He rolled Wiley over, unbuckled the gun belt, and snatched it from his waist. "Like you said — she'll be coming up here soon with everything she has. When she does, everyone dies. I'm not gonna let that happen."
"You're gonna put your life on the line for some mangy Ferals? Why would you—" She cut off at seeing the murderous look on his face.
"I'm not asking for your help, Janey. You did me a favor here. Far as me and you are concerned, we're more than evened up." He cinched the belt around his waist and holstered the Reapers. "You go your way; I'll go mine."
She stared him for a moment before shrugging. "Fine, I'll help."
"It ain't gonna be pretty. And if you go in, you might not come back out."
"I said I'd go. I know the Judge was my grandfather, but he deserved to die. Waingrow is a different story. He was like a brother to me. When I got jumped by a gang in Reno, it was him that came and fought through all of them to get me out. I owed a lot to him. So don’t try and tell me what to do and where to go. What's the plan?"
Gunner picked up the rocket launcher. "The plan? I'm going down there and I'm gonna kill 'em all."
She glanced over at the forge, where the rusty robot kept on beating plates of metal with its hammer, unconcerned with what occurred around it.
"I think we can do a little better than that."
The dead were buried. The living prepared for war.
At the mouth of the tunnel leading back to the Town, Gunner gathered with a handful of the Mahinarah warriors, picking through the assortment of old weapons they had collected over the years. The forge provided the only illumination, the furnace casting flickering light across the darkness of the hewn stone.
"Did Janey take the flamethrower? Good. Are those the spare rockets?" Gunner accepted them from Enya, carefully placing them in a large duffel bag. One of the remaining warriors handed him the large knife Bane had wielded. Gunner slung it in a makeshift scabbard on his back and placed an old Puritan-style slouch hat on his head, the band fastened by a wide brass buckle, the wide brim hanging over his eyes.
Bodhi joined them, corralled by a trio of protective warriors. You do not have to do this alone, Agni Chaya. What we have is yours. My warriors wish to avenge their fallen brothers and sisters.
"You got precious few warriors left. They're better off protecting you in case things go south down there. Two of 'em will guide me through the tunnels, but I'm sending them back up. I don't want any more of your blood on my hands."
She reached up, pulling his head down and placing his brow against hers. It will be as you say. You will always find home with the Mahinarah, Agni Chaya. We remember you.
"And I remember you," he said, hefting the bag and slinging it over his shoulder. Turning, he headed down the tunnel, ruffling Enya's hair as he passed. She grabbed hold of his hand, mewling. He hesitated, dropping to one knee.
“This is goodbye, Enya. You keep taking care of your people, okay?”
She nodded, tears gleaming in her eyes as she pressed something into his hand. He looked at the glimmering red blood shard, nodding before stuffing it into his pocket. Her mournful cries followed him as he descended into the deep gloom of the tunnels, hand on one of the warrior's shoulders, using their eyes to see the way in the dark.
A killer waited for Myrtle Jenkins in her bedroom.
She had only left for a minute, when Mama got to complaining about her arthritis again. Myrtle gave her the meds and returned to her bedroom, hoping to read a few passages from Immortal Musings before trying to type out a few poems on her own. Thunder rumbled, rattling the windows, and rain dripped from leaks in the roof. She adjusted a few buckets but gave up after a few seconds. When she opened the bedroom door, Gunner stood in the corner like the shadows gave him birth, eyes hooded by a wide-brimmed hat, water dripping from his oilskin duster onto the floor. A red bandanna wrapped around his throat. His voice rasped like a metal file.
"Get your people out of here."
Her hand drifted to the door handle. "What…?"
His arm raised, pistol in hand. "Don't."
Trembling, she clasped her hands tightly in front of her.
"It's not you that I wanna kill. Just everyone else. You got a few minutes before the shooting starts. That's enough time to round your folks up. Family, neighbors, whoever doesn't wanna die. Take 'em to the mines and wait it out. Should be safe enough there. After it's over, you can head out to the farm."
"In the middle of the storm? No one is gonna want to—"
"You know your Bible, girl?"
She nodded.
"Then you know what happened to Sodom and Gomorrah. Same thing's gonna happen to this Town in a few minutes. This ain't the time for what you want. It's time for you to get your people to safety and not look back. Remember Lot's wife."
He opened the window, letting in the howling wind and pouring rain. Slipping out, he vanished like a shadow in the absence of light.
Myrtle stood there, blinking as the rain spattered on her face, dampening her gown. Her chest heaved, and she wavered on unsteady legs. Closing her eyes, she said a silent prayer. Then, sucking a deep breath, she ran out of the bedroom and woke up everyone in the house.
Jim McArthur shook his head. "This is gonna be impossible, Johnson. Now the Baron has a brand-new generator? One that uses blood shards for fusion? And she wants it up and running when — by the end of the week? How are we supposed to do that, huh? After all the work we've done to overhaul the power station, she thinks we can just put it back together the way it was without shutting the entire Town down for weeks. How, I ask? Do you know, Johnson? Do you?"
Johnson winced. "No, sir."
"Of course you don't. I'm the one that has to think of everything around here. I should have chosen a more appreciated occupation, Johnson. Like an undertaker. Look at all the business they're getting right about now."
"Yes, sir."
McArthur tossed a handful of antacids in his mouth and chewed furiously. "Go get some sleep, Johnson. I need you for another double shift bright and early tomorrow. We gotta train the crew all over again for this new project."
"Yes, sir." Johnson heaved a sigh of relief and dashed out of the office. McArthur paid it no mind, already distracted by the readouts on the screen. He shook his head. "Unbelievable. Just unbelievable. If we get through this storm without a blackout, it'll be a bona fide miracle."
The door opened, stirring the papers scattered on the desktop. "You leave something, Johnson?"
A gun muzzle jabbed into the back of his head. His eyes widened, seeing the murky reflection in the window of a tall, dark shadow in a long coat and wide-brimmed hat standing behind him. Sweat slid down McArthur's face. The man in the hat spoke in a coarse rasp.
"You told me that one blood shard could blow this place sky-high."
"You're the one they tried to hang. The desperado that won't die."
The gun jabbed harder. "Not important. Think back to the other day. You told me a single blood shard in the wrong place could cause a chain reaction."
McArthur worked some moisture in his mouth. "Well, technically speaking, it could. It hasn't been proven, of course, because that would be a damn fool thing to—"
Gunner tossed something onto the desk. The blood shard rolled across the surface, glinting in the light.
"Do it."
McArthur braced himself, feeling an incredible urge to pee in his pants. "Why? I have people here. Why would I start an explosion that could kill them all?"