Blood and Silver - 04

by James R. Tuck

  He had to die.

  I whipped my arm out as that baleful eye stared at me. The weight of the grenades slung out and away from me, held tight in my hand. It tried to pull away from me and fly off in the night. My arm flexed, pulling the bandolier into the trajectory I wanted. My eyes watched it draw close. I felt the moment I needed and opened my hand. The bandolier spun away from me in an arc, the tether of webbing flowing behind it like a streamer.

  It circled around and arced down over the snout of the dinosaur. It hung there, slowly rotating around, snagged on bone ridges and teeth. My stomach tightened as it looked like it was going to fall away. The weight of it tilted it up, threatening to flail away. I didn’t breath. Time folded in, slowing to a crawl. If it fell off, I would not get the chance to try it again. The dinosaur would throw me off, crush me beneath him, and eat my flesh. The world was the slow spin of the bandolier.

  Finally, it canted to the side, slipping across red scales to settle around the ridge of the skull above my hand. The T. rex and I looked at each other.

  “Via con carne, asshole.”

  I let go, tumbling backward off my perch, sliding down the dinosaur’s long spine. The bumps of vertebrae bounced me, rattling my teeth. The web lasso snaked out above me. There was a sharp yank as I reached the end, stopping me for a split second before the pins in the grenades popped out, pulling like a busted zipper.

  I hit the ground and scrambled to get under the slide set I had climbed.

  I had just pulled my feet in when the explosion sent charred bits of dinosaur skull flying into the night.

  33

  George knelt beside the black rhino. His fur was slick and wet from the geyser of water shooting into the air around him. Two deep gashes cut across his shoulders, blood mixing with the water and running pink off his fur. He ignored it. His eyes were on the fallen form of the rhino. I couldn’t tell if the water running down his face was tears or from the fountain.

  Masego lay completely still. I couldn’t see any breath. No movement at all.

  Charlotte in her spider-lady form took a step forward and went to one knee beside him. She reached out a hand, tentatively toward his shoulder, when it touched him it was human. “Is he?”

  The gorilla nodded.

  “Does this mean she is?”

  He nodded again.

  “I am so sorry.”

  I slid fresh clips into the .45’s I had emptied earlier on the dinosaur. Its carcass lay in the wreckage of the playground, still smoldering from the stump of its neck. It had not changed back to human. That was going to be a helluva mess for someone to clean up. A flick of my finger hit the slide release on each gun, jacking a bullet into the chambers. Charlotte looked up at the sound.

  I tried to make my voice soft. “I am sorry about Masego and Lucy, but I have to go find the others. Leonidas and the rest are still out there.”

  She nodded and gave George one more comforting pat. She stood, and as she did her spider-lady form washed back over her. George didn’t say anything. He leaned up and put his hands on the side of the noble beast that lay in front of him.

  Thick gorilla fingers dug in, splitting the black hide. Pulling and yanking, he tore a hole. Pushing both hands in deep, he pulled back, shoulders bunching under wet fur. The gap widened. Inside there was nothing—no gore, no blood, no organs. Just empty blackness.

  He began to pull away pieces of rhino, throwing them behind him. They were like black pieces of jack-o’-lantern rind left over from Halloween. The more pieces he pulled away, the more frantic he became, scooping away bigger and bigger pieces of Masego.

  I caught a glimpse of a pale-white form lying thin and still inside the hollow before George shoved both of his arms inside, along with his head and shoulders. He pulled back and drew out Lucy’s body. She lay limp and wet in his arms. His chest folded around her. Sobs wracked him, squeezing from deep within to choke out thin, strained, painful.

  I know what that feels like. When sorrow swallows you and the world ceases to exist. Shards of pain coat the entire world, slicing and cutting you with every turn. Your heart goes black with grief, and nothing in the world can soothe that agony. I was in that same place five years ago. I knew better than anyone that George was lost to a harrowing grief that would not let him go anytime soon.

  There was nothing I could do for him.

  I turned away from his grieving, Charlotte only a step behind me.

  Thick smoke clung in the air, billowing out of houses set afire. The cluster homes were so tightly packed that flames leaped from one to the next without hesitation, crawling over rooftops, devouring shingles and siding. The collar of my shirt rubbed across my nose, a makeshift mask against the oily, choking smog. My eyes still burned from it. Charlotte ran alongside me, unbothered by the smog.

  Heat from the fires hammered the air on either side of the streets, browning the postage stamp yards. The wind blew in hellish gusts full of cinders and ash. Everywhere the rabbits had hydrants opened up and were trying to quell the raging inferno, desperate to stop the loss. At least the houses had been empty, everyone centralized for Boothe’s plan.

  My left hand fumbled out my cell and pushed the button to speed-dial Kat. The phone connected with a roar. I heard shouting and the pop and crack of gunfire. Kat’s voice yelled out to be heard. “North side of the neighborhood on Oakleaf Court!” the connection broke like fine china in an earthquake. Taking my bearings, I spun on my heel to turn north.

  Marcus was following us a few feet behind.

  Ignoring him, I broke into a sprint, the fire falling behind us. My ears picked up the sound of gunfire in all the confusion and ran in that direction, slowing down as it got louder. The street sign on the corner was for Oakleaf Court.

  I stopped short. None of us was wearing any type of Kevlar. We couldn’t run into live gunfire blindly. Well, we could, but that would be a dumbass move. Dumbass moves get you dead. I try to avoid dumbass moves.

  I have wildly varying degrees of success at that.

  The cluster homes were back-to-back beside us, tiny yards fenced in with wooden privacy fences. A thin strip of space opened between them, just wide enough for a normal person to walk between. I am not a normal-sized person, so I turned sideways, gun out, and ran in a side shuffle to keep the katana on my back from smacking into anything. The wooden fences skimmed by my face as I followed the sound of gunfire. There were openings every fifteen feet or so to a space between houses.

  Five or six houses down, we came to the opening with the loudest sound of gunfire. I began to creep between two houses as quietly as possible. All light was blocked by the looming homes. I could face forward but not stretch my arms out to the side. The space pressed in, seeming to swallow us. I worked to control my breathing and still keep moving. My rib pulled with each breath, cracking pain along my spine. Running had not helped it. At the corner I stopped and peered around to look, the sound of gunfire very close. Charlotte hovered above me, using her spider legs braced on each house to suspend her in the air. She was looking where I was.

  On the porch of the house stood three lycanthropes. Two of them were upright and strapped with flamethrowers. They looked similar, both half human, half reptile. One was the snake-man, fangs mismatched where one was growing back. The other was the Komodo dragon, his head elongated into a reptilian skull, skin covered with tiny teeth for scales. Both of them fired burst after burst of flame, spacing them so there was a constant barrage of napalm in the air.

  I could see Kat, Larson, and Father Mulcahy pinned behind a car parked in the street. Paint that was once metallic blue bubbled and peeled off the Honda. Rubber gaskets caught fire, flaming on their own like candle tapers. The glass on the car had blackened and cracked. Puddles of burning napalm scorched the ground. Boothe lay on the ground behind them. I couldn’t see Tiff or Ragnar. Kat was firing blind at the flamethrowers, every shot wide as she kept her head down from the gouts of burning chemical hellfire.

  They were trapped.
The car in front of them was a mound of fiery metal, but it was the only cover they had. If they tried to move away from it, they would be wide open. The flamethrowers would chargrill them in a second.

  The third lycanthrope, a huge jackal, paced around behind the other two, greasy hair waving around from heat blowback. Short hind legs appeared comical under a wide, powerful chest. A heavy bottom jaw slung down to reveal a bone-cracking, yellow-toothed grin as he danced around.

  We were behind them. I pointed my pistol, aiming carefully, slowing my breathing, making my shot count.

  “What do you see?”

  My eyes jerked to the left. Charlotte had already put her hand over Marcus’s mouth, shutting him up. I looked back, hoping we still had the element of surprise.

  Black eyes glittered in a black mask as the jackal looked around at me.

  Dammit.

  A high-pitched yip cut through the whooshing sound of the flamethrowers. A leap carried the Were-jackal over the porch rail. Claws tore up the grass as he charged at me, foam dripping from flesh-tearing jaws, closing the space in an eyeblink. I aimed both Colt .45’s, squeezing off two shots.

  Both bullets hit the tank of napalm strapped to the snake-man’s back the exact moment that Charlotte took down the jackal.

  Charlotte and the jackal tumbled end over end, greasy fur and grass flying. The jackal came out on top, jaws snapping as Charlotte held it back with one slender arm. The Were-jackal was rabid, foam flecking along its snarl, dripping from vicious teeth. Its head whipped back and forth at the end of Charlotte’s arm.

  Her spider-lady face was expressionless. The nails on her other hand lengthened, becoming long, thin, razor-sharp needles. With a flash, she raked them across the snout and eye of the canine. Blood splashed out over her face and chest. The Were-jackal screamed and flung itself out of her grip.

  I turned back to the porch.

  Napalm squirted from the pressurized tank, coating the porch and the back of the Were-snake’s black fatigues. Frantically, he tried to shake his way out of the tank’s straps. I put another bullet in the tank and one in his leg. He screamed and crumpled like a used tissue, napalm tank thunking as it hit the wooden porch.

  Gunfire erupted from behind the burnt Honda, bullets striking the Komodo in the chest and pitching him backward. His finger convulsed on the flamethrower’s trigger, spewing a gout of liquid fire as he fell. The flames struck the spilled napalm. The combustion was instantaneous. The porch and the Were-snake burst into flames.

  Turning to Charlotte, I found her standing, greenish blood running from deep bites on her arms and legs. She held the struggling jackal in front of her, spider legs clamped on its sides to keep it suspended in the air. The beast struggled, claws striking out in the air, jaws snapping. Slender fingers with too many joints shot out, shoving between crushing jaws. One hand closed on the snout, the other hooked into the bottom jaw.

  With a shrug, she tore the jackal in two. A geyser of black gore and entrails splatted on the grass at her feet. She casually dropped both pieces and stepped away, wiping her hands on her dress.

  “Deacon, over here!”

  I ran to where Kat was. She was pushing Larson away from the burning car in his wheelchair. It had been battered, one wheel bent out of shape so that the chair listed and swayed like a drunk man. Larson was slumped over, out cold, Uzi clutched in his hands still. Kat’s jeans and skin were shredded from the knee down on one leg, blood bright red against her pale skin. Father Mulcahy was dragging Boothe’s limp form into the street. Ragnar had a mouthful of belt, tugging to help. Blood slicked his fur against one shoulder and he kept favoring that leg. The priest had a gash across his forehead, blood pouring down his face.

  The Were-rabbit he was dragging looked the worst of all. Half of his upper body was scorched, flesh raw pink and blackened crisp. Silver fur was singed away, curling brown and brittle at the edges. The burns splashed across his face, one ear a blackened stump. He moaned in pain with every movement, barely conscious.

  My hand reached out for Larson’s chair. Kat slapped it away. Her voice was tight with pain and stubbornness. “I’ve got this. Go help Father Mulcahy.”

  “Charlotte will get him.” I took the chair from her. The warped wheel made pushing the chair a bitch. I had to pick it up to make it move. Kat limped along beside me as I pushed Larson across the street to where Charlotte was carefully moving the giant Were-rabbit and laying him on the grass. Marcus was following her, still looking lost.

  “Where are Tiff and Sophia?”

  The priest sat on the grass next to Boothe. “The two lions have Sophia. Tiffany chased them into that house. We got cut off by the ones with the flamethrowers.”

  I turned to look at the house. Flames were racing up the front of it, chasing each other. The front door was a black spot in a lake of fire. The two dead lycanthropes were crumpled, roasting in front of it. I checked the clips on my .45’s, making sure they were full. I came up with one full clip for each gun and one full clip for a spare.

  My fingers scrabbled at the buckle of the gun belt around my waist. With Bessie lost, it would just be extra weight. Boothe gave a choking cough that drew my attention back to the others. I turned and he raised his unburnt hand, weakly waving me near.

  I knelt beside him, the smell of burnt hair coming off him made my nose twitch. His voice was raspy, thin, and mostly empty air. “They are going”—he swallowed, moving his tortured throat—“to use the Burrows. Downstairs. . .” The one good eye rolled back into his head, the other eye was a ruin in the burned half of his face. “Door is always . . . in basement. S-s-s-steel door.”

  I touched him, trying to thank him for what his effort had cost in pain. My power flared, a wash of hot agony seared across my skin and the smell of roasted rabbit filled the back of my throat, hanging on my palate like a clump of curdled cheese. Moving my hand back broke the connection. The agony stopped sharply, leaving the skin on my right side feeling raw. I swallowed against the taste still stuck in my mouth.

  Father Mulcahy was wiping blood away from his face. “Can you heal him? Like you did before?”

  Boothe was in bad shape. I didn’t know how he was still conscious. Burns do damage like nothing else. I would rather be cut to the bone than suffer a bad burn. That one touch and I had felt the agony he was in. My skin still felt sunburned. The rib that was busted by the T. rex pounded from moving Larson, driving like a fist in my side with each deep breath. My hip was bone bruised and getting stiff, getting weak.

  Without my power, Boothe could die.

  If I used my power to save him, then Sophia, her unborn babies, and Tiff would die.

  Time pressed down on my shoulders.

  34

  I tossed my car keys to Father Mulcahy. He caught them from the air. “Go. Get the Comet and get him medical attention.”

  “You could be killing him with that decision.”

  “If I choose him, I could be killing Tiff and Sophia.” I stared into his eyes; they were stark in the mask of blood smeared across his face. “Go.”

  The priest stared at me. I stared back, deep inside the cold place that lets me kill.

  Boothe began to choke, his body convulsing. A grand mal seizure twisted his burnt body, pulling it tight and bowing it off the ground beneath him. Father Mulcahy broke the stare to cut his eyes over at the dying Were-rabbit.

  “My decision’s made. This is on your hands now.”

  Father Mulcahy looked back at me. “Take the air rifle.” He held it out to me.

  We both had to get moving, so I didn’t argue. The rifle was slung over my shoulder and the extra clip of palm-sized darts shoved into a pocket. I pulled one of my .45’s out and handed it to Father Mulcahy. His mouth opened for a second and I gave him a look that closed it. The priest set off at a run back toward the community center and the car without a backward glance.

  I turned to the group. “Charlotte, Ragnar, you’re with me.”

  “Are you sure about thi
s?” Charlotte was kneeling beside Boothe. The seizure had passed and he lay still on the grass. Her hand kept fluttering toward him and then away, unsure of whether to touch him or not as she looked up at me.

  “Get up.” My voice was flat, without emotion or inflection. Charlotte rose to her feet. “Father Mulcahy and Kat will take care of Boothe; our people still need rescuing. Nobody else can do it.” I turned without waiting to see if she would follow.

  My chest hit Marcus’s as he stepped in front of me. The nerve under my right eye started to twitch.

  “I am coming with you. I need to make up for what my mate and my brother have done.” Big amber yellow eyes were brimming with sincerity, begging for permission. One moist hand lay limply on my gun arm. All my frustration with delays focused in on him like a laser. I drove my shoulder into him, pushing past, moving him aside.

  “Follow if you want, but don’t slow me down. The next time you get in my way, I will put a bullet in you.” He fell in behind Charlotte as I moved toward the burning porch, my stride getting longer as I walked. Ragnar trotted beside me.

  Dark orange flames ate at the porch, chewing the white painted wood and licking across vinyl siding to leave long streaks of soot and trails of heat bubbles behind. Napalm dripped from the overhead covering onto the wooden porch in scorching streamers. Heat slammed into me like a fist as I hit the bottom step. The air was thick, oxygen eaten away by the flame. My hip ached. I pushed on.

  The door to the house was solid blackness wrapped in fire. I had one shot to get through that door. We were going to get burned, but if we stopped on that porch, we wouldn’t make it off. The heat would sap our strength, driving us down so that the flame could finish us off.