Raining Fire

by Rajan Khanna

  With the bomb cart still sliding across the floor, I duck behind a stack of crates and wait for a beat. Another Valhallan appears, rounding the moving bomb, and I take a second to line up a shot that will take the burst clear of the bomb. My chest and shoulder are burning from the knife cut, but I ignore that for the moment as I aim down the sights and pull the trigger. Then I run to the far side of the bomb, sliding to the ground as I clear it and quickly pan the gun until I find another Valhallan and squeeze. The Valhallan drops even as the SMG trigger clicks empty.

  I drop the gun and run back to the bomb and the downed Valhallan and quickly try to free the gun strapped around his back; that’s when the other Valhallan climbs up over the top of the bomb and drops straight on me. My head bounces off of the ground.

  I spin. I reach. I . . .

  Something hot sinks deep into my leg, and I scream as pain spikes through me. My ringing head goes white and I shake my head to clear it.

  I’m staring at a large, bald man over me, his hands locked around my throat, all of his weight atop me, immobilizing me. My breath is cut off and I’m already seeing spots at the corners of my vision.

  My hands are stuck down by my sides, but I can feel the pain in my left leg, the sharp something embedded there. I reach for it with fluttering fingers, and, luckily for me, the grip is wrapped in something like leather and I can grab it, even with my fingers losing their strength.

  My vision narrows, and I pull hard with what strength I have left. The pain almost makes me pass out, sends vomit boiling up into my constricted throat, but before I black out, I angle the blade toward the man on top of me and push as hard as I can. There’s a movement, away from the bite of the blade, and I shift, trying to roll, the man still gripping me. I find the blade again and push harder.

  This time he lets go, reaching down to the blade now inside him, and I gasp and scramble away.

  A large hand grabs the back of my head by the hair, and I’m sucking in air, vision still flickering, pain playing out a symphony in my body.

  But I remember that I have legs, and I kick down with the one of them. Once, twice, and the grip lessens and I pull away.

  I get to my feet, swaying, blood leaking from my chest and my leg, possibly my head.

  My enemy rises as well, a long, bloody knife in his hand. He’s pale, taller and bigger than me, his face and head shaved, his mouth stretched in a rictus grin.

  I have no weapons. I have less reach. Less strength.

  I can’t reach the fallen Valhallan’s gun. Not before this beast could stab me again.

  My left leg shakes. I feel like falling to the ground and lying there for a long while. No weapons. No tricks.

  No. Wait. . . .

  My hand reaches into my pocket, fingers blindly grasping at the three sharpened nails there. Right, Ben. That will help.

  He’s moving at me, large and strong, and the blade darts out, quick, like a snake, and I just barely get my hands on his arm and twist it so that his knife cuts through the fabric of my coat and shirt and not my skin.

  His other fist slams into my face and I teeter back, the world spinning. I almost fall. Then he kicks my feet out from under me and I do.

  He comes in for the kill, the blade coming down, my blood and his on it, but he’s a little too eager. A little sloppy, and I manage to roll away from him. He takes a moment to reorient with the knife, and I roll back to him, one hand on the knife arm, the other with a nail in it. It’s as long as my little finger, and I jam it into his ear as far as it will go. A jerk of his head is the only response, until I take my left hand and grip his neck, knowing that I’m exposing myself to the knife, and I jam the next nail into his eye.

  This time he reacts, throwing his head back, shaking it.

  I slam my right hand—which, until recently, held the first nail—into his ear. Again. Again. The eye. The head. I roll on top of him, punching the throat. Kneeing the groin. One hand on the wrist that holds the knife. His eye is a bloody mess, and the nail head is barely visible. I slam the back of his head into the floor. Repeat that. Repeat it all. Hits. Punches. Mete out the pain.

  Then he’s lying still and I’m breathing hard. My leg is on fire. My head feels like it’s been split in two. My chest is carved up. I pry open his fingers and pull out the knife. Then I take the monumental task of getting to my feet and looking for a new gun.

  One bright spot for me is that there don’t seem to be any other Valhallans here. None alive, at least. I must have gotten them all, or else they ran for it when I was otherwise occupied.

  No matter.

  There’s no one to stop me from arming myself, grabbing extra ammo, and trying to staunch the bleeding. My leg is the worst. The wound is deep. I tear off some strips of cloth from the dead Valhallans, because that’s my only option, so I make sure to grab for cloth that isn’t directly against the skin. Not going to put sweaty cloth against an open wound.

  When I’m reasonably sure that I won’t pass out from loss of blood (yet), I work on getting the bombs moving again.

  I push the cart right up against the doors. Outside are probably more Valhallans. Outside is also freedom. My enemies, and the opportunity to hurt them.

  No time to waste.

  * * *

  Having the Firestorms on wheels helps, but moving the cart by myself isn’t the easiest. It’s not like this thing is small. Last time I was in this room, we took the service tunnels to keep moving, but the cart is not going to fit in there. I have to use the larger doors to the right. The ones that lead out into the center of the plant. I get the Firestorms right up to the doors, run around to open them, make sure there’s no one hostile on the other side, then push the whole cart out into the open.

  The plant has a series of inner courtyards that are open to the sky. Through these I should be able to get the airship landing, but my knowledge of this area is hazy. As prisoners, we had walked through some of the courtyards to do some of our repairs—even worked in one of them—but we had taken the inside corridors to get to them.

  This particular courtyard seems clear—even untouched by the fighting—though I can still hear the sharp report of gunfire and the occasional yell of an order nearby. From time to time I hear booms that must be coming from explosions. But right now I’m clear, so I push the Firestorms forward, taking some time to overcome my inertia and get this cart moving, so I can round the corner easily and get them to the next open space.

  And there, ahead of me, is the firefight. Numerous combatants—some of Mal’s people and some Valhallans—spread across the space. I see some atop stairways, shooting down. Others taking cover behind machinery, and one group behind a simple wagon.

  From my approach, they are on either side of me—Mal’s people to the left, the Valhallans on the right. If I try to run down the middle, I’ll get cut to pieces, and who knows what will happen to the Firestorms (though the thought of taking this place down with me is not the worst one).

  I need to get beyond them with the Firestorms intact. Waiting for the firefight to end is not an option—Mal’s people won’t let me through if they control the area, and the Valhallans will just kill me.

  I leave the Firestorms where they are for a moment, and then I crouch-run to the nearest of Mal’s people. I still have my green bandana on, and this person doesn’t know me. At least I don’t think she does. The woman—short-cropped hair and a broken nose—looks up at me in alarm but doesn’t shoot me. Thankfully.

  I take cover with them, my new SMG held forward.

  “I need your help,” I say.

  “With what?”

  “See that?” I gesture to the Firestorms. “Know what those are?”

  We’re cut off by a barrage of gunfire on our position. Broken Nose pops up and fires back, and I join her before dropping back to cover.

  “Some kind of bombs,” she says, reloading.

  “Big bombs. I need to get them to the airship landing.”

  She frowns at me. “Why?” />
  “Orders from the top,” I say. “Malik wants them.”

  She chews on this for a second. It’s ballsy and perhaps a little dumb, but these people don’t know me. I don’t think that anyone I know would buy anything I said at this point, but this woman doesn’t know that.

  “Contingency,” I say. ‘If we need to drop one. Or all.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Who are you with?”

  “Rosie,” I say. “I’ve been waiting on the inside.”

  She looks me up and down. After a moment, she nods. “What do you need?”

  “Cover fire,” I say. “I’m going to try to run it past their position, but I need you to pin them down so they don’t get me. Or the bombs.”

  She nods again. Barks orders to her crew. “Get ready,” she says.

  I nod and run back to my position.

  I get behind the bomb and crouch, ready to push as hard as I can. I need to get this thing moving as fast as possible, as quickly as possible.

  If this doesn’t work, I’ll be a wet mess in the middle of the courtyard.

  “Go!” I hear. Probably from Broken Nose. Hopefully from her. Because I’m moving. Pushing my legs as hard as I can. My left leg is screaming, but I lock the pain away for later. I have a little bit of space to build up momentum before I get to the killing grounds; we start picking up speed and then we’re there and I’m pumping and pushing and the cart is moving pretty well. And then the world becomes a storm of bullets and gunfire and screams and shouts.

  Mal’s people are good, though. Firing at once, keeping the Valhallans pinned down so I can sail through the space. I hear a couple of shots from my left—maybe a few adventurous Valhallans who are willing to brave the hail of gunfire—and I do hear a few bullets (maybe ricochets) flying past me. But I don’t have time to think about any of that. Just move. Push. Fly.

  The barrages lessen and the ground is eaten up behind me as the Valhallans unload, but I’m already through the gap, and I swerve around the corner into the next space and the next danger. But, through a clear path ahead, I see it. The first of the plant’s airship landings.

  A way to get back into the sky, into the Blue.

  So I rush ahead.

  * * *

  The trickiest part of my plan will be to get close to Valhalla, and that means looking nonthreatening. The best way to do that is to fly a Valhallan ship. Luckily for me, there are plenty of ships here. It doesn’t look like many of the Valhallans have abandoned the plant. Not yet. There aren’t any combat dirigibles here. The handful of ships moored here are cargo ships, which is exactly what I want.

  I size them up. The blimp won’t work. The rigid zeppelin is out as well. I’ve flown a few, and I hate the way that they handle. Out of the remaining choices, that leaves the large one that might have been white once but now looks like dirty snow. It’s big, but it’s one of the newer designs from the Clean, which probably means it’s faster than its comrades, and that’s what I care about right now. It will have more than enough room for the Firestorms and, judging by the animal face painted on the front of the envelope, it is clearly a Valhallan ship.

  It doesn’t look like it has the same kind of VTOL engines as the Cherub or the Valkyrie, though, no lowering the ship straight down to the ground, so I’m going to have the haul the Firestorms up. Which isn’t my preferred way of doing this, but it will have to do.

  I need to move fast.

  I leave the bombs where they are—no other choice—and locate the ladder that leads up to the ship that I decide to call the Beast. It’s been a little while since I climbed up one of these, especially into a strange ship. But while it sets every part of my body on fire with pain, it also sets my mind alight with excitement. The anticipation of getting back into the air, getting back behind the controls of an airship. I occasionally helped Claudia fly the Valkyrie, but that had been happening less and less frequently (for which I don’t blame her).

  It takes a while. Every time I reach up to the next rung, my chest wound feels like it’s widening, spilling pain out from an ever-wider pool. Every time I pull up my legs, my left leg screams in protest and I have to make sure my arm is wrapped around the ladder so I don’t slip and fall. But I muscle my way up, so close to escaping this place, and reach the gondola, hauling myself in. I ready the SMG as I enter, just in case someone is already up here.

  The gondola is surprisingly small. This isn’t meant for living or for a large crew. There’s space for maybe four people in the actual command area. I take a quick inventory of the controls, and they look mostly familiar. I don’t think I’ll have any problems with them. It has automatic ballast control. Decent fuel management. The engines should be adequate for the job. Assuming that they’ve been kept in good shape.

  Whoever owned this thing could read, though. I know this because carved into a piece of wood, mounted above the pilot’s seat at the front of the gondola, is the name “White Wolf.”

  “Hello, White Wolf,” I say. “We’re going to be friends. At least for a little while.”

  Having made my quick assessment, I move to the cargo area, which is huge, and I lower the winch and the cables to secure the bombs, using them to get a quick ride down to the ground. But as I’m descending, I see someone waiting down there, next to my bombs. With one hand securely around the descending rig, I aim down at the person through the sight of the SMG.

  She’s just standing there. Armed, but not aiming up at me. Then I recognize the baseball cap on her head.

  “What are you doing here, Rosie?” I ask as I hit the ground, wincing at the pain of landing. “I thought we said our good-byes.”

  “That was before I heard you were taking bombs with you.” She pats one of the Firestorms.

  “I told you I wanted to hurt them,” I say. “Now I have a big-enough gun.”

  “You’ll never get close enough.”

  I shrug. “I think I will. I have something in mind.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Is it the bombs?” I ask. “You want to keep them for Mal?”

  “No, you idiot.” She shakes her head again. “You are one of the dumbest people I’ve ever met.”

  “What?”

  “You made some really idiotic choices,” she says. “And you ended up hurting people along the way. I see that you’re starting to get that. But in your typical boneheaded way, your response is to go over the top. Make a statement so big and so bold and so . . . stupid, because that’s all that you can think of.”

  I just stare at her.

  “Did you ever think about just . . . helping people? One at a time? Making up for your past by doing little things? Saving one person. Lifting up one soul who needs it.”

  I think about Ellie, back on the junker, and the life she’s going to face, and I’m forced to look away from Rosie. She’s right, there are other paths I could take. Good I could do. Take the slow, steady climb back out of the muck. But . . . my course is already set. I feel it. In my bones. In the pit of me.

  “I have to do this,” I say, meeting her eyes.

  She shrugs. “Don’t think I’m not happy to see you go. You are one of the most frustrating people I’ve ever come across. And you’re always getting my brother in trouble. But . . .”

  “You’ll secretly miss me?”

  She smiles. “Like hell.” She sighs and shakes her head. “Godspeed, Benjamin Gold. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  I nod, grateful. “Tell Diego . . . Just take care of him.”

  “I always do,” she says.

  She helps me rig up the container of bombs and then, with a quick wave, I hit the button to pull us back up to the White Wolf and into the sky.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF MIRANDA MEHRA

  I pushed Clay today. He came to see me again, in the lab, when Maya was on a break. We have to be creative with the ways that we meet, and how we spend our time, so that no one sees.

  “Any news?” I asked him, as he
perused some results.

  “I think I’m close,” he said. “No ship yet, but . . .” He looked at me directly. “I think I can get a message off of the city.”

  I frowned. “A message? Saying what? And to whom?”

  He looked around, but no one was taking an interest in us.

  “If we can’t get off, maybe someone else can get in.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” I said.

  “We need something to help us,” he said. “A distraction. An open door for us to leave through.”

  “And who do you think will do that?”

  “The island,” he said. “Everyone thinks you’re dead. I could get word off, let them know you’re alive. That we’re here . . . I don’t know if the others would organize anything, but maybe if you sent it to one of your friends . . .”

  The first person I thought of, at course, was Ben. But I had given up on the thought of him being alive. I didn’t see Malik postponing things. I pushed the thought away. I had been doing that since Clay had appeared. I couldn’t really let myself sink into that despair. Not now that there was some hope in my world.

  But there was another answer.

  “Diego,” I said. “If there was anyone there who could figure something out, and who I’d trust to, it would be him.”

  “Good,” he said. “That’s good. I can work with that.”

  “But why would he believe it was real instead of some trick?”

  Clay thought for a moment. “Give me one of your notebooks. If he doesn’t recognize your handwriting, someone else on the island will.”

  It made sense. That’s why I started writing them here in the first place—to get a message out. I nodded and told him I’d get him one.

  “We still need a plan, though,” I said. “We need to get out of here. Every day I help them get closer to a vaccine.”

  “I know.”

  “If I could get back to the island, I could tell them about this place. What they have. What they’re doing.” And I just need to be out of here, I thought. I need to be gone.