The door opened tentatively. A youthful aide wearing a colorful dashiki leaned in. “I beg your problem, Comrade Field Marshal,” he said. “There… there is a problem at the Red House.”
The Red House
Bunia, Congo
People’s Paradise of Africa
Lilith had teleported them up the steep slope to the house, then vanished again, saying she was going to check on Rusty. Jerusha was so tired. So hungry. So empty of energy. But she had no choice, not if she wanted Wally to be safe.
She took a long, shuddering breath, trying to dredge up the will to remain standing. She could still hear the firing to the west, where he was. Around the corner of the massive structure of the estate house, she could see bright lights flaring where the main entrance must be. “Lots of soldiers there,” Bugsy said. There was only his head and torso on the ground near her. “They’re not liking the wasps much, though.” He grinned.
“It’s all yours, Gardener,” Cameo said. She was still panting a bit from the climb. “Get us in there.”
Jerusha could only see what was directly in front of her; all the rest was gone. Her hand slid again into the seed pouch, her fingers finding the two large baobab seeds she had left. She took one in her hands. “Back up,” she told Cameo. Bugsy had already dissolved into a stream of wasps curling around the side of the house. “This is going to be messy.”
She glanced up at the red brick walls-it was a shame, to tear down a grand, rambling Victorian edifice like this, and for a moment she felt regret at what she had to do.
So tired. She closed her eyes. But you have to do it. For Rusty. Jerusha took another slow breath. Tossed the seed to the ground at the base of the house. She could feel the life inside, feel it wanting release. She gave it permission.
The baobab tore roots into the ground and erupted upward, the trunk growing more massive by the second. She could feel the roots, plunging down and under the house, tearing into concrete, splintering supports.
The Red House moaned under the assault, and Jerusha moaned with it, the roots of the baobab seeming to tear at her own soul. Jerusha pushed the tree, forcing decades of growth in the space of a few seconds. A fissure opened in the foundation, running in a wild zigzag through the mortar of the bricks and climbing. Jerusha changed the direction of the baobab’s growth: a crack appeared around the mass of the baobab’s trunk. The house visibly lifted, and a mass of bricks fell from the second story to the ground, walls opening as the branches of the baobab tore at the wreckage. She could see inside: offices, desks, workers running wilding away from the destruction; people in lab coats, one in full biological hazard gear.
Jerusha stepped forward, still directing the tree’s growth, making the hole in the side of the mansion large and easier to traverse. She was standing alongside the tree, her eyes slitted, her hand on the trunk so she could feel its life. Leaning against it because if she didn’t, she would fall.
So tired.
Wally set off a couple of mines as he barreled through the perimeter; they blew shrapnel up into his feet, cratering the rust. He’d let the pain take over later. After he smashed this place to rubble.
The defenders let up on the RPGs when Wally closed with the Red House-a sprawling, brick mansion. It was a relief to dispense with the cage.
The spotlights followed his every move, making him an easy target. Gunfire raked him from half a dozen directions. A few at first, then more and more bullets found their mark. They ripped through his corroded skin with little explosions of rust chips. Something hot grazed his waist. A shot dented his temple, blurred his vision, and left his ears ringing.
He made a big show of tearing through the defenders. Punching them, kicking them, smacking them with a length of rebar he’d pulled from the cage. And he disintegrated every weapon he could touch.
Wally didn’t discriminate between the people in uniforms and people in lab coats. They were all part of this. They had all killed Lucien.
The house shook. It lurched, like something huge had grabbed and lifted it. Wally heard a momentous crash, like ten tons of crumbling brick. It came from around back, where Noel had taken Jerusha and the others.
All right, Jerusha!
She’d done her part. Now he just had to get her safe. Wally started working his way around the house.
Gardener’s vines had pulled down one side of the house. It had happened so fast, Michelle couldn’t believe it for a moment. Then she started running toward the collapsing side. Gardener was bound to be close by.
Michelle wanted to know what the plans were. And she wanted to know how the hell Gardener and Rusty had ended up here. It was too damn dangerous for them.
Bullets hit her and RPGs exploded close by. That just plumped her up more. She released a barrage of bubbles as she ran. There were screams and some of the guards went down. They weren’t dead-at least they shouldn’t be. The bubbles were hard but rubbery. She didn’t want to accidentally kill someone friendly. She had no idea who might be here with Rusty and Gardener.
As she got closer to the house, Michelle saw a shrunken, emaciated figure leaning against a massive tree trunk. The tree was still growing up into the air. No, she thought. It can’t be. But in her gut she knew. She felt a chill run through her.
She stopped in front of Jerusha. The person leaning against the tree didn’t look like Gardener anymore. Even in the gathering gloom, Michelle could see her sunken cheeks, the gauntness of her body, and the faraway look in her hollowed eyes.
Michelle knew that look. Jerusha was dying.
“Terrible, isn’t it? One of the child aces bit her. She’s been wasting away ever since.”
It was Lilith. She was hidden by the shadows, but Michelle knew that voice. “Why am I not surprised you’re in the middle of this,” Michelle replied. “Why is she here? She should be in a hospital.”
“She was. She wanted to come. For Rustbelt.”
“Stop.” Gardener opened her eyes and said in a whispery voice, “Stop. Please. Just destroy the lab.”
“I’m sorry, Jerusha.” Michelle gave Lilith one last hard stare, then ran into the Red House through the gaping hole that Gardener’s tree had torn.
Inside, she stumbled over bricks and debris, past desks and fallen filing cabinets. A fluorescent light swung by a long electrical cord, unmoored from the ceiling. A guard appeared in the doorway and started firing at her with an automatic weapon. Most of the bullets hit her. She threw a bubble at him and he went down with a whimper.
Two more guards appeared, and shot her as well. She threw bubbles at them, too. Then she struggled through the rubble until she came to the staircase. She’d seen some labs on the second level.
The staircase had broken apart. A big gap separated the two sections. Michelle wasn’t sure she could jump it at her current size. She wasn’t sure she could have jumped it when she was skinny. But she had to get to the labs, so she gave a grunt and leapt across.
Her foot hit, then slipped. She went down hard on her knees. Another zing of energy. The banister groaned as she grabbed it. She pulled herself up and then ran to the top of the stairs.
A sheet of fire met her.
The heat. The light. Memories of New Orleans washed over her, and for a moment she could not move.
But what had happened with Drake hadn’t hurt her. It had changed her. Michelle walked through the fire, curling her hand, forming a bubble in her palm.
When she emerged beyond the flames, she saw a small boy blowing a stream of fire from his mouth as if he were blowing soap bubbles. When he saw her, his jaw dropped and the fire stopped. Standing next to the boy was a man in a lab coat. He looked as surprised as the boy did. She released her bubble and it exploded on the floor in front of them. They were thrown back by the impact. She fired more rubbery bubbles to keep them down.
The doctor began to scramble to his feet, but the boy started crying and fire shot from his mouth again. The doctor shrieked. His lab coat caught fire and there was a nauseating smell as his hair began to burn. He started running, past her and down the stairs. But he didn’t make the gap. There was another scream and a sickening crack as he landed on the floor below.