, child! I’m coming!”
The voice was close enough to be heard above the river and a cold certainty dawned upon him: he’d never be able to outrun them. Before the night was through, the Spewers would have his life and, despite his heroic attempt at escape, Shayla would be left an orphan. Unless . . .
Tanner whirled around and faced the river, watching how quickly the logs and debris were carried downstream. Even the fastest Spewer wouldn’t be able to match that pace. Of course, there was the chance that he’d be dashed against the rocks or pulled into the undertow. He could die out there in the raging waters. But staying ashore was a certain death. At least in the river, he’d have a fighting chance.
Turning around again, Tanner tossed the child onto the ground like a sack of laundry. His small head smacked flatly against a rock and the child’s eyes glazed as a low moan escaped through his throat. The kid was stunned, but if he was as resilient as adult Spewers that wouldn’t last long.
Kneeling beside the boy, Tanner took the dagger that was meant to spill his blood and held it against a bulging vein in the child’s neck. A hostage was no longer needed . . . .
But his hand refused to make the cut. Without the scars of infection and spurting blisters, the child could have easily passed for a settler. His skin was clear and unblemished and only residual stink from adult savages clung to him. If the child were bathed and the filthy loincloth replaced with honest to God clothes, the beast would almost be human.
But he’s not , part of Tanner’s mind urged, you know this. He’s a disgusting little animal that will grow up into a Spewer. He could kill dozens. Hundreds, even .
The child blinked rapidly, seemingly unaware of both his surroundings and the weapon held to his throat. He shifted slightly and, in a weak voice, muttered a single word: “Mommy.”
The torches in the forest glowed more brightly and seemed to getting larger. Within moments, he and the child would be discovered. Maybe he should just leave the boy on the bank. When they found him, alive and unharmed, perhaps they’d be content and give up the chase.
He’s not a child, you idiot. He’s a fucking Spewer. He may look harmless enough, but that won’t last. It never does. Would you want Shayla playing with this piece of shit? Would you want her drinking after him or using a pillow he’d laid his disgusting little head on?
“Asham! I’m coming . . . .”
For perhaps the first time in his career as a Sweeper, Tanner Kline had no idea what to do. But if he hoped to live, he knew
By the time the soft earth of the forest turned into the loose rocks and sand of riverbank, Tanner had almost convinced himself that escape was a certainty. But now he felt that optimism fade like a lantern running low on oil. He could see the torches of the villagers now, bobbing through the forest like giant fireflies. And they were so fast, the savages: some of the closest ones looked like blurred streaks of light as they darted through the trees and he heard a voice, much too close for comfort, screech out what he assumed was the child’s name.
Behind him, the river roared like an angry god as large waves crashed over partially submerged boulders. The previous week, it had stormed so heavily that it seemed as though the deluge would never end. Torrents of rain had pounded against the tin roof of his sleeping quarters and the ground had become so saturated that every squishing step caused water to rise up within the grass. While the sun had dried the earth, the river still raged with after effects. It’s waters, even on a moonless night, were green and murky; toppled trees undulated on the white crested waves, hundreds of pounds carried effortlessly by nature and tossed about as if they were no more than splinters.
“ Asham! I’m coming, child! I’m coming!”
The voice was close enough to be heard above the river and a cold certainty dawned upon him: he’d never be able to outrun them. Before the night was through, the Spewers would have his life and, despite his heroic attempt at escape, Shayla would be left an orphan. Unless . . .
Tanner whirled around and faced the river, watching how quickly the logs and debris were carried downstream. Even the fastest Spewer wouldn’t be able to match that pace. Of course, there was the chance that he’d be dashed against the rocks or pulled into the undertow. He could die out there in the raging waters. But staying ashore was a certain death. At least in the river, he’d have a fighting chance.
Turning around again, Tanner tossed the child onto the ground like a sack of laundry. His small head smacked flatly against a rock and the child’s eyes glazed as a low moan escaped through his throat. The kid was stunned, but if he was as resilient as adult Spewers that wouldn’t last long.
Kneeling beside the boy, Tanner took the dagger that was meant to spill his blood and held it against a bulging vein in the child’s neck. A hostage was no longer needed . . . .
But his hand refused to make the cut. Without the scars of infection and spurting blisters, the child could have easily passed for a settler. His skin was clear and unblemished and only residual stink from adult savages clung to him. If the child were bathed and the filthy loincloth replaced with honest to God clothes, the beast would almost be human.
But he’s not , part of Tanner’s mind urged, you know this. He’s a disgusting little animal that will grow up into a Spewer. He could kill dozens. Hundreds, even .
The child blinked rapidly, seemingly unaware of both his surroundings and the weapon held to his throat. He shifted slightly and, in a weak voice, muttered a single word: “Mommy.”
The torches in the forest glowed more brightly and seemed to getting larger. Within moments, he and the child would be discovered. Maybe he should just leave the boy on the bank. When they found him, alive and unharmed, perhaps they’d be content and give up the chase.
He’s not a child, you idiot. He’s a fucking Spewer. He may look harmless enough, but that won’t last. It never does. Would you want Shayla playing with this piece of shit? Would you want her drinking after him or using a pillow he’d laid his disgusting little head on?
“Asham! I’m coming . . . .”
For perhaps the first time in his career as a Sweeper, Tanner Kline had no idea what to do. But if he hoped to live, he knew
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