Of course, the fucking thing was empty.
The loose change from the slot machines had to be changed into dollars before it was any use. The coinage was heavier than hell, too. Hundreds of pounds. But at least dealing with it was a simple mindless task that didn’t require conversation. That struck Mollie just fine. Mick was too dinged up with painkillers and casts to do much work, but the younger boys sorted the foreign currency and separated the coins into luggable quantities. Mollie opened doorways in search of cities where she could change Kazakh tenge into real American dollars. It wasn’t easy to find places; it was like she really had stolen Monopoly money. Half the places hadn’t even heard of tenge. And when she did find currency exchanges familiar with the exotic monies of Bumfuckistan, the rate sucked out loud.
Scouting currency exchanges proved exhausting, far harder than it should have been. A regular day for Mollie had her traveling around the world twice before breakfast. This should have been a snap. Scouting the exchanges should have been the work of an hour, tops. But the doorways didn’t want to cooperate. Sometimes they slipped away from her, closing before she intended, or taking an extra few seconds to open and close. Sometimes they didn’t open where she wanted them to. Each time she fixated on the transdimensional weirdness to try to force the goddamned things to cooperate, she remembered the portal she’d opened inside Brent’s body, Dad’s pitchfork going straight through into himself … She’d never done that before. Never even contemplated opening a portal on somebody’s person. It was as though her ace had become contaminated by that single action, and now she confronted a self-doubt she hadn’t experienced since the first few days after her card turned.
What if she accidentally opened a doorway into the center of another homicidal cannibal ragestorm flashmob like the one in Talas? It had come without warning. How could she know it wouldn’t happen again at the next location, or the next, or the next? It was difficult to open a door when the abject terror of what you might find on the other side had you pissing your pants.
She hit the sack on the farmhouse’s downstairs sofa after changing every last coin from Talas. She fell asleep almost instantly, still in her clothes. It wasn’t restful sleep. She woke up every hour or so, panting and damp with sweat from a nightmare that put her on that street in Talas, where she was a willing member of the crowd that hurled itself upon a twitching baby, or in the barn, striving to murder her family.
Lohengrin was fuming. It took five hours to get the tanks on the road when it should have taken, the Angel thought, fifteen, twenty minutes, tops. There were four tanks, an ace with each, along with a couple of platoons of Kazakhstan regular army. They looked professional and smart. All were well armed and wore night goggles. An advance squad melted fearlessly into the dark ruins ahead of the column, two others flanked right and left. Lohengrin was riding the lead tank, the Angel was on the second. Earth Witch walked alongside the third, while the tall, striking figure of Doktor Omweer stalked behind the fourth.
The Angel was appalled as she looked around the twisted, blackened landscape, cast in the eerie light of night-vision goggles. It was as if she were witnessing hell on earth, as if God himself, the perpetually angry Yahweh of the Old Testament who had so frightened her when she was a child, had reached out a vengeful hand and blasted the city of Talas.
The air stank of demons, or at least how she imagined demons stank. Maybe it was the eerie green mist that was everywhere, forming a thick carpet near the ground and casting tendrils and tentacles over the ruins through which they moved. It caressed her face with a strange, moist, greasy touch that made her screw up her face in distaste. It was like an unsavory miasma boiling off a nearby swamp. But there was no nearby swamp, no discernible origin for it.
An old memory struck the Angel. It was when she’d been working for ex-President Leo Barnett’s Millennial Society and had rescued John Fortune from the Allhumbrados, met Billy Ray, and saved the world from the Apocalypse. At one point while running from the Enlightened Ones they’d called in an ace known as the Highwayman who could secretly transport people and/or contraband via what he called “shortcuts,” which were actually paths through alternate dimensions. The smell of Talas reminded her of an odor they’d encountered in that alien dimension. She had no idea how that could be. But it gave her a queasy feeling she tried to thrust aside, knowing full well that she had to stay on the alert and discard all distracting thoughts. But like the very tendrils of the greenish mist itself, the notion seemed to creep over her at odd moments and caress her very brain, sending shivers she couldn’t ignore down her spine.
They worked their way from the city outskirts to its interior, the only sounds the clanking from the metallic beasts that led the way, the rumblings like growls from their engines. In the lights of their bright lidless eyes she could see that the damage around them was increasing. Some buildings had been reduced to rubble, slowing the tanks as they made their way down deserted but debris-choked streets. The fog grew deeper, turning into a pall that hung in the air like filthy shrouds, unmoving in the hot, breeze-less sky, like the noxious fogs that choked nineteenth-century London often described in the historical romances she read. The stench also grew stronger.
The scattered soldiers, perhaps unconsciously, pulled closer to the dubious protection offered by the tanks. They suddenly stumbled to a halt as their engines died and their headlights went off. Simultaneously, ahead of them the sounds of automatic gunfire suddenly crashed through the night. Shrieks of pain and fear followed. The gunfire cut off as suddenly as it had begun.
Lohengrin, who’d been speaking lowly into his com unit, giving a running report on their progress, suddenly turned and shouted, “Angel!”
“Save my soul from evil, Lord,” she murmured, not only to call her sword to her but also as a fervent prayer that she hoped would send her the grace she needed. Wings of feather and flame appeared on her back, lighting up the night around them. They reached higher than her head and their tips swept the ground and they were wide enough to enfold Billy to her in intimate moments when she was careful to keep the flames damped; she never felt their weight nor even was quite sure how they remained attached to her. In truth, like Peregrine’s, the first winged ace, they weren’t large enough to get and actually keep her airborne, but she never stopped to analyze her powers. She just accepted them on faith.
“Help the scouts,” Lohengrin shouted. “If you can’t—find the epicenter of this, this activity. Report back as soon as you can. We need the information! Everything’s gone dark—even to infrared.”
She nodded again, flapped once, twice, and rose slowly into the air. She attained a height of twenty feet and shot forward, arrowing ahead to where the scouts should be. She pulled the now useless night goggles off her face and tossed them away. The only light in the city was thrown off by the divine flames that ran on her wings. She thanked God that they lit her path, flickering in the dark like candles.
The Angel hovered, her wings barely flapping. She’d reached the position where the scouts should be. There wasn’t much to see except the vista of awful destruction. She unholstered her cell phone and speed-dialed Lohengrin to report in, but was not hopeful that it would be working. It wasn’t. It was dead as disco. What in the world was going on?
She hung in the air a moment, undecided. She looked around at the devastation and something caught her eye. It was a blot, a big, shining dot, glowing atop a partially destroyed building, which, despite the damage to it, was the tallest standing structure in the vicinity. She put the cell away and raised the binocs she carried in what Billy laughingly called her utility belt.
It was like … for a moment her brain froze and she couldn’t decide what it was like, other than the most grotesque thing she’d ever seen, including the creatures she’d seen when she and Billy had braved the Highwayman’s shortcut. It was bigger than she was. Its head and body were ratlike with phosphorescent fur, beady black eyes, and a pink, naked nose surrounded by bristles. It supporte
d herself on too many legs, the Angel thought, white, bony, multiply-jointed and spindly legs that looked like gigantic crab legs, complete with clacking claws and armored with knobby spikes and sharp-looking spines. Its wings dwarfed its body. They were black and rubbery-looking, like bat’s wings shot through with crinkled red veins and ending in long, clawed, graspy-looking skeletal hands. Its naked pink tail dangled down between its legs to the roof of the building on which it crouched. At least, the Angel thought it was its tail.
The binoculars brought it startlingly close. So close, in fact, that when it looked up at her and made eye contact she could see the glint of intelligence in its eyes, as well as the saliva that dripped in oozy ropes from between its far too many sharp, pointed teeth. It opened its mouth and in a loud, high-pitched, ear-hurting tone cried, “Squeeeeeeeeee!” and launched itself in the air.
It came right at her, fast.
Its body, the Angel realized, was at least twice the size of her own, its wingspan ten times hers. The thing between its legs was an angry red stinger that arched upward, thick greyish liquid glistening on its barbed tip.
Choking back a useless expletive, the Angel slung the binoculars around her neck and beat her wings hard, trying to gain altitude as quickly as she could. If this was to be a dogfight, she wanted the higher sky.
The stench of it reached her before it did. Naturally, its odor was a repulsive, mephitic stink wrapped in the sugary, rotten scent of overripe bananas. It was bigger than she was, probably stronger, and had a longer reach and more weapons. Her only hope might lie in her agility.
She could hear the clattering that came from the clawed tips of its legs, which were clacking like castanets. She turned and realized that she’d misjudged its speed and it smashed into her shoulder and a clawed leg tore her side. The force of the collision pushed them apart. It tried to grab her with its skeletal legs, but a desperate swipe of her sword sliced one cleanly off.
Its explosive chitter rattled angrily, as did the tip of its angry red tail. The Angel somersaulted helplessly away, thankfully missing the gooey substance it had flung at her. She folded her wings around her and snap-turned on a dime, slipped behind it streaking upward, sword first. She swiped at a great leathery expanse of wing, struck it glancingly and the blade bounced off its leathery surface. The beast tucked itself into a ball, flipped forward, and struck the Angel with its back. The blow buffeted her and knocked the wind out of her lungs. Gasping for breath, she lost her sword and control of her flight path.
So much for my superior agility, she thought as she spiraled downward.
The creature came out of the tuck position with its head pointed downward and snapped its wings open. The air filled them like sails and it rotated to soar right at her, still upside down, all three pairs of legs and six claws outspread and open to embrace her.
When she’d first acquired the ability to call up her flaming wings she was moderately capable in their use, but complicated stunts had been beyond her. It had been Billy’s idea to call upon Peregrine and the aging though still glamorous ace had been unstinting with her time, experience, and the knowledge she’d accumulated over decades of flying, going back to her early days of fame as “the flying cheerleader.” The Angel called upon that training, calmed her mind as the air returned to her lungs, and took a deep breath.
The monster was almost upon her, drooling as it smiled. She rotated her body away from the approaching bulk and banked sharply. She was, she realized, quicker than the beast. She had less mass to maneuver, and with her ace strength, more power to maneuver with. She wanted nothing to do with a face-to-face encounter with the thing. It could still outreach her and had too many weapons to bring to bear. Her first instinct to attack from behind had been correct. She’d just chosen the wrong target.
She went in without her sword and as the thing tried to follow her pulled a perfect Immelmann roll to end up behind it, positioning herself for another attack. She put on as much speed as possible and slammed into its back as it tried to swerve away. She grabbed handfuls of greasy-feeling fur to pull herself up to its neck, clamped her knees high up on its torso, and snaked a strong arm under its snapping jaws.
She gripped the arm encircling the monstrosity’s neck with her other hand and yanked with all her strength, cutting off the outraged scream that erupted from the rat-bat’s throat as well as any possibility of more air going down it. And then she hung on like grim death.
The skeletal hands at its wingtips couldn’t reach her, nor could the claws on its legs. It shook its head from side to side, but the slavering jaws were useless. It darted and jinked like a burning moth, but nothing could break the Angel’s death-grip. She kept squeezing and jerking and finally she felt something give under the awful pressure she was applying to the thing’s throat, and with a final surge of strength she heard an audible crack and the monster’s neck snapped.
She screamed in triumph but didn’t let go until a moment later when she felt the thing’s body sag like a rag doll. Its wings ceased to flap, the arc of its flight flattened, and they started to plummet to the ground. The Angel hung on for a final few moments, breathing deeply despite the creature’s stench, and then she finally kicked away from the falling corpse and flapped her wings to hover momentarily while gathering strength from her almost depleted reserves. She watched it fall a couple of hundred feet. It made a satisfyingly loud sound when it struck the roof of a building far below, crashed through it, and disappeared from her sight.
She dallied for a moment, considering her next action. She already had the feeling that things weren’t exactly going as Lohengrin and Babel had planned, but she also realized that the one thing they desperately needed to complete their mission was up-to-the-minute information on the situation on the ground. Turning back wouldn’t get that information. Going forward, whatever other bizarre dangers she faced, might.
She decided to fly farther into the city and check out the spot that Lohengrin had said was the epicenter of all this strangeness. It might not be the smart thing to do, she thought, but it was the thing she had to do.
If she’d thought that the encampment was a mess, Talas was turning out to be a disaster. Their job was to extract Bugsy, but the conditions were getting worse. They’d had a general idea where Bugsy was—at least until his tracker had gone dead.
The fog continued to thicken the farther they went into the city. Michelle was already having trouble seeing the others through the hazmat mask, but Klaus and Barbara had insisted on everyone wearing one.
Not sure this is going to do me any good after the faceful of blood I took, she thought.
They were on foot now, having abandoned the Hummers a few klicks back. First, the radio had started going wonky, and then the navigation system had stopped working. Finally the power steering had gone out, and handling a Hummer without it was damn near impossible.
Maybe Klaus had been wrong about splitting up, but it was too late to worry about that now. It was too late for a lot of things.
The fog was thick here and made the buildings look hazy and insubstantial. She felt eyes staring at them from darkened windows. Appraising them. Hungering for them. It was the same for every building, the small stores, clothing shops, and restaurants. The stench of rotting food escaped the groceries they passed. The buildings around them were all possessed by whatever was residing here now.
Those malevolent eyes watched them. She tried not to think about how that felt like a spider was crawling across her flesh—or more like a thousand spiders.
The blocky modern apartments were the worst. There were faces in almost every window, deformed by whatever was happening here, though some looked as if they’d mutilated themselves. They stared down at the group with cold malice.
Michelle was tempted to bubble some of them, just to send a warning, but held herself in check. They were a small group and even though it was likely they could take on one building’s occupants, Michelle didn’t want the trouble of protecting the soldiers
and fighting off who-knew-what.
The soldiers were becoming a major pain in her ass. And she wasn’t even sure Aero, Recycler, and Earth Witch weren’t going to drag her down, too. A surge of anger went through her. It was always like this. She wanted to do something now. Get rid of them all, so she could go in alone. It would be much easier that way.
The fog was slowing them down. Whatever was happening in Talas had caused wholesale chaos.
The streets had buckled as if a 6.0 earthquake had just happened. Cars were abandoned willy-nilly in the street. Some had ended up on the sidewalk, some halfway into the sides of buildings. Windows were smashed. Fires smoldered in the street. Clots of people ran shrieking through the mist. But when Michelle’s group tried to catch up to them, they vanished as if they’d never been there. Blood and shit covered the street, and severed limbs were worming their way through both.
The group stopped and stared.
“How could this be a weaponized wild card attack?” Aero asked. And then he started gagging. After a moment, he managed to get control of himself. “If I believed in hell, this is what it would look like.”
“I’m beginning to think we’re in an upper level,” Ana replied. “It’s been getting worse the farther we go in.”
“We should keep moving,” Michelle said. She tried to keep a tremor out of her voice. What had they walked into?
They turned down a street that had been on the map as being the way to Bugsy’s location. Bodies were tied to almost every streetlight, garbed in tattered and blood-soaked clothes. All of them had had their intestines ripped out and left to dangle. Then Michelle saw the knives in their hands. They had killed themselves, she realized. Bile rose in the back of her throat. Someone had tied them to the lampposts, and they ripped out their own intestines. Rictus grins were plastered on their faces.
“Madre de Dios,” she heard Aero say as if he were very far away.
Mary won’t help them or us, she thought. I thought you weren’t religious, you liar. Turning to a God that isn’t there.
High Stakes: A Wild Cards Novel Page 32