Then, all at once, it began anew, a furious digging sound this time, a ripping away at things that suggested a determination or frenzy bordering on madness. Sparrow appeared in the doorway once more, mouth agape as she stared at the back rooms. She was holding Squirrel by one hand. The little boy's face mirrored his uncertainty.
Owl didn't know what was happening, but she didn't think it was good.
"Sparrow," she said as calmly as she could. "Get several prods from the locker and bring them to me."
She wheeled herself over to the front of the room, close by the iron–plated door, and beckoned Squirrel to come join her. The little boy hurried over and climbed into her lap. "There, there," she cooed, soothing his fears as he buried his head in her shoulder. "It's all right."
Sparrow removed three of the prods from the locker and brought them to Owl. She took two and propped them against the wall behind her. She let Sparrow keep the other. At the far end of the room, Cheney was all the way down on the floor in his crouch, so agitated he was shaking as he inched forward, then crabbed slightly to one side, muzzle lifted toward the sound of the scrabbling.
Cracking sounds resounded through the underground like gunshots, sharp and unexpected, followed by a slow shifting of something big. Cheney backed away toward the center of the room, keeping his eyes on the bedroom ceiling. Then, all at once, the entire ceiling in Owl's room gave way. It happened so fast that she barely had time to register the event before it was over. Heavy chunks of plaster, wooden beams, and wires and cables embedded in the mix came crashing down under the weight of a huge dark presence. Dust billowed into the air, momentarily obscuring everything. Squirrel screamed, and even Sparrow jumped back in shock. Owl was already thinking that they had to get out of there.
But it was too late. The dust settled and a nightmarish creature emerged from the debris. At first, Owl couldn't believe what she was seeing. The creature was a long, jointed insect that looked to be a type of centipede, but one that was hundreds of times larger than it should have been, stretching to twenty feet and rising four feet off the floor. Its reticulated, armored body was supported by dozens of crooked legs and undulated from side to side in a snake–like motion as it advanced. Feelers protruded from atop its shiny head, and a pair of wicked–looking jaws opened and closed from below. There were spikes everywhere, and bits and pieces of clothing and debris hung off the tips like strange decorations. A series of bulbous eyes dotted its flat, hairy face, eyes that were blank and staring.
Cheney was on it at once, tearing at the spindly legs, ripping them off as fast as jaws could close and teeth could shred. The huge insect whipped about to snare him, using mandibles and body weight to try to tear or crush the big dog, but Cheney was too quick and too experienced to be so easily trapped. The battle raged back and forth across the far end of the common room, the combatants smashing everything from furniture to shelves to dishes to lights. Owl and Sparrow watched in horror, transfixed by the ferocity of the struggle. Squirrel just hid his head and begged someone, anyone, to take him away.
For a time it seemed that Cheney would prevail, darting in to tear off legs and rip at armor plates, then darting away again. But the giant centipede was not affected by the damage done to it. It was a creature Owl instantly decided must have been mutated by the chemical and radiation attacks that had taken place as much as five decades earlier. How it had grown to its present size or why it had appeared here was fodder for speculation, and the answers would probably never be known. What mattered was that its alterations had given it tremendous strength and stamina, and not even the considerable wounds that Cheney was inflicting seemed to affect it.
Eventually, the effort began to tell. Cheney was tiring, and the centipede was not. The razor–sharp jaws were beginning to find their mark, ripping at the big body, tearing off chunks of fur and flesh and leaving the big dog's mottled coat matted and damp with blood. Owl could tell that Cheney was slowing, that his attacks were less ferocious and driven more by heart than by muscle. But Cheney would never quit, she knew. He would die first.
When he went down, it happened all at once. He was tearing at still another leg, searching for still another weakness, when the creature's jaws finally got a solid hold on him and clamped down viciously. Snarling and snapping, Cheney twisted furiously. Slippery with his own blood, he broke free, but the effort sent him tumbling all the way across the room where he slammed against the wall and went down in a heap. Gasping for air, his flanks heaving and his legs scrambling for purchase on the concrete flooring, he struggled in vain to rise. Blood welled up from the wounds caused by the insect's jaws, and Cheney snapped at them furiously, as if in terrible pain.
The centipede advanced toward him, jaws wide.
Owl turned quickly to Sparrow. "Take Squirrel and get out of here. Get as far away as possible. Try to find Hawk and warn him."
She knew she had just pronounced a death sentence on herself, but she also knew that Sparrow could not get her to safety in time. Sparrow would be lucky if she managed to escape with Squirrel, and that was the best they could hope for.
"Sparrow!" she hissed when the other failed to respond.
But Sparrow was staring straight ahead at the centipede, her hands tightening about the handle of the prod, her lips compressing into a tight line.
Owl realized suddenly what she was going to do. No! she tried to say, but the word caught in her throat.
Sparrow stepped in front of her, a shield against the thing approaching, and brought up the prod.
BY THE TIME Sparrow was five years old, she already knew that she was expected to grow up to be like her mother. It wasn't just that everyone hoped for it; it was that they talked as if it were an inarguable certainty and the completion of her transformation awaited only her achieving maturity.
Physically, she was already a miniature version of her mother, with the same lanky body, big hands, mop of straw–colored hair, crooked smile, and fierce blue eyes that could pin you to the wall when they were angry. She even walked like her mother, a sort of saunter that suggested great confidence and a readiness and willingness to act.
She liked being thought of this way, as the daughter who would one day become her mother. Her mother, after all, was a legend. Her mother was a furious fighter and canny leader. Her mother was a warrior. Growing up to be like her was what any little girl would wish for.
But her mother never spoke to her of any of this. Her mother did not seem to have these expectations for her–or if she did, she kept them to herself. Her mother did not once tell her that hers was the path that Sparrow must necessarily follow. Her mother only told her that she must be her own person and find her own way in the world. What she would give her were the skills and the training that would let her survive. But her heart would have to tell her where she was meant to go.
Sparrow wasn't certain if she believed this or not. What she knew is that she adored her mother. She did not know who her father was; he had been gone before she was born and no one ever spoke of him. Her mother was the seminal figure in her life, and everything she was or hoped to be was a product of that relationship. She thought about her father, but only rarely and never with more than passing interest. She thought about her mother all the time.
Her mother was as good as her word. She trained Sparrow to fight–to attack and to defend. She worked her until Sparrow was ready to drop, but Sparrow never complained. She was a good student, and soon she had mastered the exercises her mother had given her to do. Her dedication was complete. She was not yet big enough to be effective, but she knew she would grow and when she did, she would be ready. She trained every day that her mother was not away, and she practiced on her own when her mother was gone. She was determined to be the best; she was set on making her mother proud.