Adrenaline rushes through my veins as I free-fall after them. The ground’s coming up fast and I resist the urge to kick in the thrusters.
Remember the training. It’s not time yet.
“One … two … three … four … five,” I mutter to the wind before jamming my thumb onto the button that activates the jetsail’s steam propulsors. Using the toggles on my handgrips, I maneuver the steering lines of my pack’s sail until I’m knifing down in a reasonably smooth arc. Before I hit the surface I catch one last glimpse of the Squawker, disappearing into the morning fog. Then I hit the surface, rolling on the ground alongside the others.
After eight hours of tracking the missing recon patrol’s troop carrier signal through sparse, rocky terrain, we finally clear the last of the trees and emerge into a clearing-and what little breath I have left is torn away.
The bowl-shaped crater in the earth must be at least a mile in circumference. Just below us is the battered hull of the troop carrier we’ve been searching for. And scattered throughout this canyon, as far as the eye can see, are large mounds about twenty feet high, shimmering under the dying sun. They remind me of giant versions of the ant hills behind the old power plant in the Industrial Borough. But instead of being composites of sludge and weeds, these symmetrically perfect knolls are made up of hundreds of pale faces-staring back at us, eyes black, mouths agape …
Skulls.
My own mouth drops open. But before I can make a sound, a collective moan erupts from the leering faces.
I stumble backward into Digory. The groans build in intensity until each skull’s shrieking its fury into the sky in a maelstrom of despair.
Ophelia clamps her hands over her ears. “What’s that terrible sound?”
“It’s only the wind whipping through the eye sockets.” Cypress’s voice is just as haunting.
Gideon steps forward. “We gotta get a closer look.”
Using the trunk of a dead tree, the five of us manage to roll it into place, at an angle from the rim of the canyon to the floor, so we can shimmy down it for ten feet until we hop off it at the bottom.
Even though we don’t find any survivors in the carrier, a quick survey of the grid yields rust-colored stains throughout, a grim indication of what must have happened here.
“So where are the bodies that go with these skulls?” I finally ask the question that no one else dares to.
Gideon’s staring right into a pair of dark sockets on a skull in the nearest mound. “I’m more disturbed by why someone took the time to arrange these in neat little piles … ”
Digory’s nose wrinkles. “Maybe it’s some kind of burial rite.”
I hear Cypress slam something closed inside the cockpit of the troop carrier. “Even though this baby’s pretty banged up, she’ll still fly,” she says as she climbs out.
I nod. “At least we won’t have to walk home.”
“I found something!” Ophelia’s squeal breaks the tension.
We all turn to see something glistening in her open palm.
Gideon’s eyes grow wide. “Let me see that.” He stumbles over to where she’s waiting and scoops it from her. One hand holds the wobbly frame of his glasses in place while he inspects a dangling chain.
“What is it?” I call.
Gideon’s jaw drops. “It’s an identification tag. A Recruit ID tag.”
Cypress lunges for it, but he rips it away.
“You sure?” Digory asks.
Gideon pulls out his own tag from around his neck and compares them. “Same size, same shape. You tell me.”
I clutch my own chain, the one that’s holding me hostage for my brother’s life. “Is there a name on it?”
Holding the tag up to his face with one hand, Gideon rubs the surface. “Nothing I can make out. Looks corroded. But there is part of a serial number.”
Everyone else’s attention is fixed on the chain, and I don’t think they notice the pained look on Cypress’s face as she massages her forehead.
Digory shoots me a look. “A Recruit ID tag way out here? Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“If you’re thinking Fallen Five, yeah, me too.”
Cypress’s eyes are riveted on the tarnished silver swaying from Gideon’s fingers. “They must have come right through here.”
Ophelia wipes sweat off her brow. “So is this whole mission a Sim, or not? I’m confused.”
“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” Gideon mutters.
I shrug. “No way to be sure. Slade and the others are definitely worried about something, though.”
Digory clears his throat. “If something’s got Slade of all people worked up, then we should be, too.”
The sun hovers noticeably lower on the horizon. In a matter of minutes, the temperature’s dropped enough to dry the perspiration on my forehead.
A tortured moan stretches across the canyon like a soul being pulled apart.
My eyes ricochet around the crater’s remains. “What was that?”
Ophelia’s face is as pale as the skulls. “We need to get going.”
Gideon shakes his head. “We can’t abort the mission until we find proof, one way or another, of what happened to that patrol. I don’t know. An identifiable corpse. A message. Anything.” He looks around. “I suggest we split into teams and search the area before reporting in. Juniper and I will take the south quadrant, and Tycho, Spark, and Goslin-”
But Cypress is already tromping through the site, her eyes desperately searching as she disappears behind one of the mounds.
Gideon shrugs. “Keep in touch through your walkies.” Then he and Ophelia head off in the opposite direction, leaving Digory and me to explore on our own.
After almost an hour of sifting through the site and finding no evidence of the missing patrol’s whereabouts, I run my fingertips along the surface of the nearest gruesome mound. Interspersed between the skulls are thigh bones, femurs, sternums, clavicles-all jammed against rib cages and all manner of vertebrae. If there’s one thing we learn quickly in the Parish when dealing with Imps, it’s the names and locations of each bone in the human body.
The whole macabre assemblage is held together by a slimy, thick resin. I bring my fingertips to my nose and sniff, then wince. Whatever it is, it reeks of ammonia. I wipe the gunk on my fingers against my pants.
Thwack!
A skeletal hand springs from behind the mound and latches onto my wrist-
I try to wrench free but the grip is strong, frenzied.
“Let … go … of … me …!” I pull with all my might and a figure comes crashing through the mound. Bones scatter everywhere. A heavy weight drives me into the ground, knocking the wind from me.
“You’re dead!” I pummel the figure on top of me as its stone-cold hands grip my throat, squeezing. The light dims. My head swims. I start to float away …
“Get off of him!” Digory’s voice. Far away.
The pressure around my neck is gone. The canyon comes into focus once again. Air cascades through me like a waterfall.
I bolt into a sitting position. A hand touches my shoulder, and I flinch.
“Are you okay?” Digory is crouched beside me.
My fingers knead my sore neck. “I’ll … live. What happened?”
Digory nudges his chin toward a figure lying in a skeletal pile. “He did.”
I spring to my feet. “They’re nothing but bones-they can’t be-”
Digory stands beside me. “This one’s very much alive. Trust me, Lucian.”
I creep closer to get a look at my assailant.
It’s just a guy. Mid-twenties, maybe … hard to tell. He’s covered in filth and coated in the same goo that holds the bones in place. Scraggly black hair juts from his scalp in long strips, tangling with his patchy beard. Thin red slashes crisscross his prominent cheekbones, and his murky-green eyes are stretched into wide ovals. There’s madness there.