by James Hunter
“Lazarus,” Levi bellowed from behind me. I glanced at him over my shoulder, nearly pitching over in the process. Mama Murderwheels was down for the count and in about fifteen different pieces, and ol’ Muddy had one bloody hand pressed up against the wall. “There are more of ’em coming,” he said, his brown eyes distant. “We need to go. Now.”
“But the scythe!” I shouted, my face screwed up in absolute fury. After all this? After everything we’d done? It had to be here. Had to be. Maybe she was lying—though with the collar strapped around her throat that seemed doubtful.
Levi dropped his hand and hustled over, kicking an amputated arm out of his way without a thought. “We can talk about this later,” he replied, far too calmly, “but if we have any shot of leaving this city, we need to go now. We’ll regroup. Figure it out. Come up with a new plan. But this is not the hill we should die on.” He paused, surveying the wound decorating my leg. “Now hold still.” Before I could offer a reply, he jabbed one hand into his gut, pulled out a glob of gooey gray clay speckled with gold, and slapped the shit right onto the gunshot wound.
It hurt like a sucker punch to the throat.
I wheezed as the clay moved with a life of its own, flattening and spreading, quickly covering the bullet hole, then wrapping around my thigh, pulling tight to staunch the blood flow. “That oughta keep you from bleeding out,” Levi remarked, the way a neighbor might about the weather.
The guy was a world-class, unsympathetic asshole.
Then, before I could give him a piece of my mind, he bent over and scooped me off my feet like a disgruntled bride, cradling me in his arms.
“The Hell are you doing?” I protested weakly.
He sniffed and glanced down at me, face flat and unmoved. “Someone shot you in the leg.” He shrugged. “This is the only way you won’t slow us down.”
I frowned, stowed my pistol, and folded my arms across my chest, unamused.
This wasn’t great for my heroic, badass, gunslinger image, but there was a certain pragmatic sense I could appreciate. I stole one last hate-filled look at Tez as Levi shambled into motion, heading from the room.
Shit. We’d really screwed the pooch on this one.
We found ourselves in a hallway with black-marble floors running off to the left and right. Levi lingered for a minute, his hideous underbite turning down in a frown, clearly unsure which way to go. Finally, he shrugged again—screw it, that gesture said—and headed right, his clomping footfalls echoing off of dark walls studded with gaudy wall-mounted lamps filigreed in silver.
We passed several empty rooms and a number of nooks and crannies proudly displaying priceless pieces of artwork or ancient ceremonial trinkets on marble pedestals. Despite her association with the tattoo-sporting, fishnet-clad Roller Nation, this was the palace of a goddess—one who was worshiped and revered by lesser beings. The sound of skates on tile jarred me from my thoughts, and I glanced over Levi’s sloping, lopsided shoulders. A small army of scowling Derby girls, members of the Badass Betties unless I missed my guess entirely, were racing toward us.
A corkscrew stairwell lay dead ahead.
Levi picked up his pace, but still the Derby girls gained on us. Levi was a lot of things—disgusting, ugly, rude, brutal, odd as a three-dollar bill—but fast didn’t seem to be on the impressive list. He plodded down the stairwell, turning, turning, turning, the racket of skates growing louder every passing second. “Go faster,” I hollered into his ear, gaze fixed on the curving stairwell behind us as I prepared the weaves for a lance of flame.
“This is fast,” he replied, rounding a corner and emerging into a sitting room littered with plush couches, club chairs, and a variety of end tables and bookcases. There was a pair of French doors off to the right, and a hallway off to the left, which connected to a massive foyer and hopefully the exit. A second later, though, the French doors rattled in their frame as someone battered against them from the other side. To make matters worse, that was the exact instant the Derby girls from upstairs emerged from the stairwell, brandishing machetes and chainsaws.
Seriously. Chainsaws.
No guns, though, which was a lucky break. Word to the wise: if you ever find yourself celebrating a pack of bloodthirsty monsters armed with chainsaws, that’s a sure sign things have gone horribly, terribly wrong somewhere.
The doors rattled again as though to emphasize our plight.
“Set me down,” I yelled at Levi, my tone harsh and commanding.
He obeyed without protest, dropping me gently near the room’s far wall so I could brace myself.
“Good,” I said. “Go check the hallway—see if you can find a way outta here. I’ll buy us some time.”
Once more, Levi bobbed his head and lumbered off toward the foyer as I tweaked the half-formed weaves of my flame javelin, reshaping them. I threw both hands forward, unleashing an invisible wave of raw force and pure will. Couches, chairs, and end tables cartwheeled into the air as though they’d been swatted by a gigantic hand, crashing into the Derby girls. Women in too-tight shirts and plaid skirts went down en masse, shrieking and screaming as ankles rolled and kneecaps snapped. One lady—her head shaved, her face like an old saddlebag—was unfortunate enough to fall directly into the roaring blade of her chainsaw.
Very messy.
I didn’t have time to celebrate, because a second later the French doors exploded outward with a spray of wooden shrapnel. I braced myself for the absolute shitstorm to come, my hands out and at the ready, arcane power coursing and throbbing just beneath my fingers.
Except it wasn’t a new army of Derby girls that poured through.
Nope, it was a flood of Skinless, led by none other than one-eyed Jim, my tour guide and new best friend. The glistening red slaves were all free of their collars, and each held a weapon—just kitchen knives, meat cleavers, or the odd wooden table leg, but weapons all the same. They sent up a wordless, inarticulate roar as they charged the downed Derby girls. In a flash, knives found tender flesh. Meat cleavers hacked through bone. Broken table legs smacked into skulls with the sickening crack of a baseball player hitting one out of the park.
The carnage lasted seconds, but felt like hours. Finally, I had to look away; watching the Skinless work out their justifiable rage was like looking at a human meat grinder in action.
God, this place was gonna leave some serious psychological and emotional scars.
Another primal, guttural cheer went up as the Skinless finished their bloody work. Levi’s hand fell on my shoulder, drawing my eye away from their primal victory dance. I paused, stifling a laugh with one hand. There was nothing funny about the gory scene behind me, of course, but Levi? Well, the giant gray goofy bastard was wearing neon-pink roller skates covered in flaming skulls. Size sixteen, at least. He glanced at me, then down at the skates.
“Seriously?” I quirked an eyebrow.
“I’m not fast,” he muttered, “and we need to move fast. These’ll help.”
Then, despite the horrid circumstances and the walking nightmares all around me, I threw my head back and laughed. Laughed so hard, my stomach hurt. Laughed, and laughed, and laughed, because sometimes that’s the only thing you can do.
After a time, my mad cackling subsided, and I wiped a tear away from my eye.
“You sure those things will hold you?” I asked, nodding to the wheels.
“Some of these Derby girls weigh as much as I do,” he replied tersely, bending and flexing his knees in demonstration. The display only made me want to laugh more.
“And you can skate?” I suppressed a grin as I fought to stay professional.
He nodded. “I’m competent. The church has an ice-skating event every year to raise money for the homeless. I never miss it.”
That did it. I doubled over again, just yakking it up like this was the end of the world and I didn’t give a shit anymore. I could just envision Levi, disguised as a balding, potbellied man, trudging along on a pair of rented skates next to a gr
ay-haired church lady in a hand-knitted shawl. Nothing made sense anymore.
“You done?” he asked, folding flabby tree trunk arms across his mammoth barrel chest as my giggles subsided.
“Yeah,” I said with a nod and a smile, “though man, what I wouldn’t give for a camera.”
“Good,” he said, ignoring the last part of my statement. “I found the exit, but we’re gonna have a heck of a time getting out. I took out the sentry standing watch inside”—he gestured toward the skates—“but there are two dozen or more posted up out front. We’ll have to find a way to get past them.”
I nodded, the heaviness of the situation settling over me again. “But assuming we can, then what? How do we get outta here? There’s a whole friggin’ city of Derby girls out there.”
“Yeah,” he said with a nod, “but there are also all kinds of passages connecting to this crater.” He made it sound both self-explanatory and self-evident. “Stone calls to stone, and rock calls to rock—I can read those passages. We just need to move quickly, get clear of the city, and into those tunnels. We’ll lose any hangers-on there, and I’ll get us back to the surface, no problem. You’ll be my gunner.” He delivered his whole speech dead-panned and straight-faced.
This was just another day in paradise as far as he was concerned.
“Got it,” I replied absentmindedly, rubbing at my chin as I thought. “But first things first. Breaking out.” I shot a look at Skinless Jim and his posse. The one-eyed rebel grinned—supremely disturbing since he didn’t have lips or teeth—and nodded, one hand shooting into the air, flashing through an elaborate system of signals.
NINETEEN:
Ultimate Derby
Levi and I busted through the front doors, surrounded by a tidal wave of glistening red bodies wielding a wide assortment of weapons. Levi was wearing skates, and me? Well, I was strapped to Levi’s chest in a five-point harness of gray mud. Just dangling there, facing outward like a toddler in one of those newfangled baby holsters. Embarrassing as all get out, but it was surprisingly comfortable and great for my wounded leg. Plus, it gave me a clear line of fire, so a win I guess?
The Derby girls outside seemed oblivious to the battle going on inside the mansion, but one look at us sent ’em into a flurry of motion.
A few immediately rushed toward a nearby guard tower—arms swinging, legs pumping—which wasn’t a good sign. They were probably going for reinforcements. But reinforcements would be a problem for Future Me. Present Me already had more than enough bullshit to worry about. Like the two dozen remaining Hellion Amazons wielding automatic rifles and gleaming spears. Gunfire broke out, bullets whizzing and whining by as the sentries lit us up like a Fourth of July fireworks display.
Normally, I’d whip up a hasty friction shield, but there were just so many bullets, and a deflection shield was no beuno—not with all the friendly Skinless swarming around us. Yeah, it would protect me and Levi the Murder-Machine, but ricocheted rounds would prove dangerous to my new buddies. Friendly fire is bad all around. Instead, I wove a delicate sphere of air, interlaced with columns of raw spirit and braided through with strands of magnetic force. A tricky bit of work, but one with a helluva cool payoff.
A shimmering dome of semitranslucent quicksilver exploded to life around Levi and me.
The incoming rounds plowed into the construct, emitting silver flashes as they hit. Instead of punching through the barrier or careening off into my new buddies, however, the bullets simply stopped as their forward momentum was redirected by magnetic force. Suddenly, I had a slew of copper slugs orbiting me like a bunch of freeloading planets, twirling round and round. I’d picked this trick up from this batshit crazy mage named Arjun a while back, and though it took a shitload of energy to hold in place, I was getting better with it all the time.
With a screw-you grin, I flicked out my left hand.
The circling bullets zipped free like asteroids careening toward Earth, tearing through the front-line Derby girls. The rounds lifted a few women from their feet and dropped others outright. The Skinless used the mass chaos as cover, darting forward during the brief lapse in gunfire, leaping onto the remaining Hellion warriors with ferocious glee. Meat cleavers slashed down, knives jabbed deep, hastily made wooden clubs bludgeoned exposed limbs, and meaty red hands pried automatic weapons free.
In moments, the tide turned, and our little army of rebels stood victorious over the Derby girls, who lay wounded on the ground. The Skinless weirdos stood a bit straighter, joyous lipless smirks stretching across their faces, eyes peering over the grand sweep of the Roller Nation city with new hope and a generous dollop of defiance. Our victory was short-lived, though, because only a handful of seconds later, a series of bells clanged frantically from several different lookout towers, their billowing, clarion call reverberating in my teeth and bones.
Intruders, those bells shrieked. Time to bring the thunder. Time to nuke the earth and scorch the land.
For a long beat, we all just stood there, staring down on the city as Roller Nation denizens poured out of doors and into the streets like a swarm of angry wasps ready to defend the hive. I whistled under my breath. Holy shit, there were a lot of ’em.
“You sure we can get outta here?” I asked Levi over one shoulder, trying to mask the uncertainty in my voice. Breaking into this place had been bad enough, but busting out with every eye looking for us was something else entirely.
“Stone calls to stone,” he muttered in reply. “I can do it. Past time we were moving, though,” he finished, his voice flat with just a whisper of worry buried beneath his words. “The quicker we get gone, the better.” Then he shifted, his body bubbling, rippling, as his head, legs, and arms popped and inverted. In the span of a heartbeat, I went from his front to his back, my legs dangling down over his flabby clay ass. I’d never get used to Levi’s wonkiness. Never. I stole one more look at Skinless Jim, who now had a compact matte-black M4 with a collapsible buttstock in his hands.
My favorite gun.
He regarded me solemnly, head tilted to one side, then tossed the gun to me with a nod. Good luck, he mouthed. And thanks.
“Glad to help, pal,” I replied.
I don’t know what Skinless Jim did to wind up in Hell, but dammit, he was alright in my book. I cleared my throat—feeling a bit choked up—and canted the gun to one side for a brass check, before finally offering him a return nod. Then, because I hate goodbyes and for some reason I was strangely attached to ol’ Jim, I turned my head and said, “Let’s get this show on the road. I’ve got shit to do.”
Levi wheeled about without a word and lurched forward, his colossal legs swishing back and forth as we made for the edge of the temple and toward the ramp. I said a silent prayer under my breath for Jim and his crew; they had a hard road ahead, and I sincerely hoped they didn’t end up back in slave collars, serving Tez and her nightmare gang.
All thoughts of Jim vanished as Levi plunged over the edge of the ziggurat and onto the steeply sloped ramp that zigzagged to the bottom. My stomach promptly crawled up into my throat, unpacked its bags, and loudly declared it was moving in for good.
My heart thudded like a jackhammer, and my lungs struggled for air. I’ve never been much of a roller-coaster guy, and this was like the most terrifying roller-coaster on the planet, made even worse by the knowledge that one wrong move from Levi could turn us both into street pizza. I shuddered as we picked up more and more speed—positive we were gonna eat shit and die—but then we were at the bottom of the temple, cruising down a wide boulevard flanked by lush greenery and into the city proper.
The vegetation vanished, replaced by blocky mud-walled homes covered in garish graffiti and augmented with steel siding, foggy windows, and rusted spits of rebar.
I could still hear the bells clanging brazenly in the air, but there were new sounds, too. The thunderous clamor of wheels on stone and the burble of a thousand voices all raised in alarm and anger. We were in the thick of things, now. Levi
hunched forward without warning and let out a guttural roar. My head snapped back as our momentum abruptly slowed, and a thick-bodied Derby girl with knotted dreads sailed past me, half of her face caved in.
I raised the M4 to my shoulder and put a quick round into her neck.
“Got more incoming,” Levi bellowed as his bulky body resumed its rhythmic flow. I had to admit, the guy was a surprisingly graceful skater, and though he wasn’t fast, once he got moving he was a friggin’ powerhouse. A runaway semi, nearly impossible to stop.
He roared again, his body twisting as he lashed out with enormous fists that now resembled blocky quartz sledgehammer heads studded with bits of black obsidian glass. More Derby girls flipped and fell under the onslaught of his attacks, like pins scattered by a merciless bowling ball. We blasted through a four-way intersection presided over by a host of wires and a broken stoplight. Though I couldn’t see what lay ahead, an angry honey badger of fear clawed at my guts as I saw the horde of Derby girls bolting toward us from the left and right.
There must’ve been a hundred of ’em, easy.
Levi just kept right on truckin’, though, straight as an arrow.
The mob of roller-skating psychos burst onto the street behind us, faces fixed in determination as they tore ass across the smooth pavement, eating up the distance with scary speed, swords swinging, chains twirling, daggers in hand and ready to shed blood. A grunt and lurching-sway followed as another pair of Derby girls went down courtesy of Levi’s fists—one glassy-eyed with a broken neck, the other with one leg twisted at an unnatural angle. Apparently, a handful of sentries weren’t gonna stop Levi outright, but they were slowing him down, and that was almost as bad.
Eventually, the pack would catch up, and though we might be able to fend off ten or even twenty, a hundred would bury us alive.
I pulled the lone frag grenade from the pouch on my vest, yanked the pin free, depressed the spoon, and tossed the explosive into a passing alley brimming with oncoming killers. The first few women in the pack seemed to realize how much shit they were in as the grenade rolled up against a mud wall. But the momentum of the women behind them, combined with the narrow space, prevented them from stopping, backpedaling, or even changing course. After a four-count, a tremendous whomp shook the street as fire, shrapnel, and chunks of stone erupted from the mouth of the alley.