by Ben Farthing
"Of course you're not," he said, staring down iron sights. "If you were, that cannon would have ripped you apart with thirty pounds of grape shot."
Everard noticed the cannon in the corner of the room, a six inch barrel on thick wagon wheels. "So maybe put the gun down," he said.
"Not until you leave. Those Inc bastards aren't after me or my restorations, but you're Mr. President's new rebellist, aren't you? Could be they're after you. Best you find another place to hide."
"I'm not Mr. President's anything. I don't want to hide, I want a weapon."
"Nothing here you can have. Get out." He pulled back the lock on the musket.
Everard finally had a chance to fight back, so he wasn't going to leave here without a weapon. Especially not because of some coward antique collector. He looked around for something he could use, but it all looked rusty and useless. On the counter was a flintlock pistol, with a smooth, stained wooden handle, and a polished brass barrel.
"I'll shoot you if you don't get out."
"They'll still come for me if it's just my body." Could be true, Everard didn't know. He walked to the counter, staring the man down right back up the sights of his musket, and took the pistol.
"Don't touch that."
"Where's the ammo?"
"You don't even know what it is. Put it back. You can have something else."
"Doesn't need ammo, does it? What's it do?"
"It's a gun, what do you think it does?"
"Let's see." Everard aimed the pistol at a wooden mannequin and pulled the trigger. A muffled cacophony erupted from the barrel, jolting Everard's wrist with the recoil. It sounded like a tornado inside a soundproofed room. The mannequin flipped backwards, smashing into a shelf and then rolling to the floor. The invisible shot had punched a dent into its chest as big as a croquet ball, six inches deep. And this was some kind of ironwood. An inch or two could stop a high caliber bullet.
"Fancy," said Everard. He rubbed his ear, impressed it wasn't ringing.
"You leave that here," demanded Bermuda.
Everard ignored him to rejoin Brian and Renae in the hallway.
Three bluecoats had showed up, each bloodied. One's arm hung limp at her side, another had purple bruising in a ring around his neck.
Brian's speakers thumped with the beats and repetitive melodies of club music. Both he and Renae pulled glimmers out of the air in the time to the bass, and drew them to themselves with the melody. Renae's specs of light were more defined than Brian's, less blurry.
The bluecoats aimed their short muskets at the open doorway to the stairwell.
Heavy footfalls echoed down, accompanied by excited whoops and screams.
"Who are they?" asked Everard. "Who's coming?"
"Lynch Mobbers," said Renae.
"Real messed up bunch of assholes," said Brian. He brushed ceiling dust off his shoulder, hand shaking. "This racist named John Haw got a bunch of them riled up, blaming everything bad on all the post-1950 social change. Now they pretty much do whatever he says."
"Doesn't sound so bad," said Everard.
"There's a lot of power in hate." Renae pointed to the flintlock. "You figure out how to use that thing?"
"Point and shoot," said Everard.
"Good. And good luck explaining to Mr. President why you chose that particular pistol."
Before Everard could ask what she meant, the bluecoat with the bruises started barking orders, his voice raspy. "You two dancers handle the ones in the air. We'll focus our fire on the ground."
He pointed at Everard. "Watch our backs. Use your bent to deal with ropes."
"I don't-"
"Use the pistol," said Renae.
Everard wanted to ask they meant by ropes, but time ran out.
A figure cloaked in a white sheet swooped out of the stairwell. Three more followed, torches in hand, leaving trails of smoke that slowly rose and dissipated. One dove at Everard.
He aimed his pistol, and then Brian tackled him.
The pistol went off, punching a dent in the cinderblock wall.
"Don't let them near you." Brian stood, joined his sister.
A cross of flame burned through the tiled floor where Everard had been standing only moments before.
Everard tried to aim at their attackers, but they moved too quickly.
To the electronic rhythm that pulsed from Brian's speakers, a braided lash of pink and orange light sprung out from Renae's hand, wrapped around the ankle of one of the flyers, and yanked him to the floor. He swung his torch at Renae, but Brian knocked it out of his hand with a loose burst of brightness.
The music waxed and waned with the energy they pulled from it.
A bluecoat put a musketball in the Lynch Mobber's head. Everard's ears rang as red stained the white sheet.
"Focus on the doorway," yelled her commander.
The rest of the attackers took advantage of their distraction, at least twenty of them marching in. They wore clean, pressed slacks and button-down shirts, with their hair shiny with wax and combed straight. They looked like the anti-desegregation crowds from photographs in history books who screamed in black kids' faces. With their leather loafers and horn-rimmed glasses, they'd pass for a crowd of hipsters if they weren't armed with torches, pitchforks, and a few rifles.
Renae took down another KKK wannabe. The sheet fluttered off, revealing another sharply dressed man.
Everard gave up trying to hit the fliers, and aimed at the people on the ground instead. He'd never shot anyone - before yesterday, it'd been years since he'd even punched someone - but it turned out to not be too complicated. Point and pull the trigger.
The burst of muffled sound hit a pitchfork-weilding Lynch Mobber on his shoulder, spinning him into another attacker. His howls about his arm added to the chaotic noise already in the hallway.
A burst of musketfire dropped three of the mob. The bluecoats weren't muzzle-loading their weapons; they had some kind of semi-automatic muskets. Everard only wondered about that for a second, then he understood what the bluecoat had said about ropes.
A Lynch Mobber pointed at the wall. From the spot he pointed to, a rope shot out, looping around a bluecoat's neck into a noose. His face turned purple as he hacked at the rope with a knife.
"Where are you, rebellist?" shouted the commander.
Everard didn't bother trying to use his bent. He aimed the pistol and fired at the rope. He missed the first time but smashed it apart on the second, freeing the bluecoat to his heaving gasps.
The precise light-whips of Renae's graceful movements swung and missed at the last two fliers, who were nimbler than the others. Helicopter rotors made of green and gold light spun toward them, almost filling the hallway. One flier dove beneath the spinning blades, but Brian's imprecise attack crashed into the other, singeing the sheet and knocking him against the ceiling. He fell the twelve feet to the ground. His skull cracked against the tile, audible even with Everard's ears ringing.
Another gunshot - sharper than the muskets - roared in the hallway, followed by a splattering on the tile. A bluecoat fell, the back of his head gone, the bottom brim of his tricornered hat smeared with blood.
Everard took down another Lynch Mobber.
Renae grunted and then was rolling on the floor, putting out the flames that had already burnt a black cross against her body. Brian launched another spinning blade, but it fizzled out as the music died. A blast of fire had melted the speakers.
A rope burst out from the stairwell, through the mob, grabbing the commander around the throat. Everard couldn't get a clear shot at it. He fired wildly, knocking back another two mobbers. The bluecoat clawed at the rope. It went taut, yanked him into the crowd.
Everard imagined the noose, tried to deny it. "No!" he yelled. But nothing happened. He caught a glimpse of the commander being lifted up out of sight in the stairwell, and then he was gone.
The final bluecoat, the woman with the limp arm, fired a barrage of curses to go with the shots from h
er pistol. The advancing mob silenced both with a pitchfork and club.
"Start singing," winced Renae, leading them back.
Brian sang Happy Birthday, practically shouted it.
Everard wondered why he'd pick that song, until Brian waved to Everard to join him. It was one of few songs everyone knew.
Everard sang, firing at the Lynch Mobbers. He couldn't stay on key, but apparently that didn't matter too much.
Renae danced with exaggerated movements. As she pulled lights from the air around her, Everard's lungs tightened. He forced himself to keep singing, even while her bent drained his energy.
Three bits of light shot out from her fingertips, hitting rifles in the mob. Each exploded, and Lynch Mobbers hands turned to broken bone, blood, and sinew.
Renae stopped dancing. "Run."
They all three took off down the hallway.
The Lynch Mobbers sprinted after them.
An explosion of black powder deafened Everard.
He looked over his shoulder to see a mass of blood and broken bodies, and a dozen four-inch pockmarks in the wall across from the storage room. Bermuda had turned his cannon outside.
It wasn't enough, though. At least ten Lynch Mobbers still stood, and more were emerging from the stairwell. A couple went into the storage room, but most kept on down the hallway.
"Keep singing," ordered Renae. She breathed deep, wincing at the burn down her chest and stomach.
Everard and Brian continued wishing themselves happy birthday, but they sang more weakly as they ran. Renae pulled the energy inside herself, but didn't attack.
"Where are we going?" breathed Everard between bars. Bill Bill had warned about going too far down these halls, suggested the floors might break and drop them who knows where.
"I don't know," said Renae. "Maybe there's another stairwell. Or an exit."
There wasn't even another door as far as Everard could see. Only cinderblock and tile.
"Stop!" yelled Renae.
Everard slid to a halt. Inches ahead, thick cracks permeated the floor. The tiles grew transluscent, hinting at a writhing darkness beneath.
"We can't go any farther," said Renae.
The Lynch Mobbers drew closer. The bald man with the cross burned into his forehead pointed at the ceiling, and a noose wrapped around Renae's throat. She twisted fluidly and a thin blade of light cut the rope.
He pointed again, another rope jerked her to the side, and she went limp.
Everard fired over and over. Smashing in faces, breaking arms, collapsing chests. But the pistol would only fire so fast, and the Lynch Mobbers were almost on top of them.
Brian was over his sister, hissing her name. "Look at me. Come on, look at me!"
Everard had never thought about how he'd face death, but now was determined to go kicking and screaming, clawing out eyes and biting off fingers until they killed him. Whatever happened, he wouldn't be dragged back to Undone Duncan.
His rage took control and he charged the Lynch Mobbers.
A newcomer raised a rifle.
"No," said Everard.
The rifle's hammer clicked down on an empty chamber.
Everard fired once more, crushing the burned face guy's head in, and then grabbed the barrel of the pistol, raising it to use as a club.
He knocked aside a pitchfork, smashed the butt of the gun into a Lynch Mobber's temple, then the entire mob collapsed.
They cursed and yelled at each other, but as much as they tried to stand, they fell right back down. One raised a pitchfork to throw at Everard, and it slipped out of his hand.
Mr. President and Bill Bill strode down the hallway. If God's avenging angels were Revolutionary War generals, this was what they'd look like. Fury burned in their eyes. Even Bill Bill's eternal grin was missing, replaced with tight lips and a shifting jaw as he ground his teeth.
The flier swooped back into view, flinging a cross of fire from his torch. Mr. President faced the flame. It dissipated, and the flier fell from the air, sliding along the tile to stop at Everard's feet. Dead eyes stared at nothing.
A gunshot echoed in the hallway. A Lynch Mobber had managed to pull his trigger. He collapsed with the same empty gaze as the flier.
A squad of bluecoats in swat gear - kevlar vests, helmets, and riot shields over their uniforms - ran in and cuffed the surviving Lynch Mobbers, who still couldn't find their balance. The bluecoats literally dragged them away.
Everard watched it all, sitting with his back against the wall. Brian sat next to his sister, holding her lifeless hand against his cheek, shaking with sobs. Everard considered going to him, but what could he say? He didn't know how to handle things like that.
Mr. President pushed the scarred face guy's head with his boot, looking into his face. "Did they really think they'd be successful?"
"Someone offered a reward worth the risk," said Bill Bill. He stepped to Everard's side and helped him to his feet.
Brian looked up. Tear streaked cheeks and puffy eyes didn't fit his personality. "You can fix this, right? Deny that it happened?"
"I'm sorry." Bill Bill ran his hand through his wild white hair. "It doesn't work like that."
"Deny it! Her neck's broken. Think about that and say it's not. Isn't that what you do?"
"I could fix her neck. But if I tried to deny that she was..." Bill Bill searched for the right word, "that she was gone, it wouldn't work. I'd break reality before I brought her back. Wherever her spark went, it's out of my reach."
"Ah, geez," moaned Brian. "How am I going to tell our parents?"
Bill Bill crouched next to Brian, rested his hand on the kid's shoulder.
Everard was glad Bill Bill had some instinct for situations like this. Because between the murdered woman, the dead Lynch Mobbers, and the weeping young man, Everard didn't know what to do at all.
Chapter Twenty
Everard stayed to watch the Burgesses clean up the bodies.
The fluorescent lights added a washed out paleness to all the color in the hallway, even the blood spatters.
Two men in their forties—whose similar noses and chins said they were brothers—took special care with Renae, dabbing the blood and dirt off her with a cloth, and then gently placing her inside a body bag.
They took less care with the Lynch Mobbers, stuffing their corpses in bags, stomping them down until the bags zipped closed.
They picked up the rifle Everard had denied was loaded. Instead of wood and iron, it was now a thin rod of brittle brick.
"One of those fish dogs is in the gym," said Everard.
"Don't worry about it." The brothers threw the rifle in a bag. "It's getting tossed."
Down the hallway, a team collected blood samples off the wall, while another team worked behind them, cleaning with bleach and mops.
Brian watched from the corner, sitting with his arms around his knees.
It had been twelve years since Everard felt grief like that, but time didn't dull all memories. He tried not to think of all the other families grieving right now. Those three bluecoats all had parents, siblings, maybe spouses and children. Maybe he wouldn't call Abby. Just let it end, so he could go on enjoying life without all the pain these people felt.
Bill Bill had said the current count was fourteen dead: ten bluecoats, three civilian burgesses, and one Minuteman who'd showed up with a team to help. Everard wondered if it was either of the two who'd already saved him from Undone Duncan.
Bill Bill and Mr. President supervised from down the hallway. Mr. President argued in hushed tones with his aids. Bill Bill butted in here and there, but grew bored and walked over to Everard.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Should have seen that coming. Everyone's been too chickenshit to directly attack us for the last twenty years, but I should have known they couldn't pass up an attempt at the the new rebellist."
"Don't apologize to me," said Everard.
"I know. Renae was a good woman."
"Look at him," said Everard.
> "That's how most people react to losing a sibling."
"Don't go there," said Everard.
"It's relevant."
"Don't. I'm here, aren't I? You won. Stop arguing about it."
Bill Bill picked up an extinguished torch. "Do you see why I want you here?"
Everard couldn't believe the question. "So I'll attract people who want to kill me?"
"How quickly did Mr. President and I put an end to this attack?" He hefted the torch, feeling out its balance.
"What did you do, exactly?" Everard again saw dead, empty eyes as the flier crashed to the floor.
"Something I hate doing, but had to be done."
"You denied their lives?"
"No, that wouldn't quite work. Too conceptual, so it would have more fallout. If you're ever in a kill or be killed situation, you deny their heartbeat."
"I'll keep that in mind." He reached for the torch, and Bill Bill gave it to him. "How'd they do all that? Fly, and throw fire, and make nooses appear out of nowhere?"
"A lot of power comes from hate," said Bill Bill. "Especially when it's a riled up crowd all hating the same thing. Some of the Lynch Mobbers have bents that tap into it."
"And the others? The guys just carrying weapons and yelling?"
"Just your garden variety asshole. Nothing special about them, except they like what the gang stands for, and John Haws convinced them to join."
"If you know about them and you're so powerful, why haven't you dealt with them yet?"
"It's not that simple. Undone Duncan offers protection to many of these gangs."
"So deny his heartbeat."
"There's ways to shield yourself from bents—even reality bents. We'd have to go to war with him, and we can't afford that."
"Looks like Undone Duncan thinks it's happening anyways."
"I'm sure he'll deny involvement in hiring the Lynch Mobbers, just like Inc will deny bribing Undone Duncan."
"What's the point of the Burgesses, then? I thought you were all about keeping people safe?"
"We've more been roped into that responsibility," said Bill Bill. "We come together out of a mutual belief."
"Like the Lynch Mobbers," said Everard.
"Sort of the opposite, but yes, similar," said Bill Bill, ignoring the jab. "We all pray to the Founding Fathers, but there's only a few who draw power from it."
