Earth Afire (The First Formic War)

recognizable as such. Perhaps it had been a helicopter once, but now it was nothing more than a heap of twisted, burning metal, with the entire front half of it crushed by the impact. It lay on its side like a wounded animal, burning and hissing and spewing black smoke.
    Bingwen wondered how many people had been aboard. Ten? Twenty? It was certainly big enough to carry that many. Perhaps it had been loaded with supplies: fresh water and food and medical equipment, everything he and Grandfather and the others would need to survive at the farmhouse. Whatever it had held, there was no salvaging it now. Nor would there be any survivors.
    Maybe Grandfather was right, he told himself. Maybe this was a fool’s errand. Why should Mazer’s crash be any different? All he would likely find there was more fire and death.
    Beside him the water buffalo raised its head and sniffed at the air. It must have caught the scent of death or smoke because the next instant it pulled so hard on the lead rope that it yanked Bingwen off his feet. Bingwen landed hard on his good arm, but the jolt sent another shot of pain through his bad one. He cried out in agony despite himself. The shout spooked the animal further, and it took off back the way it had come, yanking the lead rope free of Bingwen’s grip and giving him a serious rope burn.
    It took Bingwen fifteen minutes to corner the animal and catch the lead rope again. By then he had taken strips of fabric from the makeshift bandana around his face and wrapped the strips around his hand to form a sort of bandage and glove for holding the rope. The animal began to resist again, but Bingwen gave it a violent tug and reminded it who was leading whom. Then he took one of the harvesting bags from the pouch and made a sort of face mask for the animal, like a giant feed bag that covered most of its head.
    The water buffalo calmed after that, smelling only the scent of the barn in the bag’s fabric.
    Bingwen guided it back down into the valley. He wasn’t turning around, he had decided. He had come this far; he would see it through. He wouldn’t give up as quickly as the water buffalo had.
    They moved toward the nearest patch of healthy crop. If they crossed the valley by sticking to the green shoots, maybe they could pass through without contaminating themselves.
    Bingwen took the first few tentative steps into the tall shoots and waited to see if he felt sick or light-headed.
    Nothing happened.
    He pushed on, pulling the water buffalo behind him.
    The healthy green shoots crumpled and broke under their feet. Damaging the crop like that went against everything both of them had ever been taught, but they walked on nonetheless.
    They passed dozens of bodies. The first few faces were strangers: men and women from other villages. Then Bingwen began to see people he knew: neighbors and friends of Grandfather. Yi Yi Guangon, one of the elders from the village council. Shashoo, the only woman in the village who owned a washing machine. Bexi, the nurse who made herbal remedies for Bingwen whenever he got sick. All of them were lifeless and lying in unnatural positions, their skin red and blistered, as if they had worked for days in the sun without a hat.
    A suffocating fear gripped at Bingwen’s chest whenever he saw someone new: What if the next person’s face was Mother’s or Father’s? What would he do then?
    Once he was sure he had found Mother. The dead woman lay in the mud with her back to him and her face turned away. She had hair like Mother’s and a shape like Mother’s and the same plain, faded clothes like Mother’s.
    But when Bingwen walked around her and saw her face, he realized it wasn’t Mother. The relief was so sudden and overwhelming that Bingwen broke down and sobbed. His chest heaved, and his body shook, and it took several minutes to compose himself again. By then the water buffalo was growing restless and pulling on the lead rope again. Bingwen wiped at his eyes and nose with the sleeve of his good arm. He had been crying for everything: his arm, Hopper, Meilin, the dead woman who looked like Mother, Mazer’s ship. Everything. When he finished, he felt better, braver even. I’ve had my cry, he thought. My final one.
    He kept walking.
    There were dead children as well, though Bingwen couldn’t force himself to look at them. He made his eyes defocus whenever one came into view, always looking above the body, never directly at it … until a bright shirt caught his