The two fighters circled one another, closing the space between them. Wawa smelled sweat on Grace, along with Maddie’s blood. While the strators whooped and hollered for their warrior, Wawa’s companions waited behind the barricade, aghast at what unfolded before them.
“Did I ever tell you what I did before the war?” Wawa asked Grace.
“You were probably someone’s pet.”
Wawa grinned. “That’s right. Just a pet. A house slave.”
Grace lunged at her, slashing the blade from above. Wawa blocked her with her forearm, but the metal made contact. She retreated. A hot ribbon formed on her arm, oozing blood. Grace attacked again, this time thrusting the knife, barely missing her. Wawa grabbed Grace’s other arm. The human gave her a vicious head-butt to the snout. Wawa slashed blindly, her nails catching Grace in the chest. Three red cuts dripped from the bottom of the human’s neck. Fluid filled Wawa’s left nostril, a viscous combination of blood and snot. She licked at it as it leaked from her nose. Grace flashed the blade again. Wawa spun away.
“Put her in a body bag!” someone shouted, followed by roaring laughter.
Like a pit bull, Grace moved in a jerky, unpredictable fashion. Her shoulders rose and fell. Sour sweat popped from her forehead and neck. Grace faked with the knife one way to make Wawa flinch. Then she thrusted, nicking Wawa across the ribs. Wawa batted her arm away, leaving claw marks on the woman’s wrists. The spectators cheered again.
A siren rang out. Above, the balloons hissed as the gas evacuated. The Vesuvius lurched and tilted toward the starboard side. The tethering cables shuddered.
Still in a fighting stance, Grace tried to process what was happening. Her black irises rolled upward. Her knife lowered, but only a little.
“Listen to me, Grace,” Wawa said. “That sound you hear is the balloon deflating. We’re going down, and we’re dragging Upheaval with us. We’ll crash both ships if we have to.”
The deck tilted again as the Vesuvius sank. The metal from the docking clamp moaned under the strain, like a whale with a harpoon in its side.
“Strator!” Pham shouted. He pressed his index finger to his earpiece. “We’re getting called back to the ship. They’re going to release the docking device.”
“No! We’re taking the bridge!”
Ruiz, D’Arc, and the other guards propped their rifles on the barricade.
Pham tried to make out the orders coming through his earpiece. “We have to get back to Upheaval. They’re cutting us loose.”
“No one leaves!”
The ship lurched again, tilted at an even steeper angle. A weightless sensation swelled in Wawa’s gut as the Vesuvius descended.
“Don’t follow this woman to your death,” Wawa said. “Go back to your ship and live.”
“Maddie’s dead,” Grace said.
“A lot of people are dead.”
“Grace, please!” Pham said. “We have to go.”
Grace ignored him. One by one—and then in small groups—the humans retreated to the airlock. Soon, only six or seven remained. Grace refused to watch, even when Pham ran away. The wager still stood.
Suddenly, the Upheaval accelerated. The motion jerked the ships forward, knocking the humans over. Wawa and Grace tumbled onto the stairs of the amphitheater. Each step dug into a different part of Wawa’s body—her spine, her ribs, her hip. She landed on her tail and felt the cartilage crunch under her weight.
Grace got to her feet before anyone else. Wawa rolled onto her stomach to see the human bounding up the stairs. She was rushing the bridge while she still had the chance.
Wawa got up and chased after her. She jumped over Lasky, who came to rest on the second level of the amphitheater. Ruiz, D’Arc, and the other guards were spilled about, still dazed. Grace charged into the corridor. If she burst through the door with her sidearm, she could take out most of the bridge crew before anyone could even draw a weapon.
Sprinting at full speed, Wawa turned the corner to find Grace standing there, waiting for her, her black eyes filled with hate. Something slipped into Wawa’s gut, ice cold at first, then eerily warm. It didn’t hurt until the human slid the blade toward Wawa’s heart. Wawa grabbed Grace’s sticky hands and halted the knife’s progress through her torso. The blood that flowed was so dark it was almost black.
As the ship tilted once again, Grace pressed Wawa to the wall, using her weight to plunge the knife deeper. Wawa blinked and felt herself fading. In the common area, people shouted. Boots stomped on the deck. Perhaps her friends had arrived to help her, but she could no longer tell. She was standing in the fighting pit again, rising on her hind legs for the first time and facing her master while the ugly human spectators gazed in horror.
Wawa let her tongue flop out of her mouth. It went dry instantly. Only a few inches from the human’s face, she leaned forward and licked Grace on her brow, the way she used to whenever her master gave her a treat. With clenched teeth, Grace smiled.
As the smile faded, Wawa used her last ounce of strength to open her jaws and snap them around Grace’s head. The human grunted in surprise. Wawa dug her fangs into Grace’s temple, her cheekbone, her eye socket. Grace tried to wriggle free, only to have the teeth sink deeper into the flesh. Her grip on the knife loosened. Wawa worked the blade out of her stomach. The pain burned all the way to her ears, and she fought through it by biting harder until she felt the human’s skull crack. When the knife came loose, Wawa twisted it, breaking Grace’s wrist and then ramming the blade into her neck. A warm fountain blossomed there, dribbling over them and pooling at their feet. The two warriors toppled over.
The world grew dim. Footsteps stamped the floor around her. Voices shouted her name, the name she chose for herself, but she was already so far away. Wawa was standing in the arena again. Only this time, Cyrus stood beside her. They did not speak. They ran into the forest, free from the chains and the cages. They followed the trail under the stars. They were a pack.
On the bridge, the green horizon sliced through the front window at a forty-five-degree angle. Loose objects rolled to the starboard side of the room—documents, pens, a pair of glasses, a plastic Jesus statue, a fire extinguisher. Unoka and the copilot tilted in their seats to stay level. Falkirk held onto the railing while Gaunt clung to the deck like it was the ceiling of his cave.
“Computers are back online,” Bulan said.
The monitors kicked on, all with blue screens that flicked over to black and white.
“We’re at seventy-eight hundred feet,” O’Neill said.
“I have control again,” Unoka said. “Balloons are at thirty percent capacity. Ready to inflate the tanks.”
“Not yet,” Falkirk said. “We have to wait for them to let go of us first.”
“Seventy-two hundred, sir.”
The ship tilted further. More objects dropped from desktops, rolling and tumbling into the growing pile. Falkirk watched the Upheaval through the port window. On the other ship’s bridge, the humans pressed against the glass and watched him. Falkirk stood taller. He wanted them to see the first dog captain, calm and collected on his bridge.
“Sixty-five hundred,” O’Neill called out.
Unoka swung around in his seat, desperate for Falkirk to give the order.
Come on, Falkirk thought. Let us go.
“Six thousand,” O’Neill said, more anxious this time.
Finally, the deck shuddered.
“Upheaval is disengaging,” O’Neill said.
The docking device released with a hollow ker-chunk. Falkirk felt weightless for a moment. Through the window, he watched as the retractable clamp snapped backward like a rubber band pulled too far. The tube corkscrewed into the engines of the Upheaval, colliding with one of the propellers.
“Unoka, fire up those tanks!”
“Aye, sir!”
Outside, the defla
ted balloons rippled in the wind like tarps in a windstorm. The resulting turbulence shook the bridge violently. The Vesuvius pitched forward. The forest below lifted into view.
“Five thousand! Picking up speed.”
“Captain, Upheaval is out of control,” Bulan said. “She’s dropping right on top of us.”
The port tank ejected its gas first, followed by the starboard. Falkirk hoped that the tanks would inflate the canvas in a great burst, but the material continued to flap helplessly.
“Unoka, can you steer us away from Upheaval?”
“We need to level off first. We’re at . . . Thirty degrees. Balloons are at fifty percent.”
“Put it in reverse until we straighten out.”
“Four thousand feet!”
A sparkling creek flowed between the trees. The shadow of Vesuvius expanded into a black hole that engulfed the forest. Beside it, Upheaval’s oblong shadow spun clockwise.
“Balloons are at sixty percent,” Unoka said. “Engines are topped out at full reverse.”
“Thirty-five hundred!”
The nose of the Vesuvius began to tilt upward. If they crashed, they might at least land on the belly of the ship, rather than striking the earth like a missile. The descent slowed as the balloons inflated. Gravity sealed Falkirk’s feet to the floor.
“Three thousand!” O’Neill made it sound like they’d won a prize.
A new Klaxon switched on, this one signaling the approaching ground with an obnoxious coughing sound. Err-err-err-err-err.
“Twenty-five hundred!”
At this altitude, the forest had texture, with the pine trees resembling the fur of some unkempt animal. The hills dipped like a funnel into the stream, which emptied into a river.
Gaunt rose to his hind legs. With his spindly finger, he pointed at the river and screeched. When Falkirk failed to respond right away, the bat flapped his wings frantically.
Falkirk understood. “Unoka, take us into the valley.”
“Way ahead of you, sir.”
“Fifteen hundred!”
“Take us out of reverse,” Falkirk said. “We’ll fly through the valley.”
“Aye, sir.”
The engines recalibrated, whistling and wheezing before shoving the ship forward. The Vesuvius leveled off, but the forest continued to rise, the tops of the evergreens reaching for the hull.
“Balloons are at seventy percent,” Unoka said.
“One thousand feet!”
“Helm, can you pull us up in time?” Falkirk asked.
“Nine hundred!”
“Helm!”
Unoka glanced at the copilot. “No, sir.”
“Eight hundred!”
In the window, the river widened, unaware of the behemoth bearing down on it. Falkirk wished that D’Arc were there, if she still lived. And his mother. And Wendigo. He wanted to tell them that it almost worked.
“Five hundred feet!”
“Aim for the water,” Falkirk said. He sat in the captain’s chair. Gaunt took Ruiz’s seat beside him and strapped in.
The treetops brushed against the hull, gently at first. Then the limbs and trunks groaned and cracked. The ship, still dropping but moving forward, pitched over the last row of trees and into the valley. The earth opened, like a great set of jaws ready to slam shut. The gondola skimmed along the river, rocking the bridge so hard that Falkirk’s head bounced forward. Skipping like a stone, the ship made contact again, this time sending a great wave against the front window. Two of the engines cut out. The Vesuvius listed to starboard and spun toward the muddy shoreline. A wall of trees waited to break the ship’s momentum. With water streaming from the windows, the trees collided against the ship with loud thunks until one of them shattered the glass. Unoka maintained the controls even as pine needles and shards rained on him. The trees snapped at their base, dozens at once, then slowing to a few at a time until Vesuvius at last skidded to a halt. The ship rested on the canopy, teetering, the treetops blocking the windows on all sides.
The altitude Klaxon continued to cough. Err-err-err-err. Falkirk could not accept that he was alive until O’Neill blurted out, “Fourteen feet.” A few people laughed. Beside him, Gaunt unbuckled his belt, seemingly ashamed to have worn it in the first place. Unoka brushed off the debris from his jacket.
Falkirk stood and walked to his podium. In a few more seconds, he would have to issue new orders, demand a damage report, check on the wounded. Until then, he could stand amid the wreckage and whisper. “The white. The white takes you.” The bat heard him, and squeaked something in response. He may have been asking if Falkirk was going crazy.
Falkirk didn’t care. You can punish me all you want, he thought. You can keep cursing me, keep taking people away. I’m still here.
That was all it took. The weight of it slid off of him, an unburdening so abrupt he expected to hear a steel anvil hit the floor.
He had to find D’Arc.
CHAPTER 25
The Last Prayer to St. Jude
D’Arc knelt over Wawa, pressing both hands into the shredded wound in the pit bull’s stomach. All around her, the soldiers shouted orders. Lasky demanded that they get the adrenalin and bandages from the infirmary. Ruiz and his comrades pointed guns at the remaining strators, who lay on the deck, hands clasped behind their necks. The prisoners whimpered prayers, begging for mercy. A soldier stepped over Braga’s corpse and pounded on the door to the bridge. With the ship tilted, the chamber became a bizarre alternate universe, a reflection in a broken mirror. Wawa lifted her hands away from the wound, letting the blood go where it may. The scent of it left the taste of iron in D’Arc’s throat. Wawa pawed at her chest until she grabbed hold of the medallion. Her tongue rolled out of the side of her jaw, almost touching the floor.
D’Arc could do nothing but kneel in the sticky pool of blood and watch the chief die.
Wawa lifted the necklace from her chest until the chain pulled tight. She offered it to D’Arc.
“No,” D’Arc said.
The pit bull coughed. A drop of blood rolled along her chin.
D’Arc caught herself wheezing, the same noise she made the first time one of the Alphas died. All those years ago, she thought she knew death well enough to stare it in the face. The chief needed her to be strong in these last moments, and D’Arc was failing her.
“The pack,” Wawa sputtered. “The pack. The pack.” She convulsed in a fit of coughing. Then her muscles softened. The eyelids drooped. A gust of air escaped the mouth and nose. Life slipped away from the tired body.
D’Arc rolled on top of Wawa and wrapped her arms around her neck, like cradling one of her Alpha sisters in their final moments. Like two dogs spooning in a forest, their bodies gave off a low heat that was already beginning to fade.
D’Arc let go and sat on her heels for a while. Then she unclasped the necklace and slipped the chain off. Grasping the medal between her thumb and index finger, she rubbed away the red dot covering St. Jude’s face. Lasky asked if she was all right. She said yes.
She took a few steps away from the body, the heap of mangled flesh that used to be a person. The smell of gunpowder wafted in from the corridors. She sensed the people in the room trembling. They needed time to accept that they survived all of this while others had not, and there was no sense to any of it. Mort(e) spent years trying to teach her this. Going out into the world meant witnessing terrible things and shoving them deep into your gut and fooling yourself into thinking that everything was okay, the good outweighed the bad. Somehow that would keep you moving forward, because moving forward was the only thing that really mattered.
D’Arc took a moment to inspect herself. She didn’t recognize what she saw. Blood from Wawa, Grace, and Maddie mingled in her fur, drying out and becoming brittle. A red patch covered the handle of her sword. She patted her limbs, ribs, and
hips, searching for injuries she could no longer feel. Satisfied, she wiped her hands on her sides, leaving sticky imprints. She would have to soak in a long bath to get it out, and the water would be pink when she finished.
Something slammed into the gondola from the outside, rocking the entire ship like an earthquake. D’Arc thought that the Vesuvius had begun to slip from its perch. But then she heard the sound of metal squealing as some ungodly force twisted it out of shape.
It came from the lower decks. From the detention area.
D’Arc raced through the winding corridor, passing flickering lights, hurdling dead bodies. At the cellblock, the bodies of Huxley and Maddie lay twisted in their permanent sleep. Near the door to the Old Man’s cell, someone had left a laptop crumpled in a pile, its screen broken off at the hinge. A set of wires extended from a jack in the computer to the keypad. D’Arc tried the door, but could not get it open. She called Mort(e)’s name. The Old Man would not answer.
Lasky arrived, out of breath, stinking of sweat. “Tell them to open it!” she said. He returned the way he came, heading for the bridge. D’Arc sat by the door and waited, with the three people she murdered on the ground nearby, and the person she left behind trapped in a cage.
“Can you hear me, Old Man?” D’Arc said. No response. “I’m sorry.” She was not sure what to be sorry about. She was sorry they had met, sorry she took the pill, sorry she became the person she was and not someone else. It didn’t matter. The words left her mouth and disappeared, so meaningless.
After a while, a green light on the keypad switched on. A latch clicked. D’Arc opened the door. At the far end of the cell, a massive hole pierced the wall, framing an image of the forest floor below. The wind howled through the opening.
She heard Lasky again. “Oh, good, you got it open,” he said. “We had to—”
He stopped at the threshold. The jagged edges of the hole resembled metal teeth, bent inward. Something had punched the hull from the outside, a giant hand that snatched the Old Man away. D’Arc approached the hole cautiously. She placed her paw on the frayed metal, sniffing at it until she caught the scent she expected—ammonia. She peeked through the opening and saw a tree trunk nearby.
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