The driver didn’t look very relieved. He stopped the jeep and pointed into the jungle. “Take the path and you’ll find the main road to the Red House,” he said. “But you shouldn’t go there. You will die.”
Michelle jumped out of the jeep. “That’s so sweet of you,” she said. “But if there’s any dying to be done, it won’t be me who does it.” He shrugged and jammed the jeep’s transmission into reverse and spun around. In moments, he’d vanished down the road.
The path would have been difficult to see in daylight, but now it was almost invisible. But Michelle found it and plunged into the jungle.
It was a shock when she burst from the jungle onto a paved road. She’d expected to be struggling through the bush forever. There were more gunshots. And she started running up the road.
When she reached the top of the hill, she saw the Red House compound. It was chaos. The front gate was busted in. Smoke hung in the air from RPGs. There was a maze of holes blasted into the ground. A gunshot pinged into her. It was impossible to tell where it came from.
Perched above the jungle, the huge brick mansion and its ornate edifice looked out of place here. Fingers of vines were shooting up one side of the house, moving crazy fast. Jesus Christ, Michelle thought. What the hell is Gardener doing here?
Then she saw Rusty running around the other side of the building, grabbing weapons and hitting anyone he could get his hands on. The rage in his expression shocked Michelle. He was a sweet kid from Minnesota. He had no business having a look like that on his face.
But at least she had some help. She wasn’t alone. And even in the midst of the smoke, gunshots, and screaming, that cheered her up some.
People’s Palace
Kongoville, Congo
People’s Paradise of Africa
Sun Hei-lian sat on the edge of the bed in her room in the vast People’s Palace in Kongoville.
The only thing that moved about her was her eyes. They tracked Tom’s every move as he paced back and forth in front of her. His tennis shoes made overlapping red tracks on the hardwood floor and throw rug. “I knew it all along,” he said. He was talking so fast he was tripping over the words. “Okay. Okay. Not all along. Not when we were, like, squatting out in the bush together. But I knew he was going bad for a long time.”
Hei-lian still said nothing. That was righteous. He had more than enough to say. She was just a woman, after all. And hadn’t Brother Stokeley said, back when he was righteous, that the only place for a woman in the movement was prone?
A knock at the door made him jump and yell, “Shit!” Hei-lian jumped, too, going very pale. He wondered why she was so tightly wrapped.
“What the fuck do you want?” he hollered.
The door opened tentatively. A youthful aide wearing a colorful dashiki leaned in. “I beg your problem, Comrade Field Marshal,” he said. “There… there is a problem at the Red House.”
The Red House
Bunia, Congo
People’s Paradise of Africa
Lilith had teleported them up the steep slope to the house, then vanished again, saying she was going to check on Rusty. Jerusha was so tired. So hungry. So empty of energy. But she had no choice, not if she wanted Wally to be safe.
She took a long, shuddering breath, trying to dredge up the will to remain standing. She could still hear the firing to the west, where he was. Around the corner of the massive structure of the estate house, she could see bright lights flaring where the main entrance must be. “Lots of soldiers there,” Bugsy said. There was only his head and torso on the ground near her. “They’re not liking the wasps much, though.” He grinned.
“It’s all yours, Gardener,” Cameo said. She was still panting a bit from the climb. “Get us in there.”
Jerusha could only see what was directly in front of her; all the rest was gone. Her hand slid again into the seed pouch, her fingers finding the two large baobab seeds she had left. She took one in her hands. “Back up,” she told Cameo. Bugsy had already dissolved into a stream of wasps curling around the side of the house. “This is going to be messy.”
She glanced up at the red brick walls-it was a shame, to tear down a grand, rambling Victorian edifice like this, and for a moment she felt regret at what she had to do.
So tired. She closed her eyes. But you have to do it. For Rusty. Jerusha took another slow breath. Tossed the seed to the ground at the base of the house. She could feel the life inside, feel it wanting release. She gave it permission.
The baobab tore roots into the ground and erupted upward, the trunk growing more massive by the second. She could feel the roots, plunging down and under the house, tearing into concrete, splintering supports.
The Red House moaned under the assault, and Jerusha moaned with it, the roots of the baobab seeming to tear at her own soul. Jerusha pushed the tree, forcing decades of growth in the space of a few seconds. A fissure opened in the foundation, running in a wild zigzag through the mortar of the bricks and climbing. Jerusha changed the direction of the baobab’s growth: a crack appeared around the mass of the baobab’s trunk. The house visibly lifted, and a mass of bricks fell from the second story to the ground, walls opening as the branches of the baobab tore at the wreckage. She could see inside: offices, desks, workers running wilding away from the destruction; people in lab coats, one in full biological hazard gear.
Jerusha stepped forward, still directing the tree’s growth, making the hole in the side of the mansion large and easier to traverse. She was standing alongside the tree, her eyes slitted, her hand on the trunk so she could feel its life. Leaning against it because if she didn’t, she would fall.
So tired.
Wally set off a couple of mines as he barreled through the perimeter; they blew shrapnel up into his feet, cratering the rust. He’d let the pain take over later. After he smashed this place to rubble.
The defenders let up on the RPGs when Wally closed with the Red House-a sprawling, brick mansion. It was a relief to dispense with the cage.
The spotlights followed his every move, making him an easy target. Gunfire raked him from half a dozen directions. A few at first, then more and more bullets found their mark. They ripped through his corroded skin with little explosions of rust chips. Something hot grazed his waist. A shot dented his temple, blurred his vision, and left his ears ringing.
He made a big show of tearing through the defenders. Punching them, kicking them, smacking them with a length of rebar he’d pulled from the cage. And he disintegrated every weapon he could touch.
Wally didn’t discriminate between the people in uniforms and people in lab coats. They were all part of this. They had all killed Lucien.
The house shook. It lurched, like something huge had grabbed and lifted it. Wally heard a momentous crash, like ten tons of crumbling brick. It came from around back, where Noel had taken Jerusha and the others.
All right, Jerusha!
She’d done her part. Now he just had to get her safe. Wally started working his way around the house.
Gardener’s vines had pulled down one side of the house. It had happened so fast, Michelle couldn’t believe it for a moment. Then she started running toward the collapsing side. Gardener was bound to be close by.
Michelle wanted to know what the plans were. And she wanted to know how the hell Gardener and Rusty had ended up here. It was too damn dangerous for them.
Bullets hit her and RPGs exploded close by. That just plumped her up more. She released a barrage of bubbles as she ran. There were screams and some of the guards went down. They weren’t dead-at least they shouldn’t be. The bubbles were hard but rubbery. She didn’t want to accidentally kill someone friendly. She had no idea who might be here with Rusty and Gardener.
As she got closer to the house, Michelle saw a shrunken, emaciated figure leaning against a massive tree trunk. The tree was still growing up into the air. No, she thought. It can’t be. But in her gut she knew. She felt a chill run through her.
S
he stopped in front of Jerusha. The person leaning against the tree didn’t look like Gardener anymore. Even in the gathering gloom, Michelle could see her sunken cheeks, the gauntness of her body, and the faraway look in her hollowed eyes.
Michelle knew that look. Jerusha was dying.
“Terrible, isn’t it? One of the child aces bit her. She’s been wasting away ever since.”
It was Lilith. She was hidden by the shadows, but Michelle knew that voice. “Why am I not surprised you’re in the middle of this,” Michelle replied. “Why is she here? She should be in a hospital.”
“She was. She wanted to come. For Rustbelt.”
“Stop.” Gardener opened her eyes and said in a whispery voice, “Stop. Please. Just destroy the lab.”
“I’m sorry, Jerusha.” Michelle gave Lilith one last hard stare, then ran into the Red House through the gaping hole that Gardener’s tree had torn.
Inside, she stumbled over bricks and debris, past desks and fallen filing cabinets. A fluorescent light swung by a long electrical cord, unmoored from the ceiling. A guard appeared in the doorway and started firing at her with an automatic weapon. Most of the bullets hit her. She threw a bubble at him and he went down with a whimper.
Two more guards appeared, and shot her as well. She threw bubbles at them, too. Then she struggled through the rubble until she came to the staircase. She’d seen some labs on the second level.
The staircase had broken apart. A big gap separated the two sections. Michelle wasn’t sure she could jump it at her current size. She wasn’t sure she could have jumped it when she was skinny. But she had to get to the labs, so she gave a grunt and leapt across.
Her foot hit, then slipped. She went down hard on her knees. Another zing of energy. The banister groaned as she grabbed it. She pulled herself up and then ran to the top of the stairs.
A sheet of fire met her.
The heat. The light. Memories of New Orleans washed over her, and for a moment she could not move.
But what had happened with Drake hadn’t hurt her. It had changed her. Michelle walked through the fire, curling her hand, forming a bubble in her palm.
When she emerged beyond the flames, she saw a small boy blowing a stream of fire from his mouth as if he were blowing soap bubbles. When he saw her, his jaw dropped and the fire stopped. Standing next to the boy was a man in a lab coat. He looked as surprised as the boy did. She released her bubble and it exploded on the floor in front of them. They were thrown back by the impact. She fired more rubbery bubbles to keep them down.
The doctor began to scramble to his feet, but the boy started crying and fire shot from his mouth again. The doctor shrieked. His lab coat caught fire and there was a nauseating smell as his hair began to burn. He started running, past her and down the stairs. But he didn’t make the gap. There was another scream and a sickening crack as he landed on the floor below.
Michelle turned back to the boy. She said in French, “I’m not going to hurt you.” But he started screaming. Flames shot out of his mouth again and the wallpaper in the hall caught on fire.
“Great,” Michelle muttered. “Just great.” She hopped over the hole in the floor, crouched down next to the boy, and grabbed his arms. She began to form a bubble around him. In a few seconds, he was encased. The bubble wasn’t going to last long, but if he started breathing fire again, he’d use up the oxygen inside and knock himself out. She needed him out of the way while she destroyed the lab.
The first door she tried was stuck. Michelle blew it to pieces and stepped through the hole. Inside the room were lab tables and various pieces of equipment she didn’t recognize. In one corner, three men wearing lab coats cowered. They began begging her for mercy.
“Get out,” she said. They scrambled to their feet and ran past her. Michelle blasted everything in sight. Pieces of metal and glass flew into the air and rained down on her. Instead of going back out into the hall, she just blew a hole into the next room.
This room was like the last one. Tables, equipment, glass, cowering men in lab coats. Rinse. Repeat.
She worked her way through the labs on this side of the hallway. When she got to the end of this row of rooms, she went back into the hallway and checked on Fire Boy. He was sitting quietly in the bubble. He turned and looked at her quizzically. The bubble wouldn’t hold much longer, so she needed to finish up quick. She bubbled and blew a hole in the door across the hall, and then went through it.
This lab was different. There were cots lining one wall. On the walls were brightly colored pictures of smiling children. It reminded Michelle of the lab she and Joey had found in the jungle. She felt sick.
She worked her way through the room, destroying the beds, the pretty pictures, the cabinets filled with syringes and bottles of the virus. Then she bubbled her way into the next room. More beds. More smiling pictures. It felt good to blow them up.
The last room contained rows of built-in refrigerated cabinets. They didn’t last long. Room by room she systematically obliterated everything she found. She was thinner when she came back into the hallway.
Fire Boy was still in the bubble. Smoke was filling the hallway. Flames licked up the walls. Michelle touched the bubble and popped it. The boy looked up at her, giving her a small smile. She smiled back. He opened his mouth as if to speak, and a wave of fire enveloped her. He clamped his hands over his mouth.
Michelle squatted next to him and said, “You can’t hurt me, but you should try not to open your mouth when there are other people around. At least until you figure out how to control your power.”
He nodded. Then he smiled at her again. She smiled back. She couldn’t help it. Then she said, “Come with me.”
Battle flashed and crackled all around the rambling Red House with its complicated compound roof.
Tom landed on well-tended lawn before the front portico. The first thing he saw was a sheet-lightning flicker of muzzle flashes beyond the prefab barracks between the main house and the gate. The rattle of automatic fire was near continuous.
Eyes beginning to water from the smoke that twined around him, he started to trot in that direction. A brilliant blue-white flash seemed to light the whole night sky ahead of him, accompanied by a nasty crack like the sound of lightning striking nearby. An RPG had gone off nearby. As he passed between two of the lightweight wood structures a window with a wall in it exploded outward toward him. A huge figure loomed there, misshapen and dark, like a hybrid of man and steel drum. A vast arm swung toward him, trailing wood splinters.
He bent his will to going insubstantial, to allow the powerful blow to pass right through him.
He didn’t go insubstantial.
Fury spiked in him. That bastard Meadows stole Cosmic Traveler! Then a fist like a medieval mace clipped the side of his head and sent sparks bouncing off the inside of his skull. Tom spun down hard on his face on dirt worn bare by passing boots and compacted hard. The world reeled crazily about him. His stomach lurched.
Sheer anger drove him to push off from the merciless ground, snapping himself upright with unnatural strength. He found himself facing his attacker. The dude looked like the Tin Woodman on steroids. He had a lower jaw like a steam shovel. “So you’re the fella they call the Radical, huh?” the metal man said in a loopy Minnesota accent. “Tough guy. Well, it’s high time you picked on somebody your own size.”
Tom tasted blood, turned his face to spit out a tooth. Then he slammed an uppercut into the rusted-over steel plate that covered the metal dude’s gut. Iron groaned and buckled.
The metal man oofed and bent over. “Felt that one,” he said.
Tom slammed an overhand right into the bucket jaw. The metal man flew backward through the corner of the same wall he’d just burst through. A corner of the barracks slumped on top of him.
Tom turned to look for new enemies. There was a terrific commotion coming from the far side of the Red House, toward the west. By the light of flames he saw what looked like the branches of a huge tree
looming above the high-pitched slate roof.
I don’t remember a great big tree there when I was here before, he was just thinking muzzily, when something like the steel jaws of a trap closed on either biceps.
He jerked his right arm forward. Skin beneath rust-roughened steel fingers. Tom slammed his elbow back against thick metal plate, felt it give. The iron man gasped in pain. The grip on Tom’s left arm slacked.
He ripped free, spun to begin trip-hammering punches into the metal monster. The armor began to dent in on itself, the steel man to sag.
Then suddenly there were wasps whining around his ears, stinging his arms and neck and cheeks, and trying for his eyes.
Bursts of automatic gunfire erupted to the south as the local soldiers regrouped. Cameo and Bugsy crouched behind the ruins of a jeep, its front wheels still gently spinning. “This is not going according to plan,” Bugsy noted.
“The earring,” Cameo said.
“What?”
“Ali’s earring. Simoon can force them all into cover.”
Bugsy took the chance of peering over the jeep’s fender. A bullet hissed by, and he ducked back down. “It’s in Central Park somewhere,” he said.
“It’s what?”
“Well… we broke up, you know?”
Ellen said something under her breath. She fumbled with something in her pocket, then the ruins of the fedora appeared. Nick lobbed a ball of lightning at the attackers, following it with ten or twelve marble-sized shockers as the first detonation was still rumbling. “Go!” Nick shouted. “Distract them, at least.”
“I’m on it.” Bugsy dissolved into an angry, living cloud. He flew in a funnel toward Weathers, weaving through the air in tight spirals, dropping low and racing to the sky, no tendril of wasps so dense that their loss would be crippling.
Tom Weathers’s fists rose and fell, Rustbelt shuddering with every blow. A lightning ball exploded just to the Radical’s left, illuminating him like a flashbulb-hair plastered to him by sweat, lips drawn back in an expression of inhuman rage.
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