The insect appeared to have heard her. "We are at the end of things now. My fight is over. A great shadow, a hungry shadow, will swallow all I have made."

"It does not have to be that way, Grandfather," said !Xabbu. "There are those who might help you—our friends and allies. And see! Here is your Beloved Porcupine, she of the clear thought and brave heart."

Brave heart, maybe, Renie thought. Clear thought? Not bloody likely. Not in the middle of this cracked fairy tale. But aloud she said, "We want to help. We want to save not just our own lives, but the children's lives, too. All the children."

A minute twitch as the mantis shook its head. "It is too late for the first children. Even now the All-Devourer has begun to eat them."

"But you—we—can't just give up!" Renie's voice rose in spite of her best intentions. "No matter how bad it looks we still have to fight! To try!"

Mantis seemed to shrink even smaller, drawing in on itself until it was little more than a spot of shadow. "No," it whispered, and for a moment its voice was as raw and miserable as a child's. "No. Too late."

!Xabbu was squeezing her hand. Renie leaned back. However frustrating it was, she had to realize that this . . . thing, whatever had formed it, whatever shaped its thoughts and dreams, was not going to be argued into doing the right thing.

After a long silent time !Xabbu said, "Do you not think of a world beyond this? A world where the good things can be saved, can grow again?"

"His mouth is full of fire," Mantis whispered. "He runs like the wind. He is swallowing everything I have made. There is nothing beyond this." It was quiet for a moment, crouching, gently rubbing its forelegs together. "But it is good not to be alone, we think. It is good to be where the campfire still burns, at least for a little while. Good to hear voices."

Renie closed her eyes. So this was what it had all come down to—trapped in the imagination of a mad machine, waiting for the end in a world built from !Xabbu's own thoughts and memories. It was an interesting way to die. Too bad she'd never get to tell anyone.

"Come, it is too quiet," said Mantis. Its voice was very small now, like the merest brush of wind through the thorn bushes. "Porcupine, my darling daughter, you are sad. Striped Mouse, tell the story again of the feather that became the moon."

!Xabbu looked up, a little startled. "You know that story?"

"I know all your stories now. Tell it, please."

And so, in a moment of calm beneath the fiery stars of an African night sky—a moment that seemed like it could last forever, although Renie knew better—!Xabbu began to recite the story of how Mantis created life from a discarded piece of shoe leather. The dying mantis crouched beside the trickling stream, listening intently to the tale of its own cleverness, and seemed to find it very interesting indeed.

They had prepared not just a fire, but a wall of fire—an arc of papers, boxes, empty grain sacks, and other combustibles they had piled in front of one corner of the room and set alight. Behind the fiery barrier was stacked every piece of remaining furniture not bolted to the floor—desks and chairs, even the lids from the V-tanks that were not being used. Even the spaces between objects were crammed tight with thin military mattresses.

But those things will not stop bullets, Joseph thought sadly. Stop no dogs either.

A flicker on the monitor caught his attention. "They are moving now. Light the fire."

"It's t–tempting," said Del Ray, not hiding his panic very well, "but I'll wait until you're back here with us. Just tell us what's happening up there."

Joseph was feeling increasingly exposed as he watched the four mercenaries upstairs leaning over the hole, gesturing. They had already strapped on their combat gear, puffy vests, and hoods with goggles. He resented having been given monitor duty just because he had supposedly fouled up before. That—we were going to stop that truck driving away, somehow? Stop them getting those big monster dogs? But even his resentment was nothing against the skin-tightening, horrible certainty of what was to come. "They are ready," he said out loud. "I don't need to stand here no more."

"Just tell us what they're doing," Jeremiah said.

"Dressing up the dogs," Joseph told him.

"What?"

He squinted at the monitor. "No. First I think they wrapping the dogs up in blankets, but they are doing something else." Just the sight of the things made his guts watery. The huge animals were shivering with excitement, their cropped tails wagging rigidly. "They . . . they are using the blankets to do something. Maybe to carry them." He watched miserably as the men approached the pit they had dug into the floor, using attached ropes to haul the blanket, the first mutant ridgeback sitting upright in the center like a royal personage. "Oh. Oh. They are going to use the blankets to lower the dogs down through the hole."

"Shit," said Del Ray miserably. "Time to light the fire. Come on!"

Joseph did not need to be urged. He sprinted across the floor of the darkened lab and jumped over the wall of file papers, then clambered up over the furniture barricade, almost knocking over Del Ray as he tumbled down the far side. "Go ahead! Light it!"

"I'm trying!" Jeremiah moaned. "We didn't have enough petrol left to get it really soaked." He flicked another of Renie's cigarettes from shaking fingers. The papers caught with a whuff of ignition. For a moment, as blue flames ran along the makeshift barrier, Joseph felt a tingle of hope.

"Why the lights out?" he whispered. "Then we can't see to shoot them."

"Because we've got two bullets and they've probably got thousands," Del Ray said. "Just stop arguing, Joseph, Please?"

"Dark isn't going to fool no dogs," Joseph pointed out, but more quietly.

Del Ray made a strange noise, a kind of groan. "I'm truly sorry, Joseph—I don't want the last thing I say to be 'shut up.' But shut up."

Long Joseph could feel his heart getting big in his chest, big but weak, trying so hard to beat fast even though something was squeezing it badly. "I am sorry we are all here."

"I am too," Del Ray said. "God knows, I am too."

"Something's coming," said Jeremiah in a cracking voice. They all stared out past the flames, trying to see movement in the shadows at the other end of the laboratory.

Joseph's chest seemed tighter and tighter. He tried to imagine his Zulu ancestors, the ones he bragged of so often, staring out from their campfire at the African darkness, tried to imagine how brave they felt even when they heard the rumbling of a lion, but he couldn't. His only weapon, a steel bar from the underside of a conference table, hung loose in his sweaty hand.

Please, God, he thought. Don't let them hurt Renie. Make it fast.

Joseph saw something moving at the far end of the lab—a low and silent shadow. Then he saw another. The first one looked up, swiveling its head from side to side. Two points of baleful yellow gleamed as its eyes caught and reflected the firelight.

A loud voomp made Joseph jump. Something smashed through their little wall of fire, scattering sparks, and rolled toward their hiding place. A moment later a cloud of smoke billowed over him, filling his eyes, fouling his lungs. He waved his hands, heard Jeremiah choking and shouting, but before he could do anything more a huge dark shape plunged over the flaming barrier and landed on top of him, growling.

He was smashed to the floor and something tore into his arm—he felt a spike of silver pain brighter than any fire. He struggled but he was being pressed down beneath something heavier than he was, something that wanted to get its teeth into his belly. A volley of explosions roared above his head but they seemed far away, meaningless. The thing had him, the beast had him. He heard one of his companions screech in frightened anger, then Del Ray's pistol cracked and spit flame by his head and the heavy burden slid off him.