by Michael Karr
An involuntary shudder coursed down her back. She couldn’t let that happen to her grandfather. She wouldn’t let it happen.
The next bell rang, signaling the close of the betting office. Below, Serghei and the other trainers placed their animals in their assigned starting gates. A metal grate in the front and back of the gate, kept the animals from escaping or jumping the gun on the race. Once their animals were secured, the group of trainers exited the rink, returning to the pit.
Rylee gripped the railing in front of her and scratched at the tattoo on the back of her hand. The bell rang a third and final time. Two men lifted open the metal grates, releasing the animals. And the races began.
A deafening cheer shook the whole warehouse as the crowd rooted for their chosen animals. The animals ignored the mayhem, speeding down the track as if chased by a hellcat. Most were deaf already. Either from previous injury or intentional marring.
After the first bend, Grant, Mr. Rabies, and a different rat with gray fur had taken the lead.
Mr. Rabies was a wiry creature with more bald patches than actual hair, and a tail like a rat’s. Two robotic hindquarters powered its rears as it raced along, foam seething from the mouth. The mangy squirrel, as Feng said, had a reputation for biting other animals who got in his way. And biting was not illegal. Or clawing and scratching. She’d even seen a mouse nearly win by climbing onto the back of a larger, faster animal. The rules were loose, if not nonexistent.
The animals completed the first lap. Still holding a strong third, Grant kept a steady pace behind the leaders.
“Should have bet on that squirrel,” Feng shouted at her side.
Come on! If Serghei’s rat lost this race, she swore to herself she’d drown it in gasoline, then set it on fire. That is if her grandfather didn’t kill her first.
An urge to shout out loud filled her, to cheer Grant on. She looked around at the maddened, screaming crowd. What good did yelling like a maniac at the animals do? Instead, she stood there, tense as a cord ready to snap.
Maintaining his third-place position, Grant passed the halfway mark of the second lap. One and a half laps to go. Still in the lead, Mr. Rabies scurried frantically, showing no sign of slowing down.
If she had her rifle, she would have been tempted to shoot the squirrel before it reached the finish line. Of course, that was illegal. And she doubted she would make it out of Duncan’s warehouse alive. Either the crowd would tear her apart, or Duncan’s lackeys would do it.
The rodents completed the second lap. Grant continued to lag behind Mr. Rabies. Rylee scratched her tattoo more vigorously.
Come on, Grant!
The animals rounded the first bend of the third and final lap. Grant was still behind. Too far behind. She’d seen enough of these races to know that the race was over. Her rations were as good as lost. She closed her eyes and tried to pretend she was somewhere else, not watching Serghei’s rat lose this life-or-death race.
This couldn’t be happening.
She heard the crowd’s cheers suddenly turned gleeful.
“Look!” Preston shouted in her ear.
Her eyes shot open, fixing on the rink. Behind the leaders, a chipmunk and a pink rat rolled across the rink, teeth and claws locked into each other.
Great, a fight. Ordinarily, the fights were the only part of a race worth watching. Who cared tonight? Let all the other animals tear themselves to shreds for all she cared. Why should she care? Grant was going to lose. She would lose her rations that they had gambled away. Why had she thought this was a good idea?
Against her will, her gaze drifted back to Grant. Part of her couldn’t bear the thought of seeing him actually lose. When she saw him, though, he was no longer in third. No, now he was in second. A close second. That’s what Preston had been pointing to. Was Grant moving faster than before? A sleeper? Serghei had promised her that Grant was faster than the last time he’d raced. Something about modifications to his prosthesis as well as new sensory input training. Would it be enough?
Daring to hope, Rylee shouted Grant’s name. She couldn’t bottle it in any longer. She felt she might explode. Her fingernails scratched the back of her hand at a hundred miles per hour.
Grant continued to make gains. The two lead animals reached the midway point. Inch by inch, Grant chiseled away at Mr. Rabies’ lead. By the time the pair reached the final bend, they were snout to snout. A large chunk of the crowd began to boo and slap at the fence in frustration.
Rylee gripped the railing.
Out of the final bend, Grant inched ahead of Mr. Rabies.
“Go Grant, Go!” she hollered. He was going to win.
The finish line was just ahead. Less than a quarter of a lap remained.
Then Mr. Rabies jerked to the side and sunk his teeth into Grant’s right forequarter. Grant’s head twisted violently in pain, and he stopped running. Mr. Rabies let go of the leg and scurried ahead. For a moment, Grant writhed in pain.
As soon as Mr. Rabies tail was even with Grant, however, he paused his writhing and chomped down on the squirrel’s tail and held for all he was worth. Mr. Rabies jerked his head back, baring his teeth, but kept moving, pulling Grant with him. But the added weight slowed him down too much. Within a few moments, the gray rat which had been in second place caught up to the pair. The rat scurried around both of them. Just as the rat got around Mr. Rabies, he lashed out his head and grabbed the rat’s leg.
The crowd howled with delight and anguish. Rylee felt as if her chest would burst. She hated not being able to do something to help. Action, that was what she excelled at. Not sitting and watching helplessly, as a pair of rats and a squirrel determined her fate.
Suddenly, Grant released Mr. Rabies’ tail and shot forward. Before Mr. Rabies could get loose of the other rat to snatch at him, Grant was out of reach. He crossed the finish line, into the protective arms of Serghei.
It took Rylee a second to process what she’d seen. Grant had…won! Joy and relief filled her.
All around, torturous cries rose from the crowd. People started climbing the fence. Some started to shake it violently. Others joined in. Rylee’s surge of elation died away, quelled by the crowd’s response to Mr. Rabies loss. The people. They were too volatile. With the imminent ration reduction, the people couldn’t afford to lose.
There was one word to describe the crowd’s response. Panic. And a panicked, embroiled crowd unless quickly quelled almost certainly would turn to rioting. But there was nothing to snuff out the people’s panic—nothing to hold them back. No squadron of Regulators. Duncan’s own lackeys would be insufficient to deal with such a crowd—a tempestuous sea of people.
From behind, Rylee felt people pressing against her, pinning her against the railing. She looked over a Preston, who was likewise trapped. With his elbow, he was attempting to push back. It was futile. There were too many pressing against them. Shouting, yelling, stomping, pressing. Rylee felt the cold steel lip of the railing digging deeper and deeper into her stomach, cutting into her ribs. Each breath was a struggle.
“They’re going to crush us like a can of tuna,” Feng cried.
She tried to slide her body beneath the rail. It was no use. The rail dug in too deep. Even if she could scrape it over each of her ribs, it would rip her chest off, or catch her under the chin and strangle her.
What to do? This was helplessness. What in the name of Desolation were the people on the loft doing behind her?
There was a sudden release of pressure from her abdomen. The feeling of relief was immediately replaced by the sensation of falling. The railing had broken free beneath the force of the crowd. And now Rylee was falling straight down.
THIRTEEN
Rylee crashed into a huddle of people below the loft. Beside her, Preston likewise landed onto a few unfortunate individuals. Both struggled to their feet, so as not to be trampled. She tried to reach down to help those she’d crashed into, but was immediately pushed to the side, caught in the current of the crowd
.
Preston was forced in a different direction.
She looked for sign of Feng, but didn’t see anything. Could he still be on the warehouse floor? He’d be trampled if he didn’t get up. Struggling against the current that dragged her against her will, Rylee gradually made her way back toward the spot where she’d fallen.
For each inch she gained, however, the crowd dragged her back another foot. She cursed, but couldn’t even hear her own voice above the deafening noise of the mob. If only she could get to Preston. Maybe he could do something. Now she couldn’t even see him.
Turning her gaze around, she looked toward the rink. The protective fence was flattened, lying ominously across the rink. Rylee’s stomach twisted into a knot. Serghei. She tried to catch a glimpse of the pit. Were Serghei and the other trainers still holed up inside? Or had the crowd taken them in retribution? Through the tall heads around her, she couldn’t tell. It was one of the few times she wished she were taller. Tall like Preston.
If it would have done any good, she would have yelled at everyone to stop. If a mob had a brain, it would be the size of a rat’s. A rat’s brain, with only haphazard sense, and zero reasoning power. The mob was a seething mass of emotions, capable of any violence or crime.
The mob would turn to looting. Those who’d lost their winnings would claw and bite and bash their heads to get it back. Those who’d won would do the same to get their due.
Rylee only wanted out of that building with all her friends. She was helpless to do either.
Something harder than the side of a leg or a boot struck her thigh. She looked down. One of the makeshift tables was parting the current of people like a stone in a river. On an impulse, she mounted the table, and stood.
The wooden cable spool rocked and shifted more like a storm-tossed fishing vessel than an immovable rock. She assumed a wide stance to keep from getting knocked back into the throng.
From this new vantage point, she could clearly see the pit. Around it, the perimeter fence and barbed wire still stood. The trainers were inside. And one particularly lanky figure. Serghei.
Good. Serghei hadn’t been gutted by the mob…yet.
She continued to scan, searching for Preston or Feng. For the first time that night, she wished she’d thought to bring her earpiece.
A moment later, she heard screams that pierced through the din. Rylee whipped her gaze in the direction of the sound. A flurry of movement deeper into the warehouse caught her eye. Then she saw orange and red flames dancing among the crowd, black smoke collecting like storm clouds on the high ceiling. One of the warehouse’s partition walls was on fire.
Great! Now those who weren’t trampled to death, shot down, or killed in one of the hundreds of scuffles, would get roasted alive. Perhaps the fire itself wasn’t a huge threat in a metal warehouse with a concrete floor. But the foam insulation lining the walls would burn, and all of Duncan’s storage with it. If nothing else, they would all die of asphyxiation from the smoke.
She had to get out of there.
For the first time, she noticed that the current of people rushing around her seemed to be thinning out. Turning back toward where she had last seen Feng, she felt a jolt of relief to see Preston leaning near one of the toppled cable spools.
Leaping down, she descended back into the crowd. This time, she wasn’t rammed backward with every step she took. A moment later she reached Preston’s side. He was leaning over Feng, who was curled on the floor, partially covered by the large wooden spool. The crude table had likely saved his life.
“We’ve got to get out of here now!” she shouted, as if they weren’t keenly aware of that fact already. Then she caught Feng’s expression. It was one of intense pain. “What’s wrong?”
Feng just grimaced.
“I think he broke his leg,” Preston shouted, his face grim. There wasn’t time to think about the ramifications if that were true, though. If they hung around much longer, they’d all be dead. “Let’s get him on his feet. He can use us for crutches.”
She nodded, and they both placed hands under Feng’s armpits and lifted. A few curses flew out of Feng’s mouth. Against the pain, Feng squeezed his eyes tightly shut and bared his teeth.
They propped Feng up onto one leg, as he draped his arms over their shoulders. Beads of sweat ran down Rylee’s forehead. Already the heat inside the warehouse had grown intense. And the crackling flames were starting to roar like one of Desolation’s earthquakes. Rylee coughed. They didn’t have much time before the smoke would engulf them. This type of smoke—the type that burned down buildings—wasn’t the friendly grayish cloud that gently billows and disperses into the sky. No, this was the black, consuming smoke. Smoke that choked and blinded. Thick as tar.
With Feng resting nearly his entire weight on Rylee and Preston, they started moving toward the exit. Ahead of them, she could see people converging near the exit of the warehouse. Good, at least most of the people weren’t idiotic enough to continue looting while the building burned down around them. No doubt there were still some trying to grab what they could. She briefly wondered if everyone would make it out. If they would make it out.
Then she remembered Serghei.
“What about Serghei?” she hollered to Preston.
“We can’t do anything for him now,” he shouted back. “He’s smart. He’ll get out.”
It was a complete lie. She could recognize it in the look on Preston’s face. He was trying to protect her.
“I’ve got to go back for him,” she shouted, removing Feng’s arm from around her shoulder.
“It’s too dangerous!”
“When did that ever stop me?” she hollered back to him as she turned and raced back toward the rink.
Preston called again, but his voice was carried away in the cross-current of sounds blasting within the steel shell of the warehouse.
The rink was still empty, lantern lights shining down on it, competing with the orange blaze of the fire. Just beyond it, through the chain link fencing, she could see the pit. Figures were inside. Some halfway up the fencing, stymied by the razor wire. Some beating their fists against the links and shouting words she couldn’t hear. Others trying to pry up the fence and climb out underneath it.
Racing around to the pit, she found Serghei at the gate, trying to pick the lock.
“Every good heist movie has a lock-picking scene, you know?” Serghei said, sounding far too casual. “They never tell you how difficult it is. Especially, if you have to do it locked inside the fence. When I make my movies—”
“Stand clear!” Rylee Shiites, drawing out her pistol from her shoulder holster and taking aim at the lock. She stepped to the side of the lock slightly. This would be by far the stupidest shot she’d ever made.
Bullets bounce. Another of her grandfather’s lessons.
Well, she hoped this bullet wouldn’t bounce at her or anyone else. Not letting herself think about it too long, she steadied her hands and slowly pulled the trigger. New or inexperienced shooters—and even many with lots of experience with handguns—overlooked this phase of the process. It did little good to aim and then jerk the gun off target by pulling the trigger recklessly. Careful, controlled trigger pulls were the secret to good marksmanship.
The pistol kicked back in her hands and the bullet fired. She immediately leveled the gun again and sighted, just as she had been trained. She felt no pain. The bullet hadn’t ricocheted and struck her. Even with her heightened adrenaline, she was sure she’d feel a bullet wound. Hopefully, no other innocent bystander had been struck.
She adjusted her focus from the front sight of her pistol to the lock. Still in one piece. She’d struck it. The lock still swayed on its hasp.
Again she took aim and fired. The lock jumped to life but remained intact. She fired a third time. Still no change.
Desolation! This is supposed to work.
She wished for her rifle. Surely the lock couldn’t withstand a direct shot from it. A bout of coughs s
eized her for a few moments. The smoke was growing thicker. There wasn’t time for this.
Curse it!
Casting her eyes about, she searched for some other means of breaking Serghei and the others free. Did Duncan really need to lock the trainers in the pit? Maybe it saved them from a hoard of angry gamblers, but it was definitely not going to save them from the fire. She needed a blow torch, or some way of ramming the fence. A forklift. A truck. An Indiana Jones-style boulder.
Great! Now I’m starting to think like Serghei.
Then she spotted something on the floor of the warehouse that gave her an idea. A terrible idea. But it was something.
She sprinted toward it. The heat from the fire was drawing sweat from her body like a water pump. Reaching the nearest makeshift table—the wooden cable spool—she tipped it onto its side and rolled it into the fence. Then she went after four more tables, doing the same thing with each one. Once she had a collection of tables, she went to work on her half-baked idea.
Taking the first spool, she set it up on its side so that it sat like a table.
“Are you planning to have a tea party?” Serghei hollered at her through the fence. “What is it you are trying to do?”
She ignored him and kept working. Next, she grabbed another spool to stack on top of the first one. It was heavier than she counted on. It was just made of wood, wasn’t it? Old, dried out wood. Still, she managed to stack it, so that now the tower of spools stood a good six feet tall. Moving quickly, trying to breathe in as little of the smoke-ridden air as possible, she positioned another two spools on the floor around the base of her tower. With the fifth spool, she stacked it on top of one of the single spools.