Free Fire Country by David Estes Page A

t’other, bucking around like someone’s on its back. They’re confusing it. Who to attack? Which way to go first? It starts for Circ and then seems to feel Hawk’s presence behind it, so it whirls around and makes a move toward him.
    The moment the tug turns its back on him, Circ makes a move of his own, a full out sprint toward the creature. He looks so small as he closes in on the girthy tug, ’specially ’cause of how far away I am. From here I can pinch him between my thumb and forefinger.
    The tug stops again, as if realizing that the gig is up, that he’s been tricked. He twists his head to turn, but he’s too late. Circ leaps, lands gracefully on the tug’s back as if he’s tackling an opponent in feetball, hugging the beast around the neck. There’s a gleam of light when the sun goddess’s eye is reflected off the broad side of his blade as he slides it across the tug’s neck.
    A normal tug would drop on the spot after a killing stroke like that, but this ain’t no normal tug. It’s a behemoth, prepared to fight even as the life drains from him. With Circ still on his back, he charges Hawk, who’s standing there dumbly. Now this is the good part.
    Hawk runs off like a scared little Midder. On the way, he drops his spear, a couple of knives, and every last bit of his pride in a heap on the desert floor. As it turns out, his hasty retreat probably saved his life, ’cause that final burst was all the tug had left. It slows to a stop, dips its head, and, finally, by the will of the sun goddess and Circ’s unmatched ability—collapses, all strength sucked from its legs like venom from a scorpion sting. I sigh.
    Circ’s safe, and he’s killed again.
    I know the requirement to kill is necessary for o ur survival, but I don’t hafta like it. The tugs haven’t done anything to deserve such a fate. Like us, they’re just trying to survive, migrating hundreds of miles each year to find diminishing fields of wildgrass to feed their young. ’Fore we kill them. We only take what we need, yeah, but to them we take everything.
    I once asked Circ what it felt like to kill a creature as large and full of life as a tug. “Terrible,” he said. “Take the worst feeling in the world and then multiply it by one hundred, and that’s how awful it is.” A single tear slipped from his eye, the first time I’d seen him cry since he was a Totter.
    “Then why do you…” I started to ask, but I never finished the question ’cause I already knew the answer, and he never answered although he knew exactly what I was gonna ask. Why do we do anything we do? Why do girls get Called at sixteen? Why do the Hunters hunt? Why do the Greynotes meet and discuss trade arrangements with the Icers? ’Cause it’s the Law, which is our sacred duty to uphold, a requirement for our survival. We don’t hafta like it, just to do it.
    It doesn’t have to be like this. Even after watching the vicious Hunting of the tugs, I can’t get Lara’s words out of my head. Who does she know? The Icers? It sounds wooloo, but who knows these days? We could potentially avoid the Call by sneaking into ice country. The Wilds? The thieving, sister-grabbing, feral freaks who ruined my life when they took Skye’s? I hope not, ’cause I consider Lara a friend and if she’s with them I’ll never be able to talk to her again.
    A horn soun ds and my head snaps around. It’s not the long blast to start the Hunt, but a short series of tones from somewhere atop the bluffs. A warning, from the watchmen. Not a frequent occurrence, but not unusual either. Sometimes the hunched, wiry Cotees’ll hear the initial horn, or smell the blood, and come to investigate. To a lone human, a large group of Cotees can be dangerous, but not to a fully equipped mess of Hunters.
    I blink away the daydream and scan the desert, trying to find the gang of furry thieves who drew the alarm. I gasp when I see them. Not a single Cotee flecks the horizon.
    Killers.

Chapter