by E. C. Jarvis
She dug into the panel with the fingers of one hand and yanked it out from the wall, half expecting it to be empty. A large spider raced out from the hole and disappeared up the wall. She would have no doubt screamed the place down at seeing it if she hadn’t been so intent on her purpose. One lone bottle remained. She picked it up and held it up to the light; there was barely a dribble left of clear liquid at the bottom. She dared to hope it was enough.
Larissa stumbled and fell out of the room, her heavy legs protesting loudly, body begging for rest. When she returned to the shop, her heart skipped a beat. Kerrigan lay on the floor, his eyes closed. Holt stood above him, dagger in hand, glaring down at the Colonel.
“Holt,” she whispered, gripping the bottle in one hand, the candle wobbling in the other. As he turned, she saw he held the gun, pointing it down at Kerrigan. “Please, tell me you didn’t…don’t…stop.” The tears fell once more. The bottle slipped from her hand and thudded on the floor. She dropped the candle too, all strength disappearing as her head swam in spirals. It felt as though she were back on an airship, floating up into the sky, lifting away from the world. Some part of her mind registered the pain as she fell backwards and smacked into the floor, but the rest of her succumbed to grief and exhaustion, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A laboured sigh escaped Holt’s chest. He would have ordinarily rushed to catch Larissa as she fell, but his body was far beyond peak condition. In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure how much longer he could go on before he too would join both Kerrigan and Larissa on the floor. He laid the knife down on the mantle and flicked the gun chamber open, pulling a bullet out. She’d assumed the worst of him, yet again, and though he couldn’t blame her for it—he had made no secret of his desire to kill Kerrigan, after all—it struck his heart to think she assumed he’d broken his promise to her and killed the Colonel.
He pushed the sentimental anxiety aside and collected both the candle and liquor bottle from the floor, bringing the knife down with him as he glanced between Larissa and Kerrigan. Her chest rose and fell with ease. As much as it repelled him to admit, Kerrigan was in need of assistance more than Larissa.
He dragged an empty box over beside the Colonel’s body and placed the candle on top, giving as much light at the best angle he could get. It was growing light outside. The blackened stains on the windows kept the inside of the shop dark, and though it was a benefit to them for the sake of secrecy, it made his task even trickier.
He pulled Kerrigan’s shirt open and inspected the wound. A steady stream of blood still oozed from the hole, and although the edges had begun to clot, it was too wide to heal quickly by itself without assistance. He perched the bullet between his teeth and unscrewed the liquor bottle, giving it a sniff. The alcohol was potent enough even though there was only a small drop left in the bottle.
“Dig it out,” Kerrigan said. His eyes opened and locked onto Holt.
“There is insufficient alcohol to sterilise the blade and clean the wound,” Holt said after he took the bullet from his mouth.
Kerrigan took a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut. “Dig it out,” he said again. “Please.”
The courtesy was said through gritted teeth. Holt almost laughed. The idea Kerrigan that hated to ask nicely as much as Holt hated the thought of helping the man at all was comical. Almost as comical as the thought both of them being courteous to one another for Larissa’s sake, and she wasn’t even conscious to witness it.
Holt ripped a patch of fabric from the Colonel’s shirt and soaked it with alcohol as he held the blade of the knife above the candle flame, turning it over until the metal blackened. “It will hurt,” he said.
“I’m aware of that, Captain.”
Kerrigan’s eyes hadn’t opened. Holt wasn’t sure what had prompted the man to refer to him by his former rank. Perhaps it was a simple slip of the tongue. All the same, he couldn’t deny feeling a sense of satisfaction at being called Captain once again. It was something he missed and wouldn’t mind hearing again, even if it had come from the disagreeable Colonel.
He pulled the blade away from the flame and wiped the rag over it quickly, allowing as much of the alcohol as possible to seep over the skin of his fingers. If he was going to have to stuff them inside the cut to pull the bullet out, having a clean blade wouldn’t count for a thing if he had dirty hands.
Before the knife cooled, he jabbed it into the Colonel’s shoulder. Kerrigan shouted out behind gritted teeth, and his body bucked and rolled along the floor. Holt moved one leg, pinning his knee across the Colonel’s chest to keep him in place, using his free hand to hold the man’s shoulder to the floor as he twisted the knife in the wound to open it.
An eruption of blood squirted upwards and splattered an artistic pattern across his own arm. Holt kept pushing, digging the tip in as quickly as possible until it knocked against something hard. Kerrigan lay growling through gritted teeth. His body had stilled but it was no doubt painful. Holt pushed farther still, using the sharpness of the blade to cut away the flesh and muscle surrounding the bullet. More blood poured from the gaping hole, and the pink inside glistened in the candlelight. He finally spotted the foreign object lodged deep in the middle of the messy wound. His grip on the Colonel’s shoulder tightened, his knee pressed deeper into his chest as he shifted the angle to wriggle the tip of the blade underneath the bullet. With one final twist, it popped free.
Another deluge of blood filled the hole he’d made. The bullet dropped to the floor. Kerrigan had turned pale; his eyes seemed glassy and covered in a layer of tears. Holt grabbed the fresh bullet he’d pulled from the gun, quickly pinned it to the edge of the fireplace, and worked the casing free with the tip of the knife. He tipped the powdery contents into the pool of blood.
“Do it,” Kerrigan grunted as he grabbed the knife from Holt’s hand and stuffed the handle into his mouth to bite down on it. Holt struck a match, took a deep breath in, and jabbed the flame into the powder.
A flash illuminated the room with a short, small detonation as the flame ignited the gunpowder. Kerrigan screamed out and bit down on the knife handle, his face contorting with pain. Holt held his shoulders down, pinning him to the floor. The wound turned black, a line of smoke rising up into the candlelight. Holt picked up the liquor bottle and tipped it up, allowing the last dribble of liquid to run over the wound. Not that he expected it to do much good, but it was the very least he could do.
Quiet minutes passed by. Holt took the knife from Kerrigan’s mouth, and the Colonel lay still, face curled up into a permanent grimace, eyes closed.
Holt sat on the floor beside him and wiped the rag over his fingers as he looked at Larissa. She was awake, lying on her side, watching. She smiled slightly, then closed her eyes, slipping back to sleep.
He sighed. He wasn’t strong enough to stand watch—a fault he could admit to himself and would probably admit to the others too if they weren’t already resting. Daylight streamed in past the gaps in the black window paint. His mind attempted to will his feet to stand, but as he moved, a lightness swept over his limbs and he crashed straight back down to the floor. Hand over hand, he crawled toward Larissa. His head felt as though he were bobbing up and down in an ocean, rocking side to side, the sickeningly false movement lulling him to sleep.
As he reached her, a thump seemed to echo in the room—the sound of his head hitting the floor, though he didn’t feel it. He wasn’t sure if he would wake again. Surely his luck in surviving death had run out? He tried to will his mouth to open, to speak, to wake Larissa and ask her to stand watch—or at least sit on watch while he rested for an hour—but as he felt his mind slipping away, he knew it was too late. He could only hope no one else had seen them enter the shop.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The glass window pane hadn’t seemed like a comfortable place to lean against when Cid returned to the dining car, but his head rested on it regardless. At first, he’d been tempted to
wake Saunders, then thought better of it; if he was going to ask the Lieutenant to trudge all the way across a field in the hope of rescuing an engine that was in all likelihood destroyed beyond use, letting the guy get a good rest seemed like the best plan.
Soft snores came from one end of the car, and the occasional moan or muttered word came from Sandy sleeping at the other end. Cid settled right in the middle, far enough away from both of them in order to not seem creepy. The last thing anyone would have wanted would be to wake up to his face. He rubbed a hand across his chin and grimaced when he found it covered in a patchy layer of hair. He leaned back slightly and looked at the face reflecting in the window pane. He looked ten years older than he had when they first set out from Sallarium. He felt ten years older. The Professor entered his thoughts, and an unpleasant wave of sadness and anger washed over his heart. He’d been so grateful to the man he considered a genius, for the opportunities he received. Building the Machine had been such an achievement, yet they had both been utterly naïve to the outside world, the threats they faced. It seemed so unfair to have lost it all for no good reason.
“Is it morning?” Sandy’s voice, slurred and slow, came from nearby.
Cid sat up and looked in her direction. He could still only see a pair of boots sticking out from the end of the seat. “Sort of. Your cousin is still asleep,” he replied in a half-whisper.
“Not anymore,” Saunders said from the other end of the carriage.
“What’s for breakfast?” Sandy sat up now, her hair tumbling about her shoulders, a great clump of it sticking up sideways.
“I think there’s still some of the stew thing the Friar made last night,” Cid said. “Probably cold as a witch’s nipple, though.”
“Ugh. It was unappealing enough as it is, never mind the metaphor.”
“How’s the engine?” Saunders approached and sat on the seat opposite, lacing his fingers together as he leaned forward, forearms on his knees.
“Fucked,” Cid said.
“Oh. Explain.”
“There’s some busted bits I would fix if I had any tools or materials to fix…but none of it really matters without the coal.”
“No coal?”
“A few chunks. Barely enough to get a fire going. Certainly not enough to pull this hunk of machinery a few hundred miles down the track to the Capital.”
“Damn… This station is near the manufacturing area, isn’t it? Maybe we can find some coal in a warehouse.”
“In a city filled with scavengers who picked this train clean, you think we’re going to find a nice big stash of coal nearby for the taking?” Cid asked, having already expected such a response. His heart sped up a bit as he neared the moment to make his impossible and impractical suggestion.
“Good point. You have any other ideas?”
“Besides a bloody long walk?”
“Yes, besides that.”
“How about a shorter walk?”
“I’m listening,” Saunders said as he scooted to the edge of the seat.
“I may be able to modify the engine which was attached to our airship…” He paused, not really wanting to explain the details. Saunders seemed like a smart enough man to put it all together. The man sat perfectly still for a moment, staring up at Cid, his eyes glazing over a little as he inwardly processed the thought.
“The airship that crashed?”
“Somewhere behind the Eagle.” Cid nodded and waved his arm vaguely in the direction of the wreckages.
“The airship that is likely smashed to a million tiny pieces, and all the pieces worth salvaging have probably already been taken by the scavengers we saw heading over there?”
Cid sucked in a breath through his nose and made no effort to hide the huge sigh which emerged. “Yes. I know it’s a long shot, but if there is a chance it survived, it may be untouched.”
“Why?”
“Because I doubt the fucking idiot scavengers would know the value of a piece of machinery like that even if I stuck a label on the side of it saying what it is. Besides, they probably focused their attention on the Eagle and some of the bigger ships. Our pathetic little tub wouldn’t have looked very enticing. Plus, I think it’s the farthest away. So, there is a chance it’s not been touched at all.”
“You want us to walk miles over muddy fields, abandon our post, or leave someone behind to tell the others where we’ve gone on the off-chance that the engine has survived and you can fix it to this train? I can’t agree to that, Cid. I’m sorry. The Colonel gave me orders,”
“To stay here and guard us,” Cid interrupted, having expected to hear this exact argument. “I can’t haul the engine all the way back here by myself, and I wouldn’t ask Narry to come. His health is questionable as it is.”
“I’ll come,” Sandy said. Saunders and Cid turned to face her. She perched on the train seat on her knees, looking over the back of the seat at them. Her arms were folded across the seatback and her chin rested on her hands.
“No,” Saunders said. The word was drawn out and spoken with care, as if he knew that barking it at her would result in instant defiance.
Cid didn’t know how to react. He was used to Larissa’s special brand of determination mixed with outright disregard for safety or sanity. He had not really expected the same of their new female companion. Though he had to remind himself that he was far from an expert on women, perhaps they were all the same and he’d just never had the time or inclination to notice.
“I’m going. As soon as I’ve had some of the witch’s tit stew to give me strength. You can stay here and wait for the others to come back.” She stood and headed to the other end of the carriage, grabbing a spoon on the way.
Saunders sank his head into his hands. He had the look of a man who already knew the battle was lost but felt compelled to fight on regardless. “I’m not letting you walk all the way over there on a fool’s errand.”
“It’s not a fool’s errand if it gets us what we need,” Sandy replied. “Besides, there’s something else out there which might be of use, and if it’s not of use, then I at least want it back. It too would appear pointless to scavengers but has immeasurable value.”
“What?” Cid and Saunders asked in unison.
“My orb.” She scooped a spoonful of sloppy stew from the pot and grimaced as she swallowed it.
“I was never going to win that argument, was I?” Saunders groaned to Cid, his head still in his hands.
“Not a bloody chance,” Cid said.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
A slight sensation brought Larissa from a deep and satisfying slumber back to the harsh realities of the real world. It felt as though someone tapped on her shoulder, the softness of the touch seemingly at odds with the two men who should have been the only other people in the room. She lay still, not moving from her side, letting her mind catch up to being completely awake to see if any other pieces of information filled in the blank puzzle piece. When the tap came again, accompanied by someone whispering, “Hey,” in her ear, her body stiffened. It was a female voice. The only other female in their group was Sandy, and Larissa knew that Sandy had been left behind with Cid.
The person tapping and whispering sat behind Larissa where she lay stretched out on the floor. She subtly felt around with her fingertips, hoping to find a knife on the floor for defense. Instead, her fingers bumped into something large and solid, something that hadn’t been there when she’d fallen asleep. She curled her hands into fists as the tap and whisper repeated and opened her eyes.
She saw Holt’s face first. He lay on his back beside her. A twinge of terror struck her heart when she considered he might be dead. After all, it was unlike Holt to let someone else slip into the room unnoticed, but as the soft rise and fall of his chest gave her comfort that his fate was not yet sealed, she refocused her attention. Kerrigan was still sprawled out beside the fireplace, his body a mess of dried blood layered over sickly looking pale skin, and her heart hurt again at the thought that per
haps he was dead.
“Hey.” The tap came again.
Larissa sighed and slowly rolled over, keeping her fists ready to defend herself if required.
“Good, you’re awake.” The face greeting her was not one she recognized, but the pale ginger hair did seem familiar. The woman sat up, resting her back against the stand which had once held the cash register.
“Who are you?” Larissa whispered, not wanting to wake Holt.
“I was about to ask you the same thing. I saw you three come in here this morning. You look down on your luck. You looking for work? Hoping to make some money? I can get you into Cosby’s. You can bring your two clients with you. Madame Cosby will be pleased about the new business, I’m sure.”
“What?” Larissa sat up, her head feeling woozy. Despite having rested, it didn’t feel sufficient. She focused on the woman, her face somewhat familiar. As the stranger flicked her curtain of fiery orange hair out of her face, Larissa placed her—the drunken prostitute they’d seen the night before.
“I’m not sure how much use that one will be, though.” The woman pointed at Kerrigan. “I wouldn’t mind playing nurse for him, but I don’t want to have to clean up all the blood. It’s pretty disgusting.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Larissa said as she stood. “What time is it?”
“Mid-afternoon. We don’t usually open till a bit later, but Madame Cosby will probably want to meet you first before she lets you take clients. She usually likes to watch you with the first one, like a trial run.”