Page 71 of Caveman Alien's Heat
That wall was definitely not there a couple of days ago, and there was no sign there had ever been one. But perhaps the tribe prefers this place tidy and flat otherwise. “Is it safer here?”
“When you’re in the water, it’s safer. But you’ll see why. The reason we call it a Blood Storm hasn’t arrived yet. Come sit down. The water is perfect.” He scoots to the side as if making room. “And I have frit.” He pats a leather pack by his side.
I gaze back the way I came, into the storm. There’s just a wall of white coming against me, each snowflake like a slap on exposed skin. But the snow that falls on the hot rock melts on impact, and on the leeward side of the pool, no snow reaches—it melts in the steam above the water and turns to rain.
A big, dark flake comes fluttering wildly through the storm and hits the side of my head. Except it’s not a snowflake—it’s a living thing. I squeal, and in a panicked instinct, I grab it and rip it off the fur and throw it away. It had already bitten itself firmly into the fur.
“Get down!” Prak’ox urges. “That’s the Blood Storm!”
I drop to all fours to get out of the wind and crawl over to him. Behind the screen, the snow whirls above our heads instead of around us. Dark shapes flicker through it, small and fast.
The chirping sound clicks into place in my memory: a swarm of locusts. This isn’t the same as the eerie sound from old documentaries from Africa, but close enough to make my skin crawl.
I sit down beside him, legs tucked under me. “I thought it would only be a blizzard.”
“Itisa blizzard,” he says. “And the bloodwings ride it.” He nudges the fire, sending sparks up into the sheltered air. “They eat what they find. Meat first.”
“A stoka wouldn’t stand a chance,” I exclaim, shocked. “No shelter. Nowhere to go.”
“No,” he agrees. “Not if it’s already hurt.” He glances up as another shadow passes overhead. “Their hides can turn them aside if the beast is whole and can produce the sticky oil to keep the bloodwings at bay. But a wound…” He shakes his head. “That’s enough. The swarm gets inside. After that, it’s finished.”
More shapes dart past, and I duck without thinking. “That’s why you fear a Blood Storm.”
“That’s why.” His voice is steady. “A man caught out there won’t last long.”
“But the caves…” I glance toward the storm beyond the screen. “The hangings are thick.”
“Sometimes not thick enough,” he says. “Or there’s a crack. A weak patch.” He looks at me for just a moment. “The bloodwings find those. You’ll be more comfortable if you put your legs in like me.” He taps his knee.
It does look comfortable, having a warm foot bath in the middle of a storm. And I notice that the bloodwings fly over the screen and the hot springs without slowing down, as if they abhor the warmth. This place is almost like an oasis from the ice desert around it, a sanctuary from the deadly storm.
I ease one foot out of my fur boot and lower it cautiously into the water. Heat wraps around my skin at once, almost painfully warm at first, then soothing. I slide the other foot in.
“See?” Prak’ox says. “Better than the caves.”
“Maybe,” I reply, though my eyes keep drifting upward. The dark shapes are multiplying. What had been scattered flickers are becoming a steady stream.
He shifts closer, just enough that his shoulder brushes mine. “You were brave to come out here alone.”
“I didn’t have much choice.”
“You chose well.” His voice softens. “You came tome.”
That makes me glance at him. “I came to the springs. The wind pushed me.”
He smiles faintly, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “And you found me. I thought you would.”
Another gust drives a thick band of snow across the opening above us. For a moment, the world beyond the screen disappears completely.
When it clears, the sky is darker than before. And it seems to move.
The chirping grows louder, no longer scattered but layered, building into something dense and continuous. My stomach tightens.
“That’s more of them,” I say.
Prak’ox nods, but he doesn’t look concerned. “The main swarm is coming.”
He reaches for my arm, fingers closing around my wrist. “Stay close to the water. Don’t go out there again.” His grip lingers a moment longer than it needs to.
