Free The Lost Level by Brian Keene

was a matter of
practicality, rather than modesty.
    “Will you be okay in just that?”
    “I will have to be,” she replied, shrugging again. “Perhaps we
will find more as we go along.”
    Finally, we buried Kasheena’s uncle. I used one of the leftover
swords to dig up the dirt. The soil was soft and rich, and the task was easy
enough. There were few roots or rocks to impede my progress. As I dug, I
stirred up several insects, worms, and grubs. Some of them were very much like
the ones found on Earth. Others were entirely alien to me. Bloop greedily ate
handfuls of the grubs, smacking his lips together and grunting with an obvious,
if somewhat discomforting, pleasure. When he offered me some, I declined with a
polite hand gesture. The ones I’d eaten earlier in the day had been enough for
me. Bloop gobbled another handful. He smiled at me, grub pulp dangling from his
whiskers. When he’d finished, he and I lowered Kasham into the hole. Then we
stood by solemnly while Kasheena hovered over the grave.
    “Do your people believe in a Heaven?” I asked when she’d finished
her mourning.
    “What is Heaven?”
    I laughed. “Well, back where I come from, many people ask the
same question. Heaven is an afterlife—it’s a place we go after we die. At least
in spirit.”
    “Perhaps my people go to Heaven,” she said. “I do not know.”
    “Your people must have some sort of belief about what happens
when you die?”
    She shrugged. “All I know is that we leave this place. That is
what I have always been told, and I believe it to be so. I have seen many
people die, and I have never seen them again after that, so they must have
indeed left the Lost Level.”
    “And I’m assuming you bury all of your people after they die?
Like we just did for your uncle?”
    “Well, of course we do. If we didn’t, the animals would eat,
pick, and scatter their corpses. Do your people not do the same for your dead?”
    “We do,” I admitted, “for the most part. But it holds more
significance than that. It’s a ritual of sorts. A way of saying goodbye to
those we care about.”
    “Bloop,” our fur–covered compatriot exclaimed.
    “Exactly,” I said.
    Our conversation faltered as we began our trek through the
jungle. When we did talk it was in hushed tones, short snatches of
communication regarding the direction we should go. Occasionally, my companions
would warn me about certain plants or would halt suddenly, alerted by various
jungle sounds. In one case, there was a distinct, light chirp, the kind much
like those of the songbirds back home, but the delightfully cheery sound obviously
filled Kasheena and Bloop with dread. They crouched in a bed of ferns, both
visibly frightened. Both of them motioned at me to get down, so I did. We
remained hidden in silence, and neither of them moved again until long after
the sound had faded.
    “What was it?” I asked.
    “A tikka–bird,” Kasheena whispered. “Very small, but very
dangerous. It is no bigger than your thumb, and most of it is teeth. Their bite
is poisonous, and can paralyze their prey within a few heartbeats. When they
attack, others like them are drawn by the scent of blood. Such a flock can
devour you within minutes, stripping the flesh from your bones.”
    “So, they’re sort of like flying piranha?”
    “I do not know these flying piranha, but if they attack and eat
anything that moves, then yes. That is like the tikka–bird. Of all the dangers
here, I think they are among the worst.”
    I had a vision in my head of a flying school of piranha with
feathers and wings. It seemed ludicrous to me, but Kasheena’s dread was
apparent. She was clearly shaken, judging by her expression and behavior. I
glanced at Bloop. His nostrils were flared, and he scanned the treetops and
branches warily.
    “Well,” I said, “then I hope I never meet one up close.”
    “If you do, you will probably not live to tell about it, and should
you be fortunate enough to escape, it