The Tower

by L. A. McGinnis

  The fires. The smoke. The freezing cold.

  Everything.

  Every damn thing slowed her down until she was equally as far from her sanctuary as she was from freedom. And being too damn slow would be the death of her.

  Wedging herself into what had once been an upscale boutique, she pulled out a half a bottle of water and her father’s favorite gun. Sipping slowly, she studied the weapon. She knew all about guns. Hated them, but knew them. She could pick off whatever came her way, but she only had nine shots. Only nine and then what? The sound alone, echoing along these streets, would be a homing beacon to those creatures. No, she thought, slipping the gun back in the backpack. Emergency situation only. Up until then, silence was her best friend. Stealth and staying upwind, allowing the scent of decay and smoke drown out her scent.

  The sidewalks were darkening, and the city was stirring. The creatures of the night were beginning their evening activities. She’d never seen any of it, but the long, rusty streaks they left behind in the streets left plenty to her imagination. Changing her mind, she pulled out the gun again. Flipping the safety off with her thumb, she lifted the weapon in her right hand, and the backpack with her left, and headed in the direction that held the most promise. Freedom. Her home would be burning by midnight, her neighbors would be dead, so there was nothing left for her back there.

  Fueled by panic, Gabriella covered three blocks at a fast jog. A band of scavengers approached from her right—sensing her—even though she kept to the shadows. Her shoes were quiet enough, and her clothes blended into the darkness, and still, they closed in on her position as if she had a target on her back. With the hood of the sweatshirt pulled up over her head, she pushed herself harder. It was too bad, she thought, her thighs burning as she ran, I’ve buried the last people who might have missed me.

  And when a high-pitched noise screeched behind her, something like claws on a chalkboard, she sprinted faster, not even caring where she was heading, as long as it was away from whatever made that sound.

  5

  After surveilling the stone circle, Balder headed north, toward home.

  He’d caught a whiff of the Orobus at the circle, a sort of black, evil, decaying stench that still hung in the air, like old garbage that needed taken out. And a hint of C-4 in the breeze. Which meant Domenic had attempted to blow up the dolmens.

  The question was—why?

  Domenic had also posted a hundred guards at the site, more than he needed, given the portals couldn’t be opened. Yet, he was wasting valuable resources.

  Which meant the damn things were still in play.

  Balder mulled this development over, striding down Michigan, dodging the scavengers and hapless mortals unfortunate enough to be caught out after dark. Domenic had been spending too much time at the stone circle and now tried to destroy it.

  “Which doesn’t make a bit of sense,” Balder muttered into the wind, blowing in a freezing cold gale straight down Michigan Ave. “Why would you destroy your only way off this shithole?”

  Night had fallen, but he barely noticed, his feet slowing before stopping completely, his unseeing gaze pointed toward downtown. “Unless it’s not.” His mind reeled at the possibility.

  “Unless you have another way off this planet. And the dolmens are nothing but a vulnerability at this point.” Balder’s feet started moving again, taking him straight toward home. He couldn’t stop his gaze from following the long lines of the Tower as it rose into the blue-velvet sky, the top of the sandstone catching the last of the sun’s glow. One of his boots caught on something—a remnant from the Cloud Gate—and he thought it odd the mirror-like shard was so far from Millennium Park.

  Balder reached down for the chunk of metal. Which was the only thing that saved his life. Reflected in its surface were the enormous jaws of something he couldn’t even describe. Throwing himself to the ground at the same time the thing pounced, the creature missed him completely as it sailed overhead, landing easily on all fours. Whatever this thing was, it was built like a tank, and crouched low, the muscles in its haunches bulging when it sprang again. Balder barely freed his knives from their holsters before it hit him, taking them both down onto the icy concrete. Sinking both knives to the hilts into the creature’s sides, he felt liquid coat him. Cool, not warm. Oily enough that he lost his grip on one of his weapons.

  Rolling from underneath the creature’s weight, he climbed to his feet, switched the remaining dagger into his left hand, pulled out his gun, barely raising the muzzle before the thing hit him again, full force. Emptying the entire clip straight into the thing’s chest, the monster’s massive body shuddered, more of the thick, viscous liquid dousing him head to toe, the blood glowing eerily in the darkness.

  Balder barely made it two paces backwards when it collapsed, limbs sprawling outwards, its bulky body hitting the ground with a solid thunk.

  Balder spit out a mouthful of the foul liquid, but it left a burning, acrid taste in his mouth. Doing a quick assessment, he discovered a deep wound in his thigh, a throbbing ache in his side, possibly a broken rib. Or two. But it was this sensation of fire—acid—creeping through him, which had him worried.

  Panting, the creature’s glowing blood still dripping from his hair, he nudged the carcass with his foot. Then took his serrated dagger and sawed the damn thing’s head off. No telling what sort of mad-scientist-monster Hel had invented this time, but he’d never seen anything bounce back once its head was gone. He managed a single step before crumpling to his knees. Rising, he barely took another before he was on all fours, head hanging like a dog.

  There were only thirty feet between him and the Tower.

  They might as well have been three miles.

  On the other side of the street, a small, dark shape darted into view, hauling ass, a pack of Grim on their tail. Keep going, Balder silently urged them, dragging himself up onto the sidewalk, watching the figure pause while the sound of gunfire echoed sharply down Michigan Avenue. He tried to climb to his feet—tried to get his uncooperative legs moving. Slipping to his knees again after a couple of steps, he frowned. What was going on?

  Heaving himself upwards, he lurched a couple of steps, weaving like a drunk. The hooded figure slammed into him with all the force of a Mack truck, and they fell to the ground, glass crunching beneath them, a tangle of legs and arms. Where was the damn gun? Balder wondered wildly, thankful he hadn’t been shot.

  Hands shoved against him, and he hit the pavement hard, grunting as the figure hissed, “Get away from me. Get off me.” And then he knew exactly where that gun was as he looked directly down the barrel that was pointing at his forehead.

  “Don’t you dare pull that trigger.” He growled in warning, praying they had some self-control and weren’t running on pure adrenaline. Just as quickly, the gun disappeared.

  “Shit. You’re human.” The voice was female, and she said it again, as if making doubly sure. “Human. Sorry. We gotta go. We got go right now. Those things are coming—they’re right behind me—and if we don’t move quick, they’re going to eat us, and I don’t know how many bullets I have because I don’t know how…” When he didn’t move, she finally stopped talking. “Get up.” Fingers dug in as she pulled against his dead weight. “Get the fuck up.” She might as well be trying to right one of the buildings.

  “Leave me and keep moving. Find a place to hole up.” He directed her, his energy fading fast. Again, Balder’s eyes found the Tower. As if, somehow, he might actually make it. But whatever that creature had in its blood—this insidious, foul poison covering him—he practically tasted death. “They’ll stay to finish me off. You’ll have a chance to escape. Take it.” Heaving, he choked as bile dribbled from his mouth.

  The hooded face scanned the street, pausing as the unmistakable sounds of Grim closed in, her breathing speeding up when they slowed, scenting an easy meal. Then a pale hand threw the gun aside, where it clattered across the asphalt before both hands gripped the back of his jacket. �
��Uh-uh. Not happening. You can do this, there’s no way I’ll leave you for them.” The hood followed his gaze toward the Phoenix Club, all the way up to the top. “If I can get you to that building, can you get us inside?” She demanded, adding, “Will we be safe in there?”

  “Never make it. Not enough time.”

  “We’ll make it. If you get your ass up and stop whining. Come on.” Now all ten fingers dug in and she put her back into it, and the counterweight was enough because, somehow, Balder’s body followed her command. Even though the world tilted, even though his thigh screamed like a mother fucker, he was on his feet.

  “Move. Now,” she whispered. Putting more weight on her than he should have, they covered the ten yards between them and the corner of the sandstone building in painful, excruciatingly slow steps, as three Grim circled in behind them. Waiting for what, Balder didn’t know, but he was grateful for the borrowed time.

  “You stink. You smell really…bad.” She gagged a little, as he braced one hand on the corner of the building, the other across her shoulders, taking his weight.

  “This way.” The garage entrances were all booby trapped, except for one door. Tyr had left one way in. “Back here.” The deliberate clicking of claws slowed to a tortuous pursuit. As if the Grim knew their easy meal had no escape. Ducking into a shallow recess, Balder keyed a code into a small panel and yanked the woman through the doorway, just as the door slid shut behind them.

  6

  The second the door closed, trapping her in the tight, dark place with a complete stranger. Gabriella figured she’d traded one set of horrors for another.

  For one thing, this guy stank. Really stank. His clothes, in fact, all of him, was coated in some kind of slippery, glow-ey goo, as if he’d been dunked in slime. But it was the smell of it… The rotten-decayed-flesh stench hanging over him, that was turning her stomach. Whatever that stuff was, she didn’t want to overthink it. Not why it smelled like death. Nor the monster it came from. For a few seconds, she was keenly aware of two things.

  How big he was, and how very small she was.

  She shouldn’t have just tossed the gun away. That had been supremely stupid. Her father would have called it a rookie mistake. She would have called it something else entirely.

  “Come on. We have to make it one more floor, and we don’t have a lot of time.”

  “So now we’re on a time crunch?” When all he did was try to catch his breath, she sighed. “How much time?”

  “Three minutes. Less, now.”

  The huge man trudged upwards, laboriously lifting his huge feet, setting them on each step with a resounding boom. For whatever reason, he seemed bound and determined to make it to this next floor.

  “We can stop and rest,” she assured him. “I think we’re safe enough now. As a matter of fact, you should stop. You know, before you pass out?”

  “Can’t. Have to get to the next keypad and key the code into the security system. This building is booby-trapped.” Her heart froze at the words. “If I don’t disable the system, the charges will go off.”

  Gabriella followed the sound of boots scraping, thumping upwards, her hand fumbling for a railing. Up, up, up those boots rhythmically thumping over and over, she thought the sound would never end. Until it did. She reached out a hand and found the back of his faintly glowing, sticky jacket, rubbing the stench from her nose, as she watched his big fingers dance across a keyboard. A dark sigh as he pushed open the door.

  “All right. One more. Stick close and do exactly what I do. Step exactly where I step.”

  Twisting her hand into his jacket, Gabriella did just that, the skin on her hand beginning to burn. But she’d stay close. Like her father always said, better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.

  Neither of them made a sound, creeping down a silent hall, falling into a matching rhythm as they moved—step for step—across dusty floors littered with debris. But the man moved with the surety of someone who’d come home to roost; he walked like a man who knew he was safe.

  She felt a breeze as a second door was opened, then the tightness of a much smaller space swallow her up. Her hand burned like it was on fire, but she gripped tighter, not wanting to lose him. Those fingers danced another intricate pattern across the numbers, and then a sigh, and a heavy thud as he collapsed.

  “There. Now whatever happens, you’re safe.” His words were slurred as he slumped down.

  Falling to her knees in the darkness, she felt for him, her hands tracing slippery clothing and weapons, and… Ah, there it was…his face. “What should I do? Tell me how to help you.”

  A husky sort of groan that might have been words. As if he was in too much pain to bother talking properly. “Find lights. Down hall. Emergency triage. Get…me…green syringe…anti venom…”

  Gabriella dumped the backpack, felt along the wall until her fingers caught on a switch.

  “Holy hell.”

  It looked like the guy was being…eaten up by whatever this slimy stuff was all over him, and when she looked at her hand, her skin had the same pockmarked appearance. She had to get this off him. Off her.

  He was huge, but she could roll him. “I’ll do this as fast as I can. It’s not going to be easy or pretty.” She yanked the dagger from his belt and set to work. “I hope you aren’t attached to any of these,” she murmured, right before she slit his jacket and shirt in one long, clean, deft movement. Throwing them into a sopping pile, she heard the wet slap as his shirt landed, then his jeans. After stripping him, she unlaced his boots quickly and pulled them off, threw them across the room. Along with the vile liquid, there was plenty of red blood smearing him, especially on his right leg. She rolled him again and found the long, jagged gouge on his thigh. “This from claws or teeth?” She inspected the edges of the wound and the long, black tendrils spreading outwards from the gash.

  “Not sure.” His teeth were chattering now, from cold or shock she wasn’t sure.

  “This is going to get worse before it gets better, I’m afraid. You said there’s a triage, right? Hang in there, I’ll be right back.”

  “Green vials. Get…green…and syringes…two for me.” His eyes, dimmed though they were, fell on her hand, which she continued rubbing against her jeans. “One for you.”

  Eyeing him over, Gabriella took a mental tally and then raced down the hall, praying she’d find exactly what she needed.

  “Holy hell.” Seemed to be the theme of the day.

  She’d been to ERs that weren’t this well-organized or well stocked. Orderly stockpiles of supplies and emergency equipment were stacked on stainless shelving. Throwing everything she thought she might need on the rolling cart, she paused before the small glass and stainless refrigerator. The thing was full of green vials, just like he’d said. She grabbed three, plus two syringes and raced back down the hall.

  The guy was curled in a fetal position, and from the way the burning sensation was working its way up her arm, she couldn’t begin to imagine the pain he was feeling. Still, she kept her voice cool. Detached. “This is what we’re going to do. I’ll use the saline to wash this shit off you. It’s going to be freezing. You won’t like it, but I’ll work as fast as I can. Did you get any in your mouth?”

  A vague groan and a feeble nod.

  Not good. That meant the poison was in his entire system. Probably killing him systemically.

  “Then I regret to inform you that this is really, really going to suck.” She used all fifteen gallons of saline, turning the floor into a pool of hideous, slimy liquid, and the entire room hung heavy with the sweet smell of decay and rot. She fought to get him upright, her shoes slipping on the floor while she leveraged him over to the nearest table. But as she wrapped him in a thin blanket and lifted his feet up so he lay prone, she rationalized, at least it was on the floor and not on him. She looked at her hand. It had gone from blistered red to a…grayish sort of color, and the pain, well, the pain was moving into a territory she seldom ventured into pai
n-wise.

  “Now, I want you to drink this.” She felt rotten, but it had to be done. Tilting the bottle, she braced the back of his head with her bad hand. “All of it, so just a little more.” God, he would so hate her in about ten minutes. She uncovered his thigh and took another look at that bite mark. It was worse. So much worse. Black, exactly like her hand.

  “You need to give me the injection. Now.”

  Gabriella hesitated. “I don’t even know what this is.”

  “You don’t have to…just do it. Now. Or I won’t make it.”

  She picked up the three green cylinders. Held them so tightly they squeaked. Looking at that leg, she watched the blackness climb up, up, and up, as if the poison was engulfing him. She took a syringe and drew a dose, then a second one. “Arm or leg?”

  “Your guess…as good as mine. Leg, maybe. Closer to the source.”

  His head fell back when she injected him, and she watched his jaw clench tightly. “You. Do yourself.” His eyes turned pleading, focusing on her hand.

  It had been a long time since Gabriella had left anything to chance, much less injected herself with some weird green substance she knew nothing about, at the insistence of a complete stranger. But he’d saved her—kind of. What were the chances he’d lie to her about this? She raised her hand and drove the syringe into her leg before she decided any different.

  “You’d better be right.”

  As the anti-venom burned its way through her body, liquid fire flowing like lava thought her veins, Gabriella decided this would definitely be the last time she took anyone at their word.

  7

  Curled up on a table, Gabriella was trying to decide just how much she hated this guy.

  On the other hand, who the hell injected themselves with green shit, on the word of some random guy? Oh yeah, apparently, she did because she had lost her freaking mind.

  At least, she thought, satisfied, she’d given him two doses, so he was surely burning with twice the amount of hellfire she was. Flexing her hand, which was almost back to its pinkish, healthy tissue color, she figured that, in all likelihood, he’d saved both of them. Still, she didn’t have to like it. She’d managed to slide a trashcan over beside him and watched as he heaved up another mouthful of the solution she’d dumped into him. Wiping his hand across his mouth, he collapsed back on the table.