by Brett Riley
Ford tapped him on the shoulder and gestured toward the gate. Three guards armed with shotguns were gathered there, talking in whispers, looking about for the missing gatekeepers.
Damn it all, Tetweiller whispered. We can’t wait. Let’s go.
Then an explosion shook the ground and lit up the night sky, its roar deafening. Tetweiller barely kept his balance. The courtyard was bathed in light as a column of fire and smoke billowed several stories in the air.
Ford and Tetweiller ducked deeper into the foliage, covering their ears and waiting for the exodus.
Long sprinted out the brewery’s back door, her upper right thigh and left elbow throbbing from crashing into shadowy objects. She ran around the corner and alongside the building and then across the street, the thick night air tearing in and out of her lungs. McClure waited for her in the shadowed doorway. Long stopped and dug through her satchel and found the cotton she had stored there. She handed some to the girl. They shoved it in their ears. Then she dragged the child into the alley and behind the building.
Outta time.
She pulled McClure close, covering the child’s head with her arms.
The brewery exploded.
The roar nearly burst her eardrums, despite the cotton. The whole edifice at their back shuddered. The night lit up as if a star had fallen onto Decatur, and even with a building between them and the heat wave, Long’s skin went dry. Her mouth turned to sand. McClure struggled in Long’s arms, so the weaponsmith shifted, afraid she was smothering the girl. Then the air turned too hot to breathe. Glass rained onto them. Long rolled them away from the building as fragments of brick and mortar smashed the ground. They stood, holding their shirts over their noses. McClure’s left hand had sustained several scratches, and small fragments of glass stuck out of her palm. But overall, the damage seemed minimal. Good. Together they ran two blocks and into another alley. Long paused to dig the glass out of McClure’s hand. The girl took off her shirt so Long could check her over. All the wounds looked superficial—a scrape here, a tiny puncture there.
I’ve imagined gettin naked with you, McClure said, a smile in her voice despite the pain. This ain’t how I pictured it.
Quit it.
Pinpricks in Long’s arms, thighs, torso—likely glass or debris picked up in the rolling. She and the girl would both need to clean those wounds well. Infections could kill.
McClure put her shirt back on, and they ran again, heading back toward Decatur and the rifles Long had hidden in the old café on the corner of Chartres and Pirate Alley.
Raised voices, pounding footsteps—Tetweiller and Ford had moved far enough along the tree line to hear it all as the Temple mobilized. Most of the staff would exit via the front doors at any moment. Then Ford and Tetweiller could make their move. They needed to get past the doors, reach Stransky’s cell, and get back down without killing anyone.
Lord, thought Ford, guide my hand, tonight of all nights.
The guards stepped aside as the heavy doors swung open. Three dozen men and women carrying rifles and shotguns and pistols tromped out. Some would search for Troublers. Others would head for the fire stations and guard the water wagons. Gordy Boudreaux, who would lead the firefighting efforts and run interference for Long, left last.
Go with God.
The door guards locked the Temple and resumed their positions as Boudreaux ran after the others. One of the patrollers unlocked the gate, and the little crowd that had gathered there merged with the Temple staff. No one hung back to look for the gate guards. When the crowd passed out of sight, Ford nodded to Tetweiller. They slipped through the foliage until they stood in the shadows of the Temple, Ford leading the way. They crouched low, hugging the wall, their guns drawn. When they were still ten yards from the doors, one of the guards turned, but when he saw Ford’s pistol pointed at his head, he dropped his gun. The other man turned, surprised, and started to raise his shotgun.
Lowering his voice again, Tetweiller rasped, Drop it, or I put one in your brain. The guards glared at them with icy hate. The armed one did not move. Do it, or I’ll gutshoot your friend, Tetweiller said. This time the guard complied.
Tetweiller covered them while Ford bound their wrists with rawhide thongs. Hope it don’t hurt you too bad, brothers, the hunter thought.
One guard looked over his shoulder and said, Y’all won’t make it out alive. If you’re smart, you’ll run while you still can. Otherwise, you better shoot us because if we get free, we’re gonna—
Ford cuffed him upside the head, and the man fell to his knees. Lowering his voice as Tetweiller had done, Ford said, When I want your advice, I’ll clout it outta you.
Ford and Tetweiller confiscated the guards’ keys, gagged them, and bound the quiet one’s feet. Ford burst through the door, guns drawn. Norville Unger’s eyes widened as he staggered back from the desk, one hand going to his throat. He opened his mouth to shout a warning.
Ford cocked his pistols. Don’t make me turn your skull into a planter. Get your hands up.
Unger shut his mouth and raised his hands. Tetweiller dragged the guards inside and locked the doors as Unger scowled.
Come out from behind that desk, Tetweiller said.
You ain’t gonna find the lord of order, nor his deputies, Unger said. They headed out to see what you scum blew up.
We ain’t here for them, Tetweiller growled.
Ford winced. Tetweiller sounded like someone trying to disguise his voice. A Troubler would not bother. What if Unger noticed?
They bound and gagged him, trying to be gentle. I don’t wanna do this. I wish I could tell you. Troy had forbidden them from using the old man as a hostage, but they had to make certain he was out of the way. So, gritting his teeth and feeling awful, Ford pistol-whipped Unger. The old fellow fell beside the bound guard, whom Ford punched hard in the jaw. His eyelids fluttered and closed. The other guard mumbled something that sounded like a threat. He struggled, digging in his heels and twisting until Ford stepped in front of him and pointed the pistol right between his eyes. He stopped fighting.
This is the last time I’m gonna tell you, hissed Ford. Walk when we tell you, or you’re dead. Now get.
Tetweiller shoved the guard toward a tower staircase and kicked him in the hindquarters. The man stumbled forward as Ford dug out Unger’s keys. Moments later, they started up the stairs, Ford on point, thinking, I hope you’re watchin this fella, Ernie. If he decides to mule-kick you, I doubt you’ll survive the tumble. But the guard did nothing. They climbed toward Troy’s office and the tower cell beyond.
Long pushed aside a trash bin in Pirate Alley. Behind it lay a rifle and a bag of ammunition. I didn’t know you’d be here, she said, or I would have brought you a gun.
That’s okay, said McClure, pulling the pistol out of her shirt.
Long hoisted the bag, and they trotted out of the alley and down Chartres until they turned left on Wilkinson Street. Soon they crossed Decatur and approached the building adjacent to the devastated brewery. Long wrapped her fist in her bandana and punched through a window. She and McClure climbed through. Outside, the conflagration raged, heating the already stuffy interior. On the upper floor, they set up at the window with the best line of sight. The fire’s light revealed the bucket line stretching to the river. The last man in line would toss a pail of water on the fire and hand the empty to a runner, who took it to the shallows. But they were just marking time until the fire wagons arrived. No one showed signs of breaking off and heading back to the Temple.
So far, so good. Let’s hope it lasts long enough.
As per protocol, the reinforced door between the tower staircase and Troy’s office was closed and locked. On the narrow landing, Tetweiller stood behind the captive guard, one arm wrapped around his throat, holding a gun to his head. Ford pounded on the door. From within, muffled voices and someone’s footsteps. Ford raised his p
istol and pointed it at the door.
That you, Norville? Jack Hobbes called, following the script they had written after Boudreaux pointed out that they needed a reason for Unger to knock on the door and draw Hobbes close, rather than simply use his own keys.
Yes, sir, Tetweiller said.
Forgot your keys, I reckon, Hobbes teased as latches clicked and the door swung inward, hinges moaning. Keep tellin Gabe you’re gettin old—
When he saw who waited on the landing, Hobbes’s eyes widened theatrically. Ford struck him on the cheekbone with the pistol barrel. Hobbes grunted and fell back into the room, landing hard on his hindquarters, blood trickling down his cheek. Ford strode in, covering Hobbes. Across the room, Jerold Babb stood in the corner closest to Troy’s desk, trying to press himself into the wall, his face red, hands shaking.
Too yellow to run for the back door, Tetweiller thought. No surprise there.
Troy had already drawn a pistol.
Uh-uh, Ford said. Throw em down, or this bootlicker dies. He waved the gun at Hobbes.
Jevan Dwyer sneered as Tetweiller pushed the guard into the room. The herald regarded them as a starving man might view a thick steak. His tongue snaked over his lips. He dropped his string on the desk. Lord Troy, he said, I was under the impression this Temple was secure, so I neglected to bring a firearm. Can you kill these pigs?
Troy laughed. Course I can.
Tetweiller pressed the barrel harder against the guard’s head. The man winced. I got about three-quarters pressure on this trigger already. You can kill us, but I guarantee we’ll take this fuckstick to the pearly gates.
The bootlicker goes, too, Ford said, again jabbing his barrel at Hobbes.
Troy’s free hand hovered near his holsters, arm bent as if he were waiting for a clock to strike noon as it always did in the old, outlawed stories Tetweiller had heard from a thousand jailed Troublers over a thousand sleepless nights. Jack Hobbes got to one knee and then to his feet. If he felt nervous or frightened, he gave no sign. And Dwyer looked as if he would like to rip out Tetweiller’s heart. He had drawn a hunting knife, ten inches long and razor sharp. When was the last time any of them had been in a knife fight? There was Ford’s bloody duel with a Troubler in the swamps a year or so ago, but that peckerhead had been about as big as the herald’s thigh.
I hope you’re watchin that big sumbitch, Santonio. If one of us has to go hand to hand with him, you’d last longer than I would.
Gentlemen, Babb said, his voice quivering. No more violence need be done here.
Shut up, Dwyer hissed.
The old fart’s right, Ford said. Give us your keys, and everybody goes home.
Dwyer’s upper lip rose, as if he smelled something foul. Shoot them, Lord Troy.
Jerold Babb groaned.
Tetweiller shook his head. I bet his bony-ass knees are knockin under them robes.
You sure? Troy asked.
Do it now, Dwyer said.
Ford pivoted and fired, shooting Jack Hobbes just under his collarbone.
Blood spattered onto the floor, an abstract map of demon stars. Hobbes fell. Babb wailed and went to him. The old minister cradled Hobbes’s head in his lap. The senior deputy lay there panting, one hand over the wound.
Ford pointed the gun at his head. Last chance.
The herald sputtered, glancing from Ford to Troy. I said shoot them.
No, Babb cried.
He’s not the only fast gun here, Ford said. And he knows it.
Troy clenched his fists and tensed, as if he were about to draw. Tetweiller could not breathe. Jesus, Gabe, back the fuck down.
Then the lord of order raised his hands in the air, the pistol dangling from his index finger in the trigger guard. He’s right. They’d put one in Jack’s skull before I could get em both.
Thank the Most High, Babb whimpered.
Besides, Troy said, we’ll run em down. Their kind always makes a mistake.
Do not let them leave this room, Dwyer spat.
I ain’t lettin my friend die just because you’re impatient.
Fine. I’ll gut them myself. Dwyer moved forward.
Ford pivoted and aimed at him. Try it, and Rook’s gonna need a new herald.
Just give them the keys, Babb cried. Jack needs help.
Hobbes had struggled into a sitting position, though he might not have been able to sustain it if Babb had not supported him. His shirt was soaked with blood. He was the color of old cheese. Still holding his hands up, Troy approached Hobbes, knelt, and pulled the deputy’s shirt aside. The bullet wound was a blackish-red hole. Blood steadily dribbled from it. Troy tore off a piece of his own shirt and pressed it against the wound. Hobbes moaned.
Tetweiller gritted his teeth.
All right, said Ford. Skin them guns off and kick em over here. Don’t forget the bootlicker’s.
Troy took out his other pistol, placed them both on the floor, and slid them to Ford. Then he did the same with Hobbes’s. Ford booted them past Tetweiller and out the door.
Now the keys, said Tetweiller. He turned to Dwyer. And that knife, big fella, before you hurt somebody. And let’s hope you don’t prefer death to surrender. If you do, I’ll burn you down and figure out how to explain it to the goddam envoys later.
But Dwyer tossed his knife underhand. Tetweiller let it sail past him and clatter across the floor. Ford kicked it into the stairwell. Then he pulled more rawhide out of his satchel. Soon Dwyer lay on the floor near Hobbes, hogtied. The blood pooling under Hobbes edged toward him.
Troy and Babb were still applying pressure on Hobbes’s wound. The heavy fabric was almost soaked through. Troy looked at Ford, his eyes grave. We gotta get help, he said.
Not our problem, Ford said.
Give them the keys and let them go, Gabriel, Babb said. He turned to Ford and Tetweiller. And may the Most High forgive you.
From your lips to His ear, thought Tetweiller.
Hobbes had dropped the keyring when he fell. Troy slid them across to Ford and then resumed helping Babb with Hobbes’s wound.
Tetweiller looked at Ford, keeping his voice loud enough for Dwyer to hear. Didn’t expect the herald to be here. We ain’t got enough rawhide for the rest of em.
Ford scratched his head as if he were puzzled. What do you wanna do?
Better get to gettin. I’ll watch em.
Ford nodded and backed out of the room. Tetweiller kept his gun trained on Gabriel Troy, as anyone would expect him to.
Hurry, Santonio.
The guard stared at him, eyes bright with hate.
Ford took the stairs two at a time, flipping through Troy’s master key ring as he climbed. From below, Dwyer shouted at Troy to kill that Troubler, to free him, to stop those heretics. Troy said something about keeping Hobbes stable. Ford found the right key just before he reached the narrow landing outside Stransky’s cell. No one guarded her. There was no need. Troublers had never assaulted the towers, much less broken someone out.
Stransky was sitting up. She looked Ford up and down and threw back her head and laughed, her greasy hair dangling down her back. What are you supposed to be? A highwayman? A bank robber? A cowpuncher?
Ford ignored her. The key was an old and heavy brass number that might have been forged two hundred years before the Purge. He jammed it in the lock and turned it. The tumblers clicked. Stransky stood and grasped the cell bars. Well, she said. Sounds like trouble below. Better hurry.
Ford swung the door open and grabbed Stransky by the hair, yanking her toward him, their faces inches apart. You better hold up your end, or I’ll skin you alive. You hear me?
Stransky’s wild green eyes sparkled. She puckered her lips and then flicked her tongue. You keep talkin like that, and you’re gonna have to send me flowers.
Ford let her go. Come on, he said, before I cha
nge my mind.
They descended. One floor below, they entered Troy’s office. Troy and Babb had laid Hobbes on the floor. The pool of blood beneath the senior deputy had spread. Troy had ripped off another piece of his shirt. He continued to apply pressure to Hobbes’s wound. The herald and the guard lay in the same position, though Dwyer’s face had turned beet red as he strained against his bonds. Through the stained glass, the light of the fire flickered as if the night were winking at them, eternal, amused at humanity’s follies.
Ford locked the stairwell door and nodded at Tetweiller. They went over and cut the rawhide binding the guard’s feet and pulled him up. Then Ford motioned for Stransky to lead the way, toward the entrance near Troy’s desk. He shoved the guard after her, Tetweiller bringing up the rear.
As they passed, Dwyer stopped straining and glared at them, his expression wolfish, savage. I name you cowards, he hissed. Cut these bonds and face me. Let the Most High judge us.
Nah, said Tetweiller.
He’s a big un, Stransky said. I bet his horse rides him.
They crossed the room and exited into the back stairwell.
Ford found the right key and locked the office. Then the four of them headed down the stairwell, Tetweiller’s gun jammed into the guard’s back. Halfway down, a tremendous crash. Tetweiller turned. Dust wafted from the doorframe. Hell, Tetweiller thought. Dwyer’s already loose. Or maybe Jack’s lost too much blood, and that’s Gabe tryin to bust out. Either way, we gotta move. He turned, refusing to look back, though more crashes, metronomic and almost certainly Dwyer given the sheer force, followed them. The herald seemed made of steel.
He seems a mite outta sorts, Stransky said.
Hellfire, Tetweiller muttered. If that damn door opened outward, he’d be on us already.
They reached the ground floor without incident. The Temple was empty, except for Norville Unger and the other guard, who had both awakened and lay struggling with their bonds. Ford was already searching through the keys for the one that would open the door leading to the prison.
