Raining Fire

by Rajan Khanna

  It’s hard, though, not to make a mad sprint-scramble up the rubble alongside the remains of the building.

  A chorus of growling and snapping sounds joins the howls, and I can’t help myself from moving a little faster, scrabbling up the crumbling wood and drywall, my nose filled with the smell of long-dusty materials and mold.

  I spare one look back and see dark shapes moving toward me. The pack, bolting down the street now that they’ve got my scent.

  I’m almost to the second floor, but the wreckage I just crawled up is easily accessible to the dogs, and the floor up above me has stairs leading up. Dogs can climb stairs.

  Fuck.

  I grab for the edge of the floor and yank myself up, turning back for a moment, my revolver out. I fire two shots at the dogs, which are a lot closer and a lot bigger than I expected. If I’m lucky, the shots will scare them off. Or I’ll hit one, and that will do the trick. I fire once, and the shot disappears into the quickly growing dark. Then two more shots. On the second one, I hear a yelp and one of the shapes spins off. At least I think it does. But the rest of them keep coming. I turn and head for the stairs, pounding up them, hoping for a door or something to close behind me.

  Instead, I end up in hallway, with more stairs going up and closed doors around me. I keep moving to the stairs. No way to tell if any of these doors are open and unlocked, and I can’t spare the time. I can hear more growling and snapping, and some yelping and whining behind me. Fuck fuck fuck. I race up the stairs, my legs burning, my arms shaking, my heart beating hard in my chest.

  Up and up and up. Higher is always better. As far away from the ground as possible. Always up. Always.

  I slam through a door with a push-bar on it, and then I’m on the roof. Nowhere to go. I turn back to the door and try to slam it shut, but the hinges are bent, or the door’s just swollen, and it hangs open no matter what I do. I can hear the sound of the dogs echoing through the stairwell, their claws on the stairs, their breathing, their animal grunting.

  I don’t have enough bullets for all of them, and I can’t hold the door against them if they all work together. So I move to the edge of the roof. There’s another building, slightly shorter, but it’s not close. I might be able to jump it, but I’m not sure of my chances. And, judging from the condition of this building, who knows what shape that one is in.

  The door slams open, and I see three dark shapes bound toward me, lips skinned back from yellow fangs, growls vibrating through me. And the door slams again and again and again.

  I snarl back at them, and then, pulling on all of my fear and my hate and my visions of killing Tess, I pump my legs across the roof, running at an angle to the other building. As I hit the edge, I leap, putting all of my hope into my boots and my legs and the stability of the edge of the roof and—

  My footing holds and I leave the roof, and for a moment I am in the air and gravity doesn’t have complete hold of me. I am hurtling through space, free of the ground, free of everything, beyond reach of the dogs behind me. For a moment, I fly, and something in me sings.

  It lasts only a microsecond, and then gravity snatches me up again. I feel every gram of my weight as I start to be pulled down toward the ground. The dirty, dangerous ground. And the other edge of the roof seems oh so far away. I’m moving fast. Heavy and fast. I reach out my arms and hands, the gloves worn, and I wonder if they still have enough grip. And then—

  SLAM. My arms come down over the edge of the other building, but my body follows my feet, and my chest crashes hard into the wall. My hands start to lose their grip, and I scramble to keep hold.

  My fingers catch, and I dig my boots into the wall, hoping for a firm hold. Everything’s pounding and I’m completely tense, and then the wall that I’m hanging from breaks away and I start to slip down. I’m slamming my boots against the wall, and they catch against glass, and I’m half falling, half swinging into and through a window. WHAM. I land hard on my back against the floor.

  For a moment, I just lie there. My chest hurts where I hit the wall, and my head and my back and everything feels tired. I suck in air and will everything to slow down. To stop. Through the window, I can hear the dogs yelping, growling, barking their anger at the night.

  Fuck you, dogs. Not tonight.

  I have better things to do.

  * * *

  The area around the back of the San Francisco Public Library is covered with wreckage. Deliberately.

  Covered.

  In the thankfully bright moonlight I spot what looks like old, broken furniture, swollen by many rains. Metal sheets. Old cars. Chunks of masonry and torn-up asphalt. In front of all that stands a series of spikes and spears to really keep the Ferals away. Looking at it, it’s obvious that I’m not getting in.

  Except Rufus and Sarah were supposed to have left an opening for me. I tried to get them to tell me exactly how to find it, but they told me I would know it when I saw it. Sarah insisted on that. They weren’t sure how much time they’d have, how they would create a path, but that they would leave a sign I would clearly recognize.

  It makes me uneasy. If they didn’t actually complete my entrance, or if it somehow collapsed or got blocked, or if I can’t figure out where it is . . . well, then I’m possibly going to end up as Feral chow. If I’m lucky, Ferals already know to keep away from this place.

  Then again, I’m rarely lucky.

  So I’m here, roaming this barricade, my hand around the handle of my revolver, listening for the sounds of, well, anything above the dripping and the wind and the creaking of old metal and the flapping of cloth.

  Then I see it. A picture on a piece of metal, probably an old sign or decorative art. A picture of a plump baby, curly hair, innocent smile. A pair of white, fluffy wings sprouting from its back.

  A cherub.

  Smartasses.

  Grumbling to myself about how I’m still taking shit for what I named my old ship (and, God, how I miss her), I push aside the sign, and behind it is a cramped but passable-looking path through the obstacles. I make sure to carefully replace the sign behind me. Rufus and Sarah are doing me a favor. Themselves, too, to be honest, but I don’t want to risk a stray Feral finding its way in.

  It’s an uncomfortable shimmy-crouch-crawl past table legs and large chunks of rubble sprouting rebar. I take care. I’m in a hurry, but there’s no use risking open wounds. So it’s inch and sweat and think about what’s about to come.

  It’s a . . . strange feeling. To be so close. I waited months to get here. Months during which I wondered if it would ever happen. Months during which I couldn’t figure out how to get into Tess’s heavily guarded sanctum. Knowing that I needed to, because that’s the only thing that can put to rest this swirling storm inside of me. The thought of never being able to do this, of never getting here, was almost too much to bear at times.

  Now I can practically taste it.

  I finally get to the end of the makeshift tunnel and rise to a crouch. In front of me is a door. My hand trembles as I reach out to it. It’s supposed to be unlocked. The space beyond it is supposed to be clear. We went over this again and again. The timing. The placement. Making sure Sarah would clear the way. If this is locked, everything’s fucked.

  I look up at the sky. Judging by the moon and the stars, I’m right on time. Or near enough. My gloved left hand curls around the door handle. My right hand grips the revolver where it’s strapped to my leg.

  I pull both.

  The metal scrapes against the frame, but the door slides free. Beyond . . . darkness.

  I instinctively pull back from the opening. If anyone’s inside, I’m not going to give them an easy target.

  Nothing.

  Still gripping the door handle, I swivel around the entrance, the revolver out and pointed in front of me. Still nothing.

  I crouch down to the ground. I need light, and Rufus had agreed to leave something for me just inside the door. I grope about in the darkness until my hand falls on something hard. I
pull it to me, and in the moonlight coming in from the still-open door I can make out the shape of a lantern. I find the knob on its side and turn. A moment later, it flares to life, fed by the propane tank beneath it. It’s portable, about the size of my two fists stacked on top of one another. A valuable find. I’d get good barter for one of these. My wonder turns to bitterness. Tess probably has a ton of valuables stocked up in the place as a result of her dealings.

  But all I really want, all I really care about, is making her pay. With my newfound light in hand, I close the door behind me. No need to invite in any unwanted guests.

  Being able to see my surroundings also means that anyone in the place can see me. The path to Tess is supposed to be clear, but if anyone happens along or stumbles across me by accident . . .

  Even with that prospect at the forefront of my mind, I slide the revolver back into its holster. The lantern leaves me only one hand free, and I don’t want that hand tangled up in a gun. Not at the moment, at least. I rigged the holster to allow me to draw quickly, and right now I have to depend on that to work as planned. And, like I said, the way is supposed to be clear. With my free hand, I pull from my pocket the folded piece of paper that Rufus gave me. It’s a map of the library (a simple one), and Rufus marked the route I should take. If I deviate from it, I’m likely to run into some of the guards, and that would be bad for everyone. Me being me, I memorized the map, but it doesn’t hurt to refresh my memory.

  Now that I can see my way, I can make out that I’m in a kind of service entrance that opens up into a larger area. Probably where they brought in deliveries of, well, books, I guess. Bring in the boxes, sort them, and lug them up to the shelves. There are plenty of boxes and crates filling the space, too. Full of what, I wonder? A quick look finds them carrying supplies. One crate contains nothing but boxes of salt. Another one holds bottles of water. One on the other side of the room is filled with car batteries. All in all, it’s a fortune in barter. I’d always thought that Tess had all the guards because of the books, and her information. But there’s value here, too. Lots of it. I see something that looks like bottles of beer in the lantern light.

  As I’m leaving the room, I see one box full of cables. I pause for a moment, then pull on one, untangling it from its fellows. I wrap it around my chest, over one shoulder, and loop it through the handle of the lantern. It’s a quick, crude job, but when I’m done, the lantern is hanging in front of my chest. This way my hands will be free, at least.

  I move out of the storage area into another hallway. Other rooms sit off of it, rooms containing more supplies, probably. All of it is unlit. Why waste the energy? Simply send someone down with a lantern when you need something.

  I move slowly but confidently up the hallway. So far, so good. I listen as hard as I can, though, for any doors or approaching footsteps. I might not dim the lantern in time, but I could certainly take cover.

  At the end of the hallway, I take a staircase up, then up again until I reach the main floor of the library.

  From here, it only gets more dangerous. Before, I was hidden in closed-off back areas. Now I’m out in the main, open area of the library. Where Tess and her guards and her people can see me.

  Once more I hesitate before passing through the door leading out. I pull out the revolver with my right hand. Then I open the door and step back. Again, nothing. When I look through the threshold, still nothing.

  I move into the library proper. Rufus told me that at night, when they don’t have visitors, they often turn off the lights to conserve energy. Instead they rely on fire, in barrels, and in the lanterns like the one strapped to my chest.

  Those fires help in keeping the visibility low. If anyone saw me now, they would probably take me for someone who belonged here, and that would buy me some much-needed time.

  I move. It won’t be long now. Tess has a large study/office where she spends most of her time, a private space she can retreat to when not meeting with people. But Rufus said that in the evenings she often likes to sit in her chair, in the audience chamber, reading and drinking hot water and warming herself beneath a blanket. If you ask me, it probably has something to do with the library, being surrounded by all those books. All that knowledge. That probably gives Tess a thrill, even now.

  So that’s where I head. Rufus and Sarah assured me that Tess often likes to be left alone while she reads. At night guards are moved to the periphery of the library, or take up position outside. Disturbing Tess’s reading, according to Sarah, means a shit detail.

  I have to admit, the audience chamber is pretty impressive—open, with the high ceiling, and surrounded by stacks of books situated off in lateral wings.

  And there she is. Exactly where they said she would be.

  Lord Tess sits on her chair, her throne, reading a book by lantern light. She’s old, the oldest person I know, and even in the dim illumination I can see the wrinkles and crags in her face. She usually wears a pair of thick, dark glasses, but the ones she has on right now are clear. Her short, gray hair still has a good deal of black in it. She’s wearing thick, soft clothes, no gloves, and no face covering, and a thick, woolen blanket over her legs.

  From where she sits, I’m guessing I look like just another of her guards. So I move in a meandering path, trying to get closer without alerting her. When she realizes who I am, and that I’m here for her, I want it to be far too late.

  My breath is loud in my ears. I move closer, trying to seem like I belong there, like this is nothing more than routine, even while my body and mind scream for me to run to her and press my gun to her head.

  I move one foot, then another. One, two. One, two. But my eyes never leave her. Her eyes are focused on whatever she’s reading. The only movement she makes is to turn the pages with her arthritic hands.

  One step. Then another. Closer and closer.

  Then I’m there, near enough that she looks up. My long coat is already pulled back around the revolver, ready for me to draw it.

  She looks up, squinting behind her large glasses. Then her eyes widen. “Benjamin,” she says.

  I feel a smile, full of bitter hatred, twist my face. I draw the revolver. Slowly. Casually. Like I have all the time in the world. I intend to savor this. I lower my scarf so that she can see my face. “Yes,” I say. “It’s me. I’m here to—”

  “I know,” she says, dropping her head. “I know.” One wrinkled hand grips the arm of her chair, and her shoulders begin to shake, her head starts to tremble. Then she raises her head again.

  A sound I can’t process breaks the silence, and Tess stares at me with watery eyes and a red face. The meaning of the sound hits me a moment later.

  Tess is laughing.

  Light flares all around me. In front of me. Above me. Behind me. I blink against the sudden brightness, and yet even through the spots I can see the people. Hear them. Smell them. Lots of people. On all sides. I catch a glimpse of weapons. Big ones.

  I raise the revolver, urgent now, but Tess isn’t there anymore, whisked away by someone, hiding behind the lights. Then gunshots rip into the floor around me.

  “Put the pistol down, Benjamin,” Tess says, her voice echoing around the room. “There are over a dozen guns trained on you. They will tear you to shreds without hesitation.”

  I blink my eyes, still full of spots from the lights that illuminate me, and no one else. I try to make sense of what’s happening but keep coming up short.

  “Benjamin . . .”

  I force myself to place my revolver on the ground. I don’t want to. I want to shoot her. But I’m a defenseless target. I won’t let myself die without taking her with me. Not if I can help it.

  You might not be able to help it.

  My eyes start to adjust to the onslaught of light and Tess reappears, stepping forward into the brightness. A moment later, she’s joined by two people. Rufus and Sarah. My stomach twists and suddenly I feel like I’m going to throw up.

  They played me.

  “Oh
, Benjamin, Benjamin,” Tess says, shaking her head. “You did everything as I expected.” She clasps her arthritic hands together. “I thought that maybe you would surprise me, but . . .” Her face falls. “You didn’t.”

  I don’t say anything. I look around instead, now that my eyes have adjusted. Guards stand at the ready, everywhere I look. Most of them carry assault rifles. Two large, metal barrels stand in the space, lit with fires. Above me, spotlights point down at me. More guards, little more than shadows, stand on the stairways leading up.

  “I really didn’t want it to come to this,” Tess says. “All of this—” she waves her hand around, “—all of it—is just business.”

  My jaw clenches so hard that it sends shooting pains up the sides of my face and into my head. “She’s dead,” I spit. “Because of you.”

  “See?” she says. “That is why this has to happen. I can let things be, but you . . . you can’t. You’ve always been too emotional. And now you’re letting that emotion guide you. Run you.” She shakes her head again. “There was a time when I thought you understood, understood that in this world, you have to make hard choices. Sometimes you just have to survive to live another day. But what do you do beyond that? Sometimes you have to make choices to live another year. Another ten years. And beyond that. . . . So many people—they think small. Food to last the week. Gas to last a month.” Her hand curls into a fist. “I built this business, this . . . empire to last forever. You tried to appeal to Rufus, to get him to turn on me, but the truth is, he knows I won’t be here for too much longer. But when I’m dead, he will take over. Because this, all of this—” she waves her hand around again, “—is more important than me. Or him. Or you. All of this will outlive all of us. It has to.”

  Her mouth forms a thin line, and she shakes her head, as if in regret. “But it will outlive you more. I can’t have you out there, plotting to kill me. It’s . . . inefficient.” She walks up to me and places that wrinkled, liver-spotted hand on my shoulder. “So you have to go.”