"…kkk… orth bridge…"
"Go ahead." I whispered, watching the convoy crawl cautiously forwards.
"…ot outriders up here… crossing now. Ten bikes, two AVs…"
A second voice cut in – the thoughtful tones of Slowbear:
"…ame here. South bridge. They've sent a lorry over as well…"
"Standby," I said, feeling the adrenaline coming up, imagining the two groups away through the haze, one on each of the smaller bridges, sneaking round to flank us. I saw them smirking and tittering, feeling oh-so-bloody-clever, mumbling bullshit about classic pincer movements, surprise attacks, blah-blah-blah.
I fished in my other pocket and handed a small black box to Malice, pointing to the top button. "The honours." I said. It seemed only fair.
She smiled, dipped her head with faux graciousness, and stabbed at the button.
The dozer scoop in front and above us hit the Inferno's side and squealed in protest.
And then ceased to be the main event.
The light came first. Obviously. From both directions at once; a sudden flicker of white and yellow, pulsing across the entirety of the QuickSmog like a firework lost in the clouds, then building more focus as the first flash of the explosion gave way to a pair of dancing fireballs; one on each side, great pyrotechnic monsters that clambered into the air and dissipated into the mist.
Then the sound. Almost perfectly synchronised; two rolling thunderbolts that echoed and coalesced in the eerie fog, becoming a single sub-aqueous roar.
And then screams. Even at this distance, even separated by water and haze, the shrieks of the maimed and the groans of the dying. Ghostly. Haunting.
The Collectors had left behind their C4 and their snazzy little detonator when they tried to kill us in the night. It would have been rude to waste them.
"kkk… orth bridge… Got 'em… got the fuckers… bridge is down, bridge is down!"
"…owbear here, same for the south. Hoo-ee! Can't see for smoke yet, but they're not coming any further…"
The dozer-scoop shunted the Inferno like a casual distraction, bashing as it went into the side of the nearest caravan. The driver wasn't watching. I guessed he was staring in shock at the baleful firelight hovering on either side in the distance, or shouting into a radio, or just wondering what the fuck is going on.
Distracted, one way or another. Otherwise he might have noticed the cables. Iron cords, tied-off to the railings at either side of the bridge, each one carefully tensioned, leading in through the shattered windows of the caravans.
Each one holding aloft, in the stripped-out spaces inside, a dangling gallery of jam jars.
Each of which contained a single fragmentation baseball grenade, pin removed, trigger prevented from releasing by the glass of the jars.
Fort Wayne barracks, Slowbear had told me during the night. One of the few armouries that hadn't emptied its supplies into the Clergy's hands. Forget bows and bloody arrows. These Injuns were packing.
The first caravan shifted. Jerked against the other, like marbles colliding.
On both sides of the bridge, the cables went slack. A tinny sound of shattering glass filled the air, and maybe I was imagining it or maybe I suddenly went fucking psychic, but I swear to god I could hear the driver in that colossal sodding rig mutter:
"Aw, piss."
A second or two, with the echoes of the C4-detonations still ringing, and then:
Think Baghdad. Think Hiroshima. Think surface of the fucking sun.
It was big, and flashy, and I could feel the heat from my cover. Frag-shrapnel turning the air to razorwire, men somersaulting out of gunner-mounts on the cusp of the blast, flesh sliding off bone, fingers clutching at air then clutching at nothing. The lorry-rig pelted onto its spine, its nose upright, then crashed down in dust and death on the vehicles behind, bouncing in a way that something that big shouldn't. Driver and gunners alike screamed and died, sliced to ribbons; soot and black smoke washed over the top of the bridge and the tarmac gaped where the explosives had tripped. The caravans were gone. The Inferno's shredded corpse was gone. What remained was modern art.
And finally the Iroquois rose-up from their cover, screamed like an operatic banshee, and let loose.
It would have been a massacre. We had them boxed-in. Exposed on the bridge, unable to back-out at speed. We had machineguns and grenades and autocannons. We had a couple of rusty old mortars that found their range after two watery explosions (by which time Rick had already clambered, panting, ashore, so no damage there) and a crateful of anti-tank rockets which all the Haudenosaunee had been clamouring to play with.
Above all we had surprise and stealth, and well-camouflaged men and women using smoke and shadows and patience. We had so much lead and fire raining down on those pricks that they never realised how much knifework went on, how much scurrying and slicing was taking place in the noxious gaps between packed-in vehicles.
I know. I was there. I was doing it.
It would have been a massacre. It started out just dandy. The Iroquois vehicles came tearing back up, the bikes slipped onto the bridge to sow madness and death, AVs and lorry rigs popped like fiery bubbles with each shrieking mortar-round, and oh god yeah it felt good. Malice and me with pistols and knives, scrambling over bonnets and under tankers, slipping grenades through open windows whilst drivers shouted and raged at the back-up, then scuttled off to listen for the boom…
Great times.
And fine, the convoy just kept getting bigger and bigger. More and more lorries oozing from the haze, trying to back-up, trying to manoeuvre in the madness. Fine, there were a lot more of the bastards than we expected, a lot more guns and psychos slowly getting their act together and returning fire. Fine, it would have been messy. But we had them. We could've taken them.
And then my radio hissed, and everything changed.
Malice and I were holed-up behind the vast tyres of an earthmover, waiting for the wanker in the cab to stop blasting our end of the bridge with whatever fat-shell cannon he was manning for long enough to sneak up there and blow his brains out, when Slowbear's voice broke through the maelstrom; tinny and tense.
"…ou there? Oh shit… oh shit… This is Slowbear! Are you there?"
"Yeah, here. What is it?"
Something bit at the rubber tyre next to me and made the whole vehicle shudder. Malice winced.
"The lorry! The… shit… shit… kkkhh… the lorry on the south bridge!"
"We got it, right?"
"Yes! F-fuck, yes, it's not that, it's…"
"Slowbear?"
"…t's full of children! You hear me?"
Malice's eyes bulged.
"…orries are all full of fucking children!"
It would have been a massacre.
We turned and ran back to our lines without another word, and as we strafed through optimistic fire streams I caught a glimpse of Malice's eyes, and the liquid glistening inside them. She'd left her baby with the Matriarchs in safety but still… it didn't take a genius to figure out what she was thinking.
It'd been her that pressed the button, after all.
A weird noise filled my head. Like an engine, but airier; filtered through the fog and the gunfire, distorted by the screams and shouts all around. I wondered if I'd damaged my ear more badly than I'd thought, then shook my head and stopped worrying. What, exactly, could I do about it anyway? I spotted the incline facing the bridge where we'd left Nike and Moto, and together with Malice I scrambled up the bank, forgetting all about the noise, concentrating on staying alive.
…thrpthrpthrpthrpthrp…
Nike and Moto were hunkered-down with five Iroquois holding shoulder-launchers. Nate was there too, watching, staying apart and looking shifty. I ignored him and he ignored me, making a show of staring directly upwards into the turbulent QuickSmog. It seemed to be getting worse. Odd bursts of fire snapped at the tops of the ridge, off-target but getting closer, and before I could take the time to work out how someon
e was keeping track with us, at this distance, at this elevation, we threw ourselves down into safety. Rick was standing below the grenadiers; sopping water and trying to catch his breath, dishing out the tank busters.
"Aim for the lorries…" he was saying, unable to keep the twinkle of testosterone-choked-male out of his eye. He'd done his part. He'd lured the fuckers into the trap. No wonder he sounded older.
Nike was already lifting himself gingerly into a sitting position, head above the edge of the ridge, tube to his shoulder, when Malice gathered her breath and shouted:
"No! Stop! Don't fire!"
The older man swivelled his head to look at her, brows furrowing.
"But wh…"
The hesitation almost killed him. A round caromed dustily off the ground beside his face, within inches of splitting his head. He swore out loud and let gravity pull him back down into cover, the rest of us tugging him along in a knot of shouts and grunts. When we'd got him back down to the bottom of the ridge Moto flopped-down next to him and clutched at his arm, horrified.
"Fuck…" Nike said, eyes wide. "Did you… fuck. Did you see that?"
And then his head really did split open.
Suddenly I was wearing him. Bits of blood and brain in my eyes, shards of bone stinging the exposed skin on my face. His body slumped and smoked, and next to it Moto's mouth went up and down like nothing made sense, like everything had gone dark.
How? My brain was screaming. How did someone…?
We're in fucking cover!
Out in the haze, the noise again. An angry dragonfly-throb, cut through with a motorised grind.
…thrpthrpthrpthrp…
Moto's face had gone perfectly slack.
He picked up the rocket launcher. Malice scrabbled against his arm, trying to pull him off, and he hit her – hard – on the cheek. His expression didn't change. She fell; he turned. Rose to the top of the bank. Aimed.
And then everything went white and black, and I realised with a giddy sort of uncertainty that either the rocket had misfired, or someone had shot the launcher, and now – look – I was flying, and my hair was on fire, and everything hurt.
I landed and lay and didn't move. Staring straight up, as fire and smoke and chaos thundered all around me. I wondered if anyone else was still alive.
…thrpthrpthrpthrpthrp…
The QuickSmog billowed. Surged. Boiled.
And finally I recognised the sound. Finally I figured out how the fuckers had shot Nike, I figured out how come they'd been taking potshots at me and Malice ever since we scrambled up here. How they'd blasted Moto's launcher before he could even squeeze the trigger, and blew us all to shit.
Why Nate was staring straight up.
There were lights above me. Rockets zipping down in all directions. Iroquois screaming, vehicles exploding. A sniper rifle krak-krak-kraking from on-high.
And as the pain in my ribs exploded behind my eyes, and I sucked hard to get anything resembling a breath, my last thought was:
Nobody told me the fuckers had helicopters…
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Rick could move his arms. Broadly speaking.
He'd never been in a 'copter before. Big novelty. The vibrations had woken him, he supposed. He'd always fancied going up in a chopper when he was a kid, but he'd never imagined it'd be like this. Lying in pain on a grille floor, feeling something sticky that was probably puke on his cheek, knowing full well there was a trio of Clergy-fucks standing nearby with big-ass Russian guns aimed at his head.
He had opened his eyes a moment ago. He was still regretting it.
They'd left the bay doors open. They'd laid him out right next to the damned thing, so his first sight was green fields and jagged hills, gushing past below.
A long, long, long way below.
Yeah. Big fucking novelty.
To be honest, he couldn't even decide if he really was awake or not. Even with his eyes closed again, lights kept dancing weirdly in front of him, odd sensations were shooting up and down his left arm, and every time he tried to concentrate on anything the world went grey and prickly. Eventually he came to the conclusion he must be concussed. Maybe brain-damaged. Maybe dying.
Whatever.
He cast his mind back to the battle on the bridge, and tried to sort out what had happened. He remembered diving into the lake. Swimming to safety. Finding the little knot of Haudenosaunee fighters – all from different lodges, none of them recognisable – and staggering over to get some help for his bleeding legs. He remembered the way they'd looked at him – looked up at him – and instead of rushing round to check he was okay and pat him on the head, they'd pointed at the tank buster grenades and asked him:
What shall we do?
A couple of weeks ago he would've avoided the war painted pricks with their stupid clothes and daft ceremonies, and living-off-the-fucking-land, and 'Great Spirits' and 'Earth Initiates' and 'Ghost Dances' and yadda-yadda-yadda, and here he was: a leader.
Well then, he'd thought.
Might as well lead.
He remembered telling them what to do. Remembered the itch at the rear of his head, just like he'd felt back in NY, back when he was Hiawatha, except this time it was him in charge and that older, wiser, weirder voice consigned to an echo that he could attend or ignore as he chose. Best of both worlds.
He remembered the dull flicker of green and purple fire on the edge of his subconscious, and turning round on cue to find the Stranger sprinting up with that sexy black chick in tow, and that old guy Nike going splat, and the kid with the scarred face flipping-out, and reaching out to stop him, and And then something about light and fire, and pain.
And then confused blur-memories of a lot of people screaming and a lot of people dying, and men in grey and white laughing and shouting, and chanting in choral voices whilst guns chattered. And a radio hissing something about they're all fucking dead, they're all fucking dead, and a general retreat, and then the howl of rotors.
And that was about all.
Rick figured he'd been blown up. It certainly goddamn felt like he'd been blown up. He wondered how come he was still alive at all, and why these robe-wearing assholes were dragging him off to who-knew-where, rather than just… squashing him. He felt like he should be more scared than he was, but inside the sweat-lodge of his skull Hiawatha sat and played strange songs on stranger instruments, and everything was okay. Nothing hurt, except in the physical sense.
Which somehow just… didn't count any more.
Rick risked opening his eyes again, this time turning his head with a nauseous lurch to the other side, ignoring a muttered command from somewhere far away that might have been "stay still, fucko."
Yeah, yeah. Whatever.
He wasn't alone. Three other shapes, bundled side-by-side, head-to-toe, lay beside him. He kept his face down, focusing close through clouds of greyout blur.
All he could see of the recumbent figure directly next to him was a pair of boots. Muddy and bloody, fastened over tattered combats and the hem of a raggedy coat. Blazing, from the corner of his eyes, with a warm fiery glow.
The Stranger.
Beyond him was Malice. Her face was gone. Her skin was charred and burnt, her hair singed away in great bloody patches all over her scalp. If she was still alive, she didn't look it. Her eye was open. Unblinking. Staring straight at him.
Next to her were Nate's feet. Crazy red sneakers with army regs tucked into them, tied-together with a single loop of wire. He couldn't see past Malice's charred body to check if the old junkie was still alive or not.
All three lay, like him, on their bellies; arms twisted into the smalls of their backs, where pairs of black cuffs held them in place. Rick tried to move his own arms, unsurprised to feel a fresh tsunami of agony (all a million miles away, not worth worrying about) swarming along his left wrist. They felt impeded, sure, but there was something loose about the whole arrangement, a sort of dried, gluey stickiness rather than metal solidity.
&nb
sp; Weird.
He tilted his head as best as he could, to peer down towards his own feet; hogtied, just like everyone else. Next to them, the Stranger was looking at him. Eyes open and alive, jaw clenched. Blood and flesh covered his face, and it was difficult to tell how much of it was his. They stared silently at each other for a moment or two, then the Stranger's eyes flipped downwards towards Rick's back.
Then back up again.
"Your hand's gone." He whispered.
"Shut the fuck up!" One of the Clergymen screamed, stamping hard on the Stranger's head and mashing one lacerated cheek against the grille. Rick barely noticed, exploring his own body with a morbid sense of certainty.
The stranger was right. His left hand. His left hand was gone.
Well, shit.
It felt like they'd bound it up, maybe. Rags or bandages, tied at pressure, holding the arteries closed. Then they'd slapped the same old cuffs over the top of it and left him to it, maybe expecting him to die from blood loss, maybe just not caring.
He could move his wrist. He could unglue it from the sticky mess of dried blood and pull it free from the cuff. And if he could do that, it meant his other hand – no, his only hand – would be free to move.
Hiawatha sang a new song. The wind against the back of his head, from that great drop beyond, tousled his long hair and whispered strange things in his ear. Something about… about a gift?
He shifted his weight, trying to determine if any other interesting parts of his anatomy were missing. The pockets of his leathers had been chock-full of ammunition and handguns before the blast knocked him out, but now all he could feel about his person was a shitload of bruises and something tiny – sharp, but swaddled-up – in the zip-pocket on his ass.
The wind giggled.
The gift, it told him. Remember?
And then he knew what to do.
Poor kid.
Shell-shocked, I thought. He's been blown up. He's woken-up dangling over an abyss surrounded by fanatic goons, and he's got a bloody hand missing.
Shit, I'd be shell-shocked.
Outside, the green blur of land streaking past began to turn sooty and black. A sharp smell – like burning oil – filled the chopper, and above my head the three Choirboys muttered to one another, shuffling discreetly towards the open bay to see below.
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