Gaslit Revolution

by Jason Gilbert

  “Let this happen, Shepherd,” Chris said, his voice a low growl.

  Kane looked over his shoulder at the newsie.

  “Stand down,” he said. “I’m telling you: this will turn bad.”

  “Listen to him,” Tabitha said. “You can’t win this.”

  “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Chris said, his eyes still locked on Kane. “We have to do this.”

  An officer approached the picket line. Kane pulled his hat down, put his hands in his pockets, and stepped back into the crowd casually as the officer looked directly at Chris.

  “No talking when the President is speaking.”

  “It’s Freedom of Speech, asshole,” Chris said. “Check your First Amendment.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” the officer said, gritting his teeth. “I’ll give you the Freedom of Shutting the Hell Up. When the President talks, you listen.”

  Kane glanced at the officer’s hand, saw the cross tattoo. A Templar. Shit.

  He put his hand on Chris’s shoulder and whispered in his ear.

  “Say ‘yes sir’ and shut the fuck up. We need him to go away.”

  Chris worked his jawbone in agitation, shook his head, and looked at the cop.

  “Yes sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “God damn right, you’re sorry,” the officer said, turning away as he muttered under his breath. “Sack of shit.”

  “Hidden Valley, and other neighborhoods like it, have become a blight on this city,” Frostmeyer continued, “on the Northern Union. Crime runs rampant, those places full of people longing to take from those of us who work hard for what we have. As I said a moment before: we must work to improve these areas and grow our city and nation.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this,” Tabitha said, gripping Kane’s hand, her eyes locked on Frostmeyer.

  Kane glanced from Frostmeyer to Gentry. The commissioner stared at Kane, his eyes flashing, a smile on his face.

  “Something’s up,” Kane said. He looked at Chris. “We need to get out of here. Right now.”

  “Says you,” Chris said. “We’re here for a reason, and we aren’t leaving.” A few of his group muttered in agreement.

  “Magicians aren’t bulletproof, moron,” Kane growled. “You’re putting your people in danger. Stand. Down.”

  “The Southern shipyard was a preventable tragedy,” Frostmeyer was saying. “We were left with no choice. The Revolution had taken control, was inciting violence. People died, killed at the hands of those who would harm us and end our way of life: Magicians.”

  Here we go, Kane thought as a few of the crowd called up their agreements to Frostmeyer. It would’ve surprised Kane if anyone outside of Chris’s group dared to shout or mutter some sort of disagreement with the President. Fear was a powerful tool, and the leader on the stage wielded it well.

  The President motioned to Chesterfield, who nodded to him.

  “I was informed by General Chesterfield of the Special Forces that it was impossible to determine and single out the Magicians on the ground due to their numbers, and that total annihilation was the unfortunate and only choice his men had. Our Thoughts and Prayers go to the families.”

  Kane heard something. A click. Something sliding into place. Latch. Lock. His heart raced, his senses on high alert. A gun. Some kind of gun.

  A large gun.

  He looked at Tabitha. She looked up at him, shook her head, and mouthed, “what’s wrong?”

  Kane looked around, the world moving slowly around him, seconds dragging into days. Frostmeyer speaking, spouting his hot air. Gentry staring at Kane, grinning. The crowd cheering at something the President said. Kane put his hand in his pocket, drew his rune on the amulet. The gears whirred to life, the amulet warming slightly to the touch. He had to channel his power, had to tax the spell to the fullest, try to charge it like he could his fireballs. It had to work. Too many casualties at stake. The front of the crowd as a good ten feet from the steps. Kane could see something across the square from him and the protesters. Something large under a browned, worn canvas tarp.

  A clear shot. Dear God, it was a clear shot.

  Kane heard the sound of a lever being thrown. A clockwork horse galloped off into the night, pulling the tarp aside. The device underneath was large, built up on two wheels like a cannon, but the barrel was smaller. A row of bullets hung from the side like chains, like the Gatling guns of the Civil War, but this weapon was different. No wheels. No cranks. One barrel.

  Krieg’s words rang in his memory, the vision of a dozen people under the Walking Bridge falling at once flashing in his mind.

  “A gun that uses its own recoil to maintain continuous fire.”

  Had to work. No time.

  “Ethereal Clypeus!!”

  Kane bellowed the spell as if he were breathing fire at the machine gun, spread his hands wide to cast. His voice was drowned out by thunder as hundreds of rounds spewing from the machine gun. The shield was massive, large enough to barely cover the entire group of protesters, rippled as a spray of bullets wiped across the surface like a knife trying to cut through. The hellish machine kept firing as the shield shook, the power weighing on his body, his amulet hot in his pocket. The crowd screamed, the square in pandemonium as a few souls in the front caught rounds and fell, dead before they knew what hit them. Chesterfield and Gentry made for Frostmeyer, yanked him to the ground as bullets sprayed the podium. Kane heard the shots coming from behind him, heard Tabitha screaming at Chris.

  “What are you doing?! Odin’s beard, you’re going to get us killed!”

  “I can’t hold this up for long,” Kane shouted, his arms beginning to shake from the weight of the spell. He heard Chris behind him, heard the commotion of protestors ducking, some screaming in terror as the bullets continued to pound the shield.

  “Now’s our chance,” he shouted at Tabitha. “We have a perfect shot as long as Kane holds up that shield!”

  “I’ve got bad news for you, kid,” Kane said. “The minute this shield is down, we’re fucked.” His arms strained, his elbows threatening to buckle. “To hell with the President, aim at the goddamned Gunman!”

  Kane saw Chris out of the corner of his eye. The newsie shouldered the rifle, aimed in the direction of the Gunman. People ran in a panic, screaming and pushing as they tried to flee. Kane saw bodies lying on the ground, trampled and ruined. The shield waved and rippled as ammunition pounded relentlessly.

  “I can’t get a clear shot,” Chris said, staring through the sight on the rifle.

  Kane heard Tabitha behind him.

  “Draugalega Frosti!”

  An ice spear sailed by his head, through the shield, flew at the machine gun. It hit the ground next to it and shattered. Kane saw the Gunman stagger from the shards of ice flying through the air at him, bits of frost spraying him in the face.

  The gunfire stopped.

  Kane looked at Chris as shouted.

  “Now!”

  The shot rang clear, loud to Kane’s left. The Gunman fell backwards, his hand over his heart. Kane killed the shield spell and bent over, his hands on his knees, his arms sore from holding the spell so long. His amulet burned in his pocket, still going, only just beginning to cool.

  “Magicians!”

  Kane looked up at the voice bellowing from the stage. Danwood looked down at them, a look of wild fury on his red face.

  Police and Special Forces flooded into the square. Kane heard dozens of voices around him, the protestors uttering things in different languages. Latin. French. Italian. The authorities moved in, their guns aimed.

  Kane grabbed Tabitha and pulled her away as bullets and spells filled the air. Protesters dropped to the ground, some bleeding out while others were dead before their knees had buckled, fresh bullet wounds in their heads or bodies. Police and Special Forces also lost men, some burning on the ground, others jolting and writhing as lightning coursed through their bodies, fried their innards. Fireballs sailed through the air,
ice connected with helmets, a soldier went down, water pouring from every orifice as he drowned in his own breathing gear.

  Kane led Tabitha behind an outcropping next to the stairs, the top of the short wall the base for a tall lamp post. She shouted as a wayward bullet blasted away the corner of their hiding spot. Kane glanced up, saw a Special Forces trooper at the podium firing on them.

  “Aethereum Ignus!”

  Kane broke cover, hurled the fireball at the soldier as he stopped to reload. The blast caught the podium, blew it apart, sent the shooter sailing into a column. The man’s back bent at an impossible angle from the force, and he hit the ground and lay still. Citizens scrambled away from the scene only to be blocked by the oncoming troops. They pushed the crowd back at gunpoint, some firing, felling innocents who dared to try and force their way forward.

  They’re keeping them in, Kane thought. The horror occurred to him as he turned and looked at Chesterfield. Oh…shit.

  The General stood behind a column as Gentry and Danwood helped pull Frostmeyer to his feet, shielding him from the war that raged in front of them. Chesterfield had donned his breathing gear, red mist flowing into the crevices of his brass armor, innocents and officers alike falling dead, their bodies now dried husks that went to dust as they could hit the concrete.

  “Kane,” Tabitha called out. “Look out!”

  Kane spun, a fireball in his hand and out as he turned. An officer caught the blast square in the chest and went flying backwards. Kane got close to Tabitha’s face.

  “There’s only a few of us left,” he said. “Help them get as many people out as you can!”

  Tabitha nodded.

  “Right!”

  She broke away and went running, hurling ice blasts at the line of authorities keeping the crowd trapped. She tucked and rolled, went still at a crouch. The blue blast of frost sent dozens of cops and troops into the air, some in pieces. Tabitha stood and waved to the crowd.

  “C’mon, run,” she shouted at them. “Go!”

  The crowd began to flood out, clearing the area. Kane looked back at Chesterfield. The general held his hand out at the remainder of Chris’s group.

  “You get special treatment,” he said. A red blast erupted from his hands sailed at Chris. Kane launched a fireball at the blast, sent it flying off only a few feet from Chris’s head. The newsie looked at Kane and nodded as Chesterfield turned his goggled eyes to Kane.

  “Another time. Magician.”

  “I’m here now, asshole,” Kane muttered. “Ethereal Infernus!”

  Chesterfield burst into a red cloud as fire erupted from the concrete where he’d stood. A figured burned inside the cloud, waving his arms, staggering.

  The President screamed in pain, his body engulfed in fire, his features gone as he tried to run down the steps. He tripped, went rolling down the last few steps and landed at Kane’s feet, the rancid smell of burning flesh searing and sharp in the air. The flames died down, the smoking husk on the ground in front of Kane. Bits of charred flesh flaked away in the breeze.

  It was at that moment that Kane realized that everything had stopped. He looked up from the dead President and scanned the area around him. The fighting had stopped. The last of the crowd still trapped looked on as Tabitha emerged from behind them, staring in horror at the charred corpse on the ground in front of Kane. All eyes were on him, looking from Kane to Frostmeyer and back again.

  He hadn’t meant to. No. That spell was meant for Chesterfield.

  Someone shouted from somewhere in the square.

  “The President! A Magician killed the President!”

  Kane whipped around as guns were aimed at him. Tabitha crashed into him, her travel spell on her lips.

  “Draugalega Ferðast!”

  They blasted through the air, the cold freezing Kane to his core as people, streets, and buildings blew by. They stopped as fast as they’d started, the smell of Wilhelmina’s smoldering fire heavy in the air. Kane looked at the Marsh Witch as she stood, her face twisted in wide-eyed fury as she hissed at him.

  “What have you done?!”

  Kane looked back at her, gave her the only answer his mind could ration. The only one that made sense.

  “War,” he breathed. “I just started a war.”

  The embers crackled and popped, the sound a whisper against the sound of matics winding down in the distance, the sun setting in the sky. The rail yards were wrapping up the day shift, the workers heading home for the evening. The transport moved overhead towards the yards. The air was thick with the smell of burning wood and coal, the breeze cool. The air was getting crisp at night, carrying a bite along with its heaviness as it settled over the North.

  Kane stared into the fire, feeling Wilhelmina’s eyes on him. He kept replaying the scene in his head. The spell. The fire. Frostmeyer burning to death on the steps of City Hall.

  Chesterfield. He’d meant to kill Chesterfield. He’d used one of his two most horrible spells, a spell that couldn’t miss.

  “You done caused a Godforsaken mess, Kane Shepherd,” Wil said as she picked up a piece of wood and threw it on the fire from where she stood. The flames jumped slightly, welcoming the new fuel. One of Wil’s followers brought another pile of wood over and sat it down next to her. The scraps looked as if they’d been taken from a building that had been long torn down, the boards broken and jagged. “You supposed to stop what them ‘protesters’ was plannin’. But no. You can’t even do that right.”

  “It was an accident,” Kane said. “I was aiming at Chesterfield.”

  “And you bagged yo’self a rich white man, instead,” Wil snapped. “That Chesterfield—man, him a Blood Priest. They shifty as hell and always got somethin’ up they sleeves. And you done fall right for it.” She sighed. “That Chris, that newsie boy that run that paper around here, he don’t have a brain in his head God give that stupid possum I keep around with me.”

  Tabitha spoke up.

  “Well, the Gunman is dead,” she said, sounding hopeful. “So that counts for something, right? That’s good news.” She smiled. “I like good news. All the yelling just makes things bad.”

  Wil raised an eyebrow at her as she motioned to a group of streeters in a corner opposite the fire. A man came forward, and Kane recognized him as one of Chris’s group from the conference. He looked at Kane and nodded.

  “You had one of your people there?” Kane said to Wil. He looked at the man. “Thanks for the help, pal.”

  “Him job wasn’t to help you,” Wil said. “Him job was to watch. Bring back what we need to see the truth.” She held her hand out to the man. “You get ‘em?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the man said. He pulled a pouch from his coat pocket and handed it to Wil, then went back to his group.

  Wil opened the pouch and dumped two eyeballs into her hand. Tabitha let go a small yelp and grabbed Kane’s arm.

  “What…who’s are those?” Kane asked.

  “Calm yourself, white man,” Wil said. “Him dead before my man took his eyes. We can only hope him saw what we need him to see.”

  Kane watched as Wilhelmina put her hand up to her face, looking close at the eyeballs.

  “Besides,” she said, giving him a devilish smile. “I ain’t had dinner yet.”

  Without another word, she shoved the eyeballs into her mouth and swallowed them whole. Kane felt his stomach churn, fought back the urge to vomit as Tabitha gagged behind him. Wil held her arms out, closed her eyes as the flames grew in front of her. She opened her eyes and stared into the fire. They’d become black orbs, tendrils of shadow leaking down her face like black tears as they reached to the fire.

  “I show you what I see,” Wil said, her voice cracked and wicked. “Him Gunman take this man’s life, but him not take his soul.”

  Tabitha tugged at Kane’s arm.

  “Kane! Look!”

  Kane saw something in the billowing fire, the heat drawing sweat from every pore, taking his breath as he stared at the image formi
ng in the orange hell. The flames reached for him, encircled him, pulled him in.

  Someone running toward the machine gun. The Gunman. The mask turning to face Kane. The machine gun. The Maxim Machine Gun. It turned on its wheels deftly. Sprayed ammunition. The runner went down.

  Kane. Kane went down.

  He watched the Gunman from the ground, saw blackness around the edges of his vision. The Gunman fired relentlessly, shell casings raining down around his feet. He could see the waves of heat off the barrel as the machine gun dealt death. Kane moved his eyes, looked around. He saw himself standing in front of Chris’s group, his arms up, bullets peppering the shield. Saw himself shouting to Chris. The rifle was aimed.

  The Gunman went down, clutching his chest. Blood spread through his shirt quickly. He lay on his back, tried to move. He reached up. A knob on the mask’s long beak. He turned it, screamed and writhed on the ground, smoke coming from the mask as his movements began to slow. Slower.

  Kane’s vision began to fade, the darkness around the edges closing in as the Gunman went still, his skull caving in as the acid ate away flesh and bone.

  Kane felt cool air on his face, felt the ground against his back. He opened his eyes as Tabitha leaned over him, crying as she shook him.

  “Kane! Kane!”

  He held his hand up, put it on her shoulder to stop her from shaking him.

  “I’m fine. I’m…I’m good.”

  She helped him sit up, then wrapped her arms around him in a fierce hug, her tears soaking his neck. He patted her back, then worked to get to his feet, helping her up as he went, his strength returning quickly as he stood. The fire had gone back down to low embers, Wilhelmina sitting on the other side of the pyre grinning as Kane looked at her.

  “Shit,” he breathed. “Damn it.” He clenched his fists, his chest heavy with frustration. “Damn it!”

  “What is it?” Tabitha asked, wiping away the last of her tears. “What did you see?”

  “Exactly what him needed to see,” Wil said, nodding to Kane. “Tell that girl.”

  “The Gunman,” Kane said. “He…he melted his face. His whole Goddamned head. The beak in his mask was full of acid.”