“Gas!” the half-dressed soldier shouted the moment he got into the hall. “Gas! Warn the others!”
Amalgam stepped out of the GH Gas unharmed and sprinted down the hall, heading straight for Geist. The half-dressed soldier didn’t moved fast enough. His ankles and feet, caught in the vile mist, caved under his weight as though made from melting candle wax. The dark corridors of the basement filled with screams.
Like in the grip of a nightmare, Geist ran from her pursuer, unwilling or unable to glance back. She could hear Amalgam gaining as she rounded a corner, her breathing ragged and her mind soaked in adrenaline. Geist half-registered the four soldiers who stepped out of rooms on either side of her. She pulled the pin on another gas grenade and tossed it back, hoping beyond hope that she wasn’t trapping herself in the underground labyrinth.
The dungeons. Amalgam said they were past the research rooms. I need to get there.
Gunshots rang out all around her. Geist tried to ghost, but she couldn’t focus enough to access her magic. A bullet pierced the meat of her calf and she collapsed to the floor. She dropped her rifle but she couldn’t take the time to retrieve it. She forced herself to stand, only to be hit by Amalgam as he tackled her back to the floor.
The GH Gas swirled nearby, consuming the four soldiers. They tried to flee, some covering their mouths to avoid the deadly vapor, but nothing saved them. More screams. More panic. Geist could hear dozens of others rushing through the corridors.
Amalgam struck her across the face with a heavy fist, his actions sloppy and imprecise, nearing frenzy. The impact rocked her to her core: Geist felt her vision fade for a brief moment, long enough for her mind to flash back to the first night she had seen the GH Gas. The screams sounded exactly the same.
“Stop,” she pleaded. “Stop.”
To her surprise, Amalgam, halfcocked for another swing, grunted and sat back. He clawed at his gasmask, hissing words that Geist couldn’t discern. He was suffering… the voices of the gas, the magi-tech suit he wore—something was scrambling his brains.
But she knew the gas wouldn’t wait for her to figure it out what was afflicting him so. Geist attempt to free herself, but Amalgam was too heavy and strong; his weight kept her pinned. In desperation, Geist reached up and unhooked part of Amalgam’s suit, exposing his twisted flesh to the elements. He jumped off her, grabbing at the hooks, fumbling to reattach them.
Geist leapt onto her feet and half fell back to the floor, her wounded leg buckling beneath her. She felt no pain, but she knew her body was slowly coming apart at the seams. Limping forward, Geist fled the GH Gas and continued through the underground maze, taking turns—one left, one right—to avoid running in circles. Twice more she threw grenades when soldiers appeared in her peripherals. She could barely think over the shouts and commands and panicked screams.
A loud boom followed by a rumble sent Geist tumbling. She hit her knees and shock paralyzed her body. The dynamite had exploded. Another boom, another rumble. Dust and chunks of stone fell all around her. The pressurized tanks must have ruptured. The whole basement would be flooded with gas, but hopefully the collapsed halls would give her enough time.
Geist stood on unsteady legs and hobbled forward. She glanced into the first room and her heart fluttered.
Victory! Dreamer!
Both men were strapped to tables, two German researches standing next to them. Dreamer and Victory’s shirts were removed and tubes were inserted into their arms, crimson with blood that flowed into glass jars. The researchers took a step back, both glancing from Geist to the door.
“Gas,” she hissed. “It’s been released. Get out while you can.”
The researchers didn’t question her—they simply ran, sweat dappling their skin. Geist let them go. They were the enemy, but she was in no condition to fight them.
She hobbled over to Victory’s table and reached for the leather restraints holding down his arms, legs, and neck. He bled from open gashes and his body was covered in deep bruises; he’d been beaten badly, but he was alive. For now. After releasing his arms, Geist shook his shoulder.
“Victory,” she said.
He opened his eyes and squinted. “Geist?”
“You’re free. Can you stand?”
“I… I feel weak.”
Geist gritted her teeth. She helped him up into a sitting position and glanced around the room. His blood jar sat on a wire rack, half-filled. She grabbed the container and smashed it against the concrete floor, the crimson splattering all the way to the far wall. That’s one sorcery they’ll never steal.
Without wasting any time, she hobbled over to Dreamer’s table. He didn’t look like the man Geist had always known. He was dark of complexion, slender, with black hair. He had described himself as an Arab crow—an African slave—so Geist knew he wasn’t what he had previously presented, but she hadn’t been expecting the same terrible scarring Battery had.
He, too, had opal shards and scars all over his body.
Dreamer’s eyes were sunken, but he opened them regardless.
“Dreamer,” Geist whispered. “Are you okay?”
“Geist,” he said.
“We need to leave.”
She undid his restraints and smashed his jar of blood in similar fashion. Both men removed the tubes in their arms and, at Geist’s urging, applied pressure to stop the bleeding.
Shouting in the halls grew louder and louder, followed quickly by gunshots. What were they fighting? Was it Battery or Vergess? And what had happened to Blick? Geist didn’t know, and she didn’t have the luxury of investigation.
A man ran by the door, skidded to a stop, and then turned back.
It took Geist a moment to recognize Heinrich. He jogged into the room, a handgun tucked into the waist of his slacks.
“What’s happening?” he asked.
“I set off the gas,” Geist replied.
Heinrich ran both his hands through his dark hair, his eyes searching the floor. “All right. Please, follow me. I know how we can get outside without going through the OHL.”
Victory and Dreamer threw their legs off the edge of the table. Victory got up first, wobbling on his feet, but he stayed upright. Heinrich ran to Dreamer and offered a shoulder, seemingly realizing that Geist would not leave without him.
Heinrich led them out of the research room and through the long, twisted halls of the basement. He turned a corner, froze, and then back away.
Gas. In the hall. It wafted in their direction, chasing them like a malevolent specter.
Heinrich took another hallway, running as fast as Dreamer would allow. Victory was steadily regaining his strength, but Geist was falling behind, her leg and arm slowly hurting more and more as her adrenaline waned.
Light—natural light—caught her attention from an open door. Heinrich stepped into a large cellar room with crescent windows near the ceiling and shut the door once Geist got inside.
Geist fidgeted with the last gas grenade on her bandolier. “We don’t have time…”
“Everything will be okay,” Heinrich said, his shaky tone unconvincing.
He stared at the door, watching as puke-green and yellow mist seeped under the crack between it and the floor. Geist turned away. It was too late. They couldn’t go back the way they came.
He guided Dreamer toward a stack of empty casks and left him at the base of the pile. “Here,” he said. “We can climb out. One at a time.” Then he muttered something under his breath, his voice too low for Geist to hear.
Victory huffed and climbed the first cask. He helped Dreamer up and waited a moment to gather their strength.
She turned to Heinrich. His hair and forehead were soaked with sweat, and his hands were trembling. Geist sometimes forgot how poorly civilians handled battle stress.
“Give me your Luger,” she said. Heinrich handed the firearm over without a word of protest.
The door to their cellar ripped open, allowing a wave of GH Gas to pour inside. Amalgam strode throug
h the fog, his magi-tech clothing coated in blood—Geist didn’t know whose. His breath came in rasps, his voice a mere animal grunt behind the mask. He lumbered through the door, his boots leaving dark red footprints on the floor behind him.
Geist moved back, away from the gas, and pulled herself up onto the nearest cask. The GH Gas, heavier than air, spread across the floor in long tendrils, traveling to the farthest corners before traveling upward. Victory and Dreamer rushed up to the window and slammed on the glass, but the latch had long since been rusted in place, sealing it shut. Geist went up another cask, fearing the wobbly unsteadiness of her perch.
“Heinrich,” she said. “Get up!”
“I’ll be fine,” he muttered. “I’m going to try to calm him down.”
“The gas!”
“I’ll be fine.” Then he turned to Amalgam. “Listen to me, not the gas—you have to ignore it. I know you’re still a reasonable man. Please, Fechner.”
Geist stared down from atop the island of casks, Victory and Dreamer still fumbling with the window. Amalgam stumbled forward, straight for Heinrich, wading through the fog like a drunken, blood-soaked shark.
Heinrich, much to Geist’s shock, stood among the greenish-yellow vapors without harm, his bare skin exposed yet unharmed. He held up both hands, approaching Amalgam as though he were a wild animal.
The gas doesn’t affect Heinrich?
“Please, Fechner. I know it’s difficult to focus, but—”
Amalgam backhanded the other man, shattering Heinrich’s glasses and sending him crashing into the brick wall of the cellar. Amalgam returned his mirrored gaze to Geist.
Snapping out of her daze, Geist faced the window and raised her Luger. “Get down!”
Victory and Dreamer leaned away. Geist fired twice, and the latch exploded into splinters of wood and metal. Victory didn’t wait for a command—he shoved the window open and pushed Dreamer through. With the window open, the fresh air washed over Geist like a cool splash of water on a hot summer day.
Once Victory crawled clear, Geist reached for the sill, but a powerful grip on her ankle sent a shiver across her body. She gritted her teeth as Amalgam pulled her back, foot by foot. She flailed and clung to the sill, keeping herself above the deadly gas almost through sheer force of will.
Amalgam stood on the first set of casks, looming over her, his grip tight enough to bruise.
“Amalgam,” she said, forcing herself to speak. She stared up at her own terrified reflection in his eye-lenses, her mind racing. “I—I’ve changed my mind. Please, listen.”
To her shock and amazement, Amalgam stopped pulling, but he didn’t release her ankle. Holding himself in place with a hand on the wall, he stared down at her, his breathing just as ragged as ever.
“The gas is lying to you,” she continued. She could feel breath of the GH Gas inches from her leg. It wanted her. “I want to help you, but—but you’re hurting me.” She prayed the pattern would hold—that he would avoid harming her at all costs as he had before.
Sure enough, Amalgam released her ankle, and Geist placed it down on the cask, the bridge of her foot landing on the discarded Luger.
Heinrich forced himself to stand. He wiped blood from his face, the twisted, glassless frames of his spectacles still resting on the bridge of his nose. When he glanced up, Geist kicked the Luger off the cask, and the weapon hit the gas-covered floor with a loud clack.
He met her eye, and a half-second of understanding passed between them. Amalgam either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He wrapped his gauntleted hand around her shoulder, his heavy breaths coming in even intervals. His grip was like a steel vise, his touch cold. “Amalgam—”
Heinrich snatched up the Luger, took aim, fired. The bullet struck Amalgam in the ribs, penetrating his suit. The gas slithered all around him, as if it could smell the blood. Amalgam grunted and placed a hand over the hole, protecting his flesh from the gas.
Geist kicked him, driving her heel into the bullet wound, sending him stumbling back. He disappeared beneath the surface of the gas, and Geist didn’t bother to wait for him to reemerge.
“Come on!” she shouted to Heinrich, slipping into English out of sheer panic. “Hurry!”
As he crossed the room to the casks, Geist lifted herself back out the window and crawled out along the grass, only stopping once she was fully outside.
Then a German soldier grabbed her by the forearm and hauled Geist roughly to her feet.
Her stomach dropped.
No! I’m so close!
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE WIRE
GEIST BIT BACK THE URGE to scream in frustration. I should’ve known we couldn’t escape. Not like this.
“Stand,” the German commanded, his voice familiar.
Through her frustrations, Geist craned her head back and stared up at man. Relief washed over her, and she couldn’t fight the smile. Vergess’s German uniform wasn’t an illusion; it was the real deal, no doubt stolen from the corpse of the enemy. He looked German, sounded German—and no one questioned his presence in the middle of a crisis.
“Vergess,” she whispered.
“Get up,” he said, his tone gentler. “We don’t want to make a scene.”
When four enemy soldiers rounded the corner of the building, Vergess motioned in the opposite direction.
“Others fled that way,” Vergess called. “After them!”
They nodded and hurried away. Geist didn’t blame them. She could still sense the gas billowing behind her, searching for where its prey had escaped to.
Geist used what little energy she had to stand. She had never been so happy to see someone from the Ethereal Squadron in all her life. With a sigh, she wrapped her arms around Vergess’s torso in a weak embrace. “Thank goodness.”
Vergess pried himself from her grasp and held her at arm’s length. “Not now. Keep it together.” He lifted his Mauser rifle, his face red, and motioned her away from the building. “Careful. The gas.”
Geist leapt away from the building with all the speed her injured body would allow. The GH Gas billowed out of the cellar, gushing forward in thick clouds as the basement filled completely. Two gunshots rang out, then Heinrich clambered out of the busted window, his body still unharmed by the corruptive vapors.
Vergess pointed his rifle. “On your feet.”
Heinrich scrambled to comply, his dark hair disheveled and clinging to his face with sweat.
“This is Heinrich,” Geist said. “The magic-technology general. We need him alive.”
“He’s not dead,” Heinrich rasped. “That’ll only slow him down. He—”
Geist gritted her teeth. “We need to leave. Right now.”
“What’s wrong?” Vergess asked.
As the gas spread across the lawn, Geist pulled Vergess away. “We can’t stay here. Where is Victory? Dreamer? Blick?” She forced herself to add, “Battery?”
“They’re heading to the motorcar.”
“Motorcar?”
“That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? A motorcar? To escape?”
Geist glanced over to the basement window vomiting gas. She took several steps away, knowing if she got too close it would find her. Her gaze lingered on Heinrich.
“Is this how the Ethereal Squadron always conducts an extraction?” he asked.
“Shut up and follow us,” Vergess snapped.
Geist unclipped the last gas grenade. “If we need a distraction, throw this.”
“Right.” Vergess took the weapon and offered his shoulder.
Together, they hobbled to the edge of the long driveway, the swarm of soldiers rushing around the outside of the building itself. When a group of men spotted Vergess, they shouted for him to stop. He didn’t, and the soldiers lifted their rifles.
Vergess tossed the grenade.
Only screaming followed. It was all Geist needed to hear.
“Let’s go,” she commanded.
They ran for the vehicles parked on the edge
of the long driveway. Each vehicle was the same—dark ocean-blue paint that shone in the light of the midafternoon sun. A few mundane men, unaware of the scope of the disaster unfolding within the compound, sat in the driver’s seats of their vehicles, watching the sorcerers scurry this way and that.
Vergess rushed between the motorcars, his gaze swiveling from one to the next until he stopped, his focus set on the far vehicle. Blick was in the driver’s seat, Battery at his side. Victory and Dreamer sat in the back, and the middle row of seats were left empty. Vergess ran over, helped Geist into her seat, and then grabbed Heinrich by the collar of his shirt and unceremoniously threw him in afterward.
“Drive,” Geist ordered.
Blick stared at her for a prolonged moment, his gaze locked on her dress.
“Drive!” she repeated. “Now.”
“Right,” Blick said as he gunned the motor. “Tsk. I hate these blasted things.”
The motorcar jerked forward and back as Blick wrestled with the controls. Geist held her arm close and her leg tight against the seat. She barely saw the driveway, soldiers, and fleeing civilians as Blick managed to pull the vehicle out of its parking space and onto the road out of the OHL. She shivered as the wind whipped around the single pane of glass mounted to the hood of the motorcar.
But there were five soldiers between them and the southern gate. And not just any soldiers—Geist spotted Leopold’s white cape the moment the breeze picked up—they were Abomination Soldiers. They stood in group by the gate, obviously interrogating the guard, but turned as Blick sped toward them. Leopold pushed a few of his men aside and stepped forward.
“Watch out!” she shouted, almost reaching out and grabbing Blick. “He’ll—”
A tempest broke out in the middle of the courtyard, swirling around Leopold as if he were the eye of the storm. The icy chill of magic tainted the wind. The Abomination Soldiers shielded their eyes and backed away from him. Flames sprouted up around Leopold’s feet and mixed together with the squall to create a firestorm, bright enough to rival the sun in the sky.
Fuck.
“Hold on,” Blick said, punching the gas. “The southern gate is our only option.”
The Ethereal Squadron: A Wartime Fantasy (The Sorcerers of Verdun) Page 34
