“I think so, but we should think about what we’re going to do.”

“You and your plans. Give me the knife.”

“The canine will go for your throat,” Bibi said.

Sorrel stood outside the root shelter, her back to the giant boulder, knife in hand. She could just see the shapes of the two ferals, their heads turned away. She tried to judge the distance – ten, maybe fifteen metres.

“Come out,” she whispered to Bibi.

“You go right,” Bibi said. “I’ll go left. I’ll take this pack – you’ll be able to lift the other one more quickly. Then we run.”

Sorrel spotted the second backpack just as the canine’s head turned in her direction. She could no longer see the porc. The feral raced towards her, closing the distance in seconds. It skidded to a stop just outside of kicking range and snarled. Its yellow teeth were ringed with black and she thought of carrion. Then it jumped for her throat and she felt its hot breath on her face. She sidestepped and lashed out with her knife. It circled, low to the ground, growling. She kicked and it dodged her foot easily. It leaped for her chest while she was off balance and she slashed out again, disgusted by its stinking, rotten breath. Her knife sliced the canine’s neck and it yelped. She stumbled and fell, rolling away from it as fast as she could. Where was the porc? How badly had she cut the animal?

She jumped to her feet and looked around. No sign of the canine. There was a trail of blood through the sand, leading into the rocks. She had fought off a feral and she yelled in triumph. Then she heard sounds of struggle somewhere behind her and ran in the direction of the root-shelter.

Bibi’s back was against the big rock. A small porc was standing in front of her, swinging its tusks. Sorrel kicked at the animal with all her strength. It swung around to face her, lowered its head and charged. She screamed and sliced at it; kept slicing until the knife went in through muscle to bone. The porc squealed and fell, pulling the knife out of her hand.

“Make sure it’s dead,” Bibi panted. “What happened to the canine?”

“I cut it and it ran off.” She went over to the porc. Its eyes were open and glassy, and it looked well fed. She wrinkled her nose at its smell and pulled her knife free.

They stood together, hands on their knees, their breathing harsh. Sorrel wanted to howl at the sky.

“That’s a lot of food,” Bibi said, nodding in the direction of the dead porc. “We should have learned how to hunt them. Pity we have to leave it.” She met her daughter’s eyes. “You keep the knife,” she said.

“You go first,” Sorrel said to her mother.

CHAPTER 9 – THE WATER TANK