The Fox Inheritance (Jenna Fox Chronicles 2)

"It's not working," Bone calls when he sees me walk over to it.

"I can see that," I answer. I walk around the beast, trying to find where controls might be hidden.

"Those trenches aren't going to dig themselves," he calls again.

"No, they aren't," I call back. The body of the spider is four feet across, and each jointed leg is about eight feet long. Finally, on one of the back legs, I find a slight indentation. I press it, and a panel unfolds.

"I told you, it doesn't work."

I hear the gritty rise in Bone's voice, but this time I don't respond. I look at the panel, which has a dozen small lighted squares, each with a printed word in a language I don't recognize. How many commands could there be? Go. Stop. Dig--that's the one I need.

"He told you. Doesn't work. Don't touch it." The voice is right behind me. I turn around. All three men stand just a few feet away. Easy for them to say. They're not the ones digging ditches. I turn my back to them and touch the first light on the panel. The spider responds, groaning, rising, coming to life. I touch the second light on the panel. Its front legs snap, like it is stretching. I touch the third light and the spider's second set of legs dig into the earth. Bingo. I turn back to my peanut gallery.

"Would you look at that? Looks like it's working, after all. I guess it just needed the right--" I feel something touch my leg and I whip around, but it already has me. A clamp on its back leg locks onto my ankle. "What--"

And then it takes off like a crazed horse. I fall to my back and am dragged over row after row of tilled earth. It's moving so fast, I can't reach up to touch the panel. I flop like a rag doll behind it. Dirt flies in my face, my mouth, my eyes. I try to grab hold of something, but there is nothing to grab. It moves through the tilled field and starts up the hill, dragging me over grass, brush, and rocks. At the crest of the hill, it stops dead like it has either taken mercy on me or reached the end of its leash. Good spider. I lie there, rubbing grit from my eyes, spitting dirt out of my mouth, and looking up at a blinding sun. My back hurts, but my ego hurts more. I sit up and press the first light on the panel and the spider groans, its legs bend, and it releases my ankle. When I stand, I see it is not just the crest of the hill. It is the edge of a cliff. I look over at the straight drop down. At least two hundred feet below are some jagged rocks and a black seething river. I step back from the edge.

Yeah. Good spider.

I limp back down the hill without making eye contact with the men below, who I know are watching me. I spend the next three hours digging the trench without complaint. Sometimes there's not a better way. Sometimes there's only the hard way. I guess they already knew that. And it is hard. When dirt turns to clay or rocks, I put my shovel down and swing a pick instead. My trench finally connects with the one that the three men are laying pipe in--a much longer trench they must have dug on another day.

Bone walks over and surveys my work. "Hm. Done."

A man of many words. No praise. No thanks. No "good job." But I didn't really expect it. I implied I was smarter than him when I thought I could make the spider work even though he couldn't and then I mocked their advice and stepped right into trouble. I wonder if that's why they have such chips on their shoulders--have they been insulted one too many times? I hope I never get so cynical that I speak in grunts and scowls. Bone points to the forest of eucalyptus. "Shortcut. Follow the creek back to the house." And on top of no appreciation, I also have no ride. But a shortcut is better than nothing.

I glance up the hill at the spider, wondering if it needs to be retrieved. "What about that?"

"It doesn't work."

Right. That's well established. I nod. I guess it stays right where it is, and I'm glad I won't have to tangle with the maniac spider again. Or these guys. I walk over to the truck and grab my shirt that is draped over the hood. It is stiff with dirt and dried sweat, so I stuff it into my pack and walk away. I don't bother with good-byes. I know they aren't interested in them, either.

Halfway across the field, I look back over my shoulder. They are throwing shovels and picks into the back of the truck. And then one by one, they put on coats--just like the one in my pack--and I watch the hems flap in the breeze. Even from a distance, I can tell they don't just wear them for protection. They wear them for a purpose.

Chapter 53

The forest is eerily quiet, except for the twigs and eucalyptus bark that snap and crunch beneath my feet. Occasionally the creek gurgles over a rock or a bird screeches somewhere high above, startling me. I've never been in a forest like this. The ones back home were thick and green with pine, spruce, and maple. This one has tall, thin trees with gray mottled trunks and branches that hang like the thin bones of skeletons. Large chunks of their bark peel away like cheeks that need to be smoothed back into place.

I follow the creek, since Bone said that would lead me back to the house. I'm still bare-chested, and feel the fingers of cool shade sliding through the forest.

A snap.

A screech.

I look up and see the shadow of a wing flying away.

And then a hmmm.

I stop. A chill tickles my neck. I look around.

Hmmm.

I turn my head, listening.

"Is someone there?"

Only silence.

Was it just a breeze quivering the leaves that I heard?