Storming: A Dieselpunk Adventure

by K. M. Weiland

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Please tell me you think you can hang on.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Where’s your scarf?” He found it in her pocket and looped it under her arms, then used it to tie the rope snugly against her chest. “That’ll help, but you’ve got to hang on, you hear me?”

  “I am hearing you.”

  “Good.”

  He took hold of the rope, climbed atop the railing, and started over-handing himself up the thing. The wind tore at him, and his numb fingers burned like match-struck gasoline all the way up.

  He’d tell himself not to look down, but there was nothing to see down there anyway. It was not thinking about what was down there that was the trick. His dislike of heights swarmed him, rolling his stomach over and over. Funny that it would bother him out here, but not in a plane. Pretend he was in a plane, that’s all he had to do. He gritted his teeth. Easy as pie.

  Finally, he reached the light, framed in a porthole. Walter caught his elbow and helped him over the top. The room was tiny, a storage closet from the looks of the tarp-covered boxes and bits of machinery stacked all around. A lantern sat near the windowsill.

  Somehow he couldn’t quite make himself look at the boy. Like if he looked too hard, it’d all turn out to be a dream.

  “We’ve got to pull Jael up,” he managed.

  Together, they hauled her up and over.

  She landed on the floor with a thump and lay there for a second, gasping.

  Then she looked up at Walter, and a grin broke through the pain on her face. “Walter.” She pried her fingers from the rope and, still lying on her side, held out an arm for him. “You are in safety. I am so happy you are in safety.”

  Walter dropped to his knees and folded himself into her arm. With both hands, he helped her sit up, and the two of them clung to each other for a second. He snuck a look, out of the corner of his eye, at Hitch.

  Hitch stood back. His hands seemed to be entirely in the way. They didn’t want to hang at his sides, fit in his pockets, or wedge under his elbows. His jaw cramped, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

  He needed to say something. Anything. Tell the boy he’d never been gladder to see anyone in his entire life. Tell him he was sorry. Tell him he was never going to let him out of his sight again.

  His heart pounded, and the words all crammed in his throat, too big to get out.

  Taos frisked around his feet and let out an excited little yip.

  Hitch dropped to a crouch and pulled the dog up, so Taos’s front paws rested against his knee. He fondled his dog’s ears and watched his son.

  Jael opened her eyes and looked, first at Hitch, then at Walter. She sat back and pushed Walter away. With a little nod, she directed his attention to Hitch.

  Walter turned, slowly. He still wore his party suit: a dark blue jacket and shorts and a string tie. Both socks were ripped, and his dark mop of hair fell in his eyes. He tucked his chin and peered up at Hitch, like he still wasn’t quite sure what to expect.

  Hitch cleared his throat. “I’m real glad you’re all right. You saved us just now, you know.”

  Walter scuffed his toe, then shot a glance at Taos.

  Still about the dog then. Hitch’s heart just about split clean in two.

  He dropped to his knees and pulled Walter to him. “He’s just a dog. He doesn’t matter a lick compared to you. You hear me?”

  Two skinny little arms wriggled up around his neck.

  “I’m sorry.” He tightened his hold around this boy—this incredible, brave, loyal, determined little boy who was his own flesh and his own bone. His son. He wanted to press him right into himself, until they were bonded, until Walter could never leave him again.

  He could barely get the words past his cramped throat. “Do you hear me? What I said was wrong, and I didn’t mean it. Taos getting caught wasn’t your fault. You’re a hero, Walter. You found Schturming. We’d never have captured it without you.” He eased back a little, so he could see the boy’s face.

  Tears streaked Walter’s cheeks, but his chin was firm. He nodded.

  Hitch opened his mouth to tell him the truth, all of it: you’re my son, I love you, I’ll be the father you need me to be, I promise.

  But now wasn’t the time. The first thing they had to do was escape. If they lived to touch ground again, then he’d tell him.

  “It’s going to be all right,” he said. “I’m going to get you out of here, and it’s going to be okay. You got that?”

  Walter nodded. Then he swallowed, and the corner of his mouth tilted up.

  Hitch looked over the top of Walter’s head.

  Propped up on one hand, Jael stared back at him. Her eyes shone in the flickering lamplight. She smiled and gave him a nod.

  She knew what he’d just promised, even if Walter didn’t yet.

  “All right, then.” Hitch breathed deep. “Let’s bring this bird down and go home.”

  Forty-Six

  WITH A PICKAX from the supply closet in one hand and a limping Jael hooked in the crook of the other arm, Hitch elbowed through a final door into a dim room. Two clusters of brass pipes ran through the center of the room, entering through one wall and passing right out through the other. One cluster hung a foot from the ceiling; the other was mounted a foot off the floor.

  In his experience, the best plans were the simplest ones. And this one was about as simple as it got:

  Sneak over to the maintenance room.

  Smash the mainline pipes that, according to Jael, powered the thing.

  Sneak back to the plane and get three people and a dog on board.

  Fly away.

  Watch said airship crash in a big ball of flames.

  He looked down at Jael. “Is this it?”

  Maybe he’d even be so big a hero the grateful townsfolk wouldn’t let Campbell get at him.

  She eased herself away from him and lurched a few steps toward a valve on the top pipes. “Yes. Top one takes gas to aerostat.” She pointed up, toward the envelope. “Turn it off, then knock away valve, so they cannot change it back if they find it.”

  He hefted the pickax first. “And the bottom one is for carrying steam for the engines?” That one he’d just plain smash. He glanced back to where Walter and Taos stood in the doorway. “You stay out there and keep watch. I don’t want you in here if something goes wrong.” He glanced at Jael. “You too.”

  She wobbled into the corner by the door and nodded.

  One swing of the pickax was all it took. Its point bit into the soft metal, and the steam erupted in a fountain of white. He dodged back so only hot drops of water flicked against his face.

  He glanced at Jael. “Reckon they heard that?”

  Behind him, Taos yipped.

  “Hitch!” Walter yelled.

  Footsteps ran down the corridor.

  Jael met Hitch’s gaze. The gray of her eyes turned to flint. “They have heard.”

  He lunged across the room to the valve on the gas pipes. He twisted it—one turn, two, three, tight. Then he hooked the tip of the pick into the circular handle and torqued it up. The valve stuck fast. He leaned into it, using the pick as leverage.

  It wasn’t going to give. They were sunk. The engines might quit, but Schturming’d still be all safe and cozy above the clouds.

  In the corridor, Zlo shouted at his men. Another second, and they’d all be in this room.

  And then—pop. The valve’s handle snapped off. He staggered forward and nearly hit his head against the pipes. Instinctively, he darted out his free hand and caught the handle before it could clang against the floor.

  Taos started barking his head off.

  “Hitch!” Walter shouted, then yelped.

  Hitch juggled the handle for a second, then pulled it in and passed it to Jael.

  With a nod, she eased it down to the floor and toed it into the corner.

  He turned, pickax raised, just in time for three men to tackle him.r />
  They threw him to the ground, hard enough to rattle stars through his head. Almost before he could blink his vision clear, they flipped him onto his stomach, found the revolver in his pocket, and bound his hands behind his back.

  Booted feet stomped into his view. “Derzhite ego.”

  Zlo.

  The men wrenched Hitch to his feet.

  Jael and Walter were already in the corridor, their hands tied behind their backs. Walter stared, agonized, as Taos got his muzzle tied with a strip of cloth.

  Jael had to lean one shoulder against the wall to stay upright, but her face was going red in spots, like it did when she was spitting mad.

  Zlo grabbed Hitch’s chin and forced his gaze away from Walter and Jael. “You should be looking at me, flying man.” He had shed his hat and coat and wore a leather vest over a faded striped shirt. His hair was buzzed as short as his beard, the same brown-blond color.

  He flashed his silver teeth in a grin, but his eyes were dark. Dangerous. “So you come onto my ship”—he extended his free hand to gesture about; in it, he held a fat-bladed knife—“and think you are winning. You are not winning.” His grin faded, and that look in his eyes glared harder. “Now you are trussed like pig. And maybe like pig I will gut you.”

  Hitch snorted. “Your ship here went undetected for sixty years until you took control. You already got yourself caught once. And guess what?” He clucked. “You’re charting a straight course in that direction again.”

  “You, I think, would live longer with no tongue.” Zlo balanced the knife in his palm. “I will tell you, I am impressed you have flown into my ship. But I will tell you something else.” He leaned closer, as if imparting a secret. He tapped the point of the knife to the underside of Hitch’s chin. “Although you are unexpected prize, I have no use for you. Except maybe to send messages to your people below.”

  Okay, not good. Hitch did himself a favor and kept his mouth shut.

  Zlo removed the point of the blade from Hitch’s chin. “I will skin you like rats and throw you back to your friends.” This time, he touched the knife to the meat of Hitch’s shoulder. He looked straight at Hitch. What he was going to do was plenty clear before he even started.

  Hitch braced and stared right back.

  The blade sunk into his skin. Pain razored all the way down to his fingertips, sharp at first, and then just as deep. Warm blood welled up against his jacket sleeve.

  The pain gathered in his throat, stopped up his lungs. But he forced it back down, right to the hot center in his stomach. He kept his gaze on Zlo’s.

  The man curled his lip. He left the tip of the blade in Hitch’s arm. “I see. You are very brave man? You feel no pain, is that it?” He looked over his shoulder into the corridor, then stalked across the room to where Taos lay hogtied. Zlo kicked the dog in the soft of his belly.

  Taos’s eyes whitened around the edges. He thrashed and cried past his gag.

  Hitch lunged at Zlo.

  One of the men holding Hitch turned the knife in his arm.

  Pain ripped through him again, and this time he couldn’t stop the yell.

  Jael yanked away from her captor. “Stop it! Ti zlodei!” She only got one step before her knee gave out under her. She twisted and caught her shoulder against the wall, then came back up glaring.

  Zlo surveyed her. “Well, and what has happened to you?”

  She jutted her chin.

  He approached and grabbed her elbow. “You walk like old woman.” He levered her hands up. Tied together behind her back like they were, they bent at a sharp angle that would have hurt even somebody with healthy joints.

  She gasped and tried to wrench free.

  Zlo pushed harder. He thrust his face into hers. “This is what you get, worthless nikto. You betray me? You choose Groundsmen over people of your own blood?”

  “You wanted to bring me to death!”

  “You have brought your friends to their deaths. I will let you watch maybe, before it is your turn.” He pulled her arm up farther, then bent her fingers back.

  A cry gurgled in her throat. She arched her back, teeth clenched.

  With a scream, Walter twisted away from his captor. He hurled himself at Zlo’s legs and landed two hard kicks.

  Zlo shoved him back and someone caught him from behind.

  Again, Walter twisted loose and dropped to his knees. He closed his teeth in Zlo’s calf, so hard the click was audible across the room.

  With a bellow, Zlo kicked him away. “Parazit!” He lurched at Hitch, ripped the knife free, and turned back to Walter.

  The hot center in Hitch’s belly exploded. Everything around him went red hot. Blood rushed in his ears. The hole in his arm seemed to ignite in a gout of pain. All of it funneled into strength.

  With a roar, he jerked free of his captors. He hurled himself at Zlo and managed to hook his good shoulder in the small of Zlo’s back, right where his kidneys should be.

  Zlo’s back arched, his head flinging back. He hit his knees and practically bounced. His head came back up, and Hitch brought his own down hard. He cracked his forehead against the back of Zlo’s skull. More pain shattered through him, starting in his head and radiating down through his limbs. Blackness and stars swam in his vision.

  But if Zlo was still conscious, Hitch would hit him again, so help him. He reared his head back for another go. He’d beat the evil swine’s brains to a bloody mush, even if he had to beat his own out right along.

  Hands scrabbled at his back and his arms. They hauled him to his feet, and his arm sockets screamed in protest. A few hard blinks cleared his vision.

  Zlo had managed to prop himself on his hands and knees, but his head hung down and he swayed.

  Hitch braced against his captors and jumped off the floorboards with both feet. His booted heels caught Zlo in the hip and spun him halfway around. The mugs hanging onto Hitch lost their grip for a second, and Hitch gained a few forward inches. Enough to land another kick square on Zlo’s nose.

  The man sprawled again.

  Somebody jabbed fingers in Hitch’s shoulder wound.

  The whole room spun, and every thought in his head got smashed flat under the weight of pain.

  When finally it let up, Zlo was dragging himself to his feet. He glared at Hitch, eyes huge and unblinking. He backhanded a wash of blood from under his nose and clenched his knife in the other hand. If ever anybody’d had homicide in his eyes, he did right now.

  It was a look Hitch had seen a few times before, in barroom brawls gone bad. But this was the first time he’d ever seen it while tied up and stabbed, with no Earl in sight to watch his back.

  He kept his feet under him, fighting the restraining arms that held him.

  Zlo reeled closer. He spat blood to the side. “Now, I will take out your guts.”

  “No!” Walter screamed.

  Jael fought against the men who held her. “Zlo! Do not do this. You cannot do this! You said fault was mine. So kill me—kill me and let them go! They are no part of this!”

  He kept coming.

  Hitch looked him in the eye. “C’mon, then.”

  Beneath their feet, the floor heaved. The whole ship jerked like a tail-shot Jenny. It listed hard to port and bounced in the turbulence. In the corridor, everyone smacked into the far wall. Hitch pitched forward, and his guards clawed at his sleeves to keep their grip.

  From far back in the ship, the propellers whined—and then silence.

  It... worked? He had to forcibly tighten every muscle in his neck to keep from looking back at the busted pipes. In the excitement, Zlo and his pals hadn’t noticed them. And now, with any luck, the damage would be good and done.

  Zlo shoved back to his feet and hollered at his men. His gaze snagged on Hitch and he hesitated. He tightened his fist on the knife.

  Then Schturming’s tail end slewed again.

  Zlo bared his teeth and waved the prisoners away. “And you,” he said to Hitch, “you will get my blade, every bit
of it, later.”

  At this point, later was almost as good as never. Hitch let a long breath fizz past his teeth. He looked at Jael.

  She closed her eyes in relief and gave him a little nod.

  They were bundled down the hall into what might be a navigation room, judging from the charts spread all over the high table in the center and the scrolls sticking out of racks along the walls.

  Their guard—a fidgety kid in a striped coat—latched the door from the inside and posted himself in front of it. He swallowed twice, then pointed at the floor. “You will sit to ground, all of you.” He studiously avoided eye contact with Jael.

  Wind whistled against the porthole in the far wall. The floor slanted prow-ward now, and the ship bucked in the gale like a fresh-broke colt.

  Walter scootched down against the wall beside Hitch. He cradled Taos’s head in his lap.

  “Are we going to crash?” he whispered.

  That was a mighty good question. “Of course not.” Hitch exchanged a look with Jael on his other side.

  She shook her head.

  This was not how the plan was supposed to go. Of the two present options—get gutted by Zlo or crash in a fireball—neither was too appealing. He glanced sidelong at Walter. This was supposed to have been a rescue. At the moment, it looked a whole lot more like Custer’s last stand.

  Walter stared up at him.

  Hitch forced a tiny grin. “It’s going to be okay.”

  The boy snuggled into the crook of his arm.

  Without looking at Jael, Hitch crawled his hand across the floor until he found her icy fingertips.

  She gave him a little squeeze back. But she didn’t look at him either. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “You are here because of me. Both of you.”

  “The only way somebody gets someplace, bad or good, is if he takes himself.” He craned his head around to see her face. “I’m here because of me.”

  She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes charting his face. Then she smiled, just a smidge. “Thank you. For very little it is worth now, I thank you.”

  Hitch looked at their guard and cocked his head toward Jael. “Can’t you get her a chair? You can see she’s hurting.”