Elias remained shaken, his complexion the color of bone, but it was the dark, spreading stain on his chest that drew their predatory focus.
"What is that?" Fadi asked, his voice cracking with a sudden, desperate sharp edge. "That moisture—where did it come from?"
Elias didn't answer. He didn't even seem to hear. He turned abruptly and scrambled back toward the treeline, his movements frantic as he retraced his own erratic footprints. He moved inch by inch, scanning the parched soil until he dropped to his knees. There, sheltered by the roots of a dying oak, grew a cluster of low-lying succulents—thick, translucent stems, vivid against the surrounding decay, their hollow interiors engorged with filtered groundwater.
He harvested them with a violent haste, clutching the stalks to his chest, and stumbled back to the circle. The group watched in stunned silence until Elias snapped a stem in his trembling hands. A clear, viscous fluid beaded and ran down his knuckles.
The reaction was instantaneous and feral. They lunged at him, the thin veneer of their cooperation dissolving into a scramble of grasping hands and bared teeth. They tore the succulents from Elias's grip, crushing the stalks between their molars, swallowing the cool, pulpy nectar as if they were draining the very veins of the earth. Every drop was a reprieve; every swallow a stay of execution.
Adam, his wrists still bound and raw, thrashed against the dirt. "Untie me! Let me drink! Don't leave me with nothing!"
But the others had reverted to a state of primal survival. Driven by the agony of their shriveled cells, they ignored his pleas until the last stalk was reduced to dry fiber. Only then, once the collective frenzy subsided, did Elias move to sever Adam's restraints.
The leather cords fell away. Adam surged to his feet, his eyes burning with a silent, corrosive resentment. He didn't waste breath on a curse; he launched himself toward the woods, his hands clawing at the earth where Elias had found the cache. He fell upon the remaining scraps, scavenging every missed fragment, chewing until his mouth was stained green with chlorophyll and grit. He didn't stop until he had drained the site of its last ounce of moisture.
He returned to the circle late, his gait heavy. He carried a final, meager handful of stalks, one clamped firmly between his teeth. His shirt was a mess of dark stains and crushed pulp. He spoke to no one. He simply retreated to the far edge of the concrete, coiling into himself—a silent, hydrated island of simmering rage and exhaustion.