The Volunteer (The Bone World Trilogy) by Peadar Ó Guilín Read Free Book Online

end to his worries and his bad leg forever. Instead, he was
running suddenly towards the centre of the building, weaving and
ducking as new figures popped into existence around him.
    Up ahead, the room brightened.
There seemed to be a door there and his feet took him in that
direction, for all he knew that he would never betray the Tribe by
actually escaping. Still, he ran, ignoring the growing, familiar
ache.
    Something hit him from above,
landing hard enough to drive him to the floor, sending him sprawling,
scrabbling on torn knees. He had forgotten they liked to hang high
above street-level to drop on their victims! He rolled as claws
smacked next to his face; felt the wind of another strike pass over
his head. And he should have died then, but for some reason the
attack stopped and he dove forward, aiming for the light he'd seen
before. He should be right at it now, at the exit except... except
the door wasn't there any more. Nothing was there. His dark-adapted eyes were suddenly useless to him. He
heard... he heard a rumbling sound and felt it through the soles of his feet again. It made no
sense: not the complete darkness; not the trembling of the ground.
Whistlenose reached out to find himself standing before a curtain of
hides. It moved easily under his hands. He opened it to the air
beyond, he was sure of that, sure of it. But there was nothing
outside either. No Roof, no streets, no houses. Nothing.
    From somewhere high up in the
air, there came a strange, screeching sound. The Roof flickered. Then
the tracklights came on for a heartbeat, followed by the full,
terrible glare of midday. The savage light pulsed once; twice.
    And then, the entire building
fell down behind him.

    ***

    A
voice said, "Twisted my ankle. Again!"
    Whistlenose groaned, the whole
world a blur. He had his back to a building, his various cuts and
grazes stinging from contact with the moss growing there. He felt
bruised all over and the words he was hearing felt like echoes, or
the whisperings of a ghost.
    "Who...?" He coughed,
rubbed his eyes and found he was not alone. Dust hung heavy in the
air, more than he had ever seen before. He couldn't tell where he
was, although he had hunted these streets his whole adult life.
    "Don't know why they still
haven't killed us," said the voice. A man. "Probably need
us to stay fresh. Don't want rotting meat in an emergency, right?"
    Whistlenose knew where he was now
and it didn't make sense. The giant building in which they were all
supposed to die, lay in ruins. Walls leaned at impossible angles.
    He had heard of this kind of
thing before. Houses had fallen in his grandfather's time and the
tunnels of the Diggers were said to have collapsed entire streets.
But this was different; terrifying.
    No more than a hundred paces
away, a huge shard, like a spearhead made of bone, rose jaggedly from
the wreckage of another collapsed building.
    "It fell from the Roof,"
said the man beside Whistlenose. Charmer. A hunter like himself,
beyond his prime and Volunteered now because of a recent injury. He
waved an arm. "You can see where it came off."
    Sure enough, shielding his eyes
from the glare, Whistlenose could see a black triangle in amongst the
panels of the Roof. Other, nearby areas seemed dimmer to him than
usual, but it was hard to say.
    "Just as well we're getting
out of this, Whistlenose. We can do some good for the Tribe as
Ancestors."
    Hundreds of Clawfolk swarmed
around the wreckage of the slaughterhouse, pulling bodies free. They
made a hissing sound—rare for them. He'd only ever heard it
when they were losing a fight with the Hairbeasts. A sound of
despair, maybe. Or defiance. Curiosity pulled Whistlenose to his
feet. On the far side of Charmer lay another human, a girl whose name
he couldn't remember. She looked healthy and he had no idea why she
had been Volunteered. He left the other two and walked in amongst the
crowd of his hosts, wondering if they would kill him for it, but
uncaring. The mad panic