THE MALE LION STOOD AND WATCHED THEM, BUT HE MADE NO MOVE. The breeze ruffled the dark tangles of his mane but he held his ground, seeming content to be a spectator. It was the females, Benny remembered, who did the hunting. Males, though powerful and aggressive, were lazier. After a science class one day, Nix had dropped a comment about how true this was among humans, too. Benny had wisely avoided replying, but Morgie Mitchell challenged her on it, and the rest of the afternoon was spent at the fishing hole, watching Nix surgically dissect Morgie with her sharp tongue.
Now he watched as one big female took a tentative step toward them. The other two females, both of them considerably smaller than her, crouched and tensed, waiting to pick up their attack cues. Benny remembered something about smaller lionesses in a pack “herding” prey toward the big female, who did the killing. He and his friends had made that job easier for them by standing all in a bunch, with a deadfall behind them and nowhere else to run.
Benny very slowly took his katana in a two-handed grip.
“No,” warned Chong. “Don’t provoke them.”
“Dude, they’re hungry lions. I’m pretty sure they’re already provoked.”
The sword did not give Benny much comfort. Fighting lions had never been part of Tom’s training. The weapon felt like a dull kitchen knife.
“You got a plan?” he whispered.
“No,” croaked Chong. “I’m hoping for an evolutionary jump that will allow me to suddenly grow wings.”
It was a dumb time for a joke, but Benny knew his friend was talking to keep from panicking.
Benny tried to view their options like a chess player. The ravine was behind them; the forest was to their left, and to their right was a field of tall grass that washed up against a smaller section of forest, which in turn circled around to join the main woods. However, the smaller lions were between them and whatever meager safety the forest might provide. There did not seem to be any way out.
“Benny,” Nix whispered, “why aren’t they attacking?”
“Don’t encourage them.”
“No . . .”
“Zoms,” said Chong. “After all these years, they’ve probably gotten wary of zoms.”
“Lions don’t attack zoms,” said Nix.
“No. As you both pointed out, nothing does.” He lightly touched his pocket, and they could hear the clink of his bottles of cadaverine. “We all smell like zombies.”
“I’m not wearing any,” said Benny. “Neither is Eve.”
Chong sighed.
The lioness heard their muted conversation and growled.
“She knows. God,” said Nix, adjusting her hold on Eve. Then a moment later she said, “Chong . . . very slowly, see if you can get a bottle of that stuff out of your pocket. Benny, you get my gun.”
“What—?”
“Do it.”
Benny lowered his sword as slowly as he had raised it, all the time watching the lionesses. Moving as smoothly as he could, he shifted his weight toward Nix.
Now two of the lions growled.
He froze. Waited. But the lions still seemed uncertain about their prey. Nix and Chong wore cadaverine, and the wind was blowing toward the lions, which meant that the dead-flesh stink of the zoms was being blown their way too.
Great, thought Benny, zombies might save our lives. Weird.
He placed his palm around the worn rubber grips of the revolver. He could feel the heat from Nix’s body, and there was a slight tremor running throu
gh her. She looked calm, but she was clearly as nervous as he was. In a weird way he found that comforting and disturbing at the same time. Benny thought he had begun to understand Nix by the time they left Gameland, but over the intervening weeks he felt she’d changed, and he wasn’t sure he quite got this new Nix. She was stronger, much more confident, more decisive, but also more inward and acid-tongued.
“I have it,” said Chong, and immediately the carrion stench of fresh cadaverine filled the air.
The closest lion suddenly roared in anger. Chong yelped and dropped the bottle, which bounced and vanished into the grass.