The Earth Dwellers (38 page)

My injured ankle’s burning like it’s stuck in a fire, but I ignore it. The pain is nothing because…

My people are dying.

In front of me, my people are falling, dying, hit by magic or weapons or whatever the fire sticks do. They’re bleeding and crying and all being ignored by the rest of us fighting for our lives.

I stop shooting when the black Riders reach the fire chariots, which stop to let the Glassies pile out. CRACKS and BOOMS and deafening blasts fill the air as their weapons seem to explode in their hands. Some of the horses topple over, right onto their Riders, while others lose their Riders but kick and gallop at the Glassies, fighting still.

And my people are all charging, taking advantage of the distraction caused by the Riders, a stampede of dust and sharp blades held above our heads so we don’t accidentally poke one another.

Circ’s beside me with Skye and Wilde in front, and Feve sorta diagonal. I spot Grunt not that far off, running faster’n I ever seen him do anything. He’s red-faced and sweaty, but looks determined too. Will he run away at the last moment like he did against the pack of Cotees? I almost hope he will, for Veeva’s sake.

I hurdle a fallen horse, its black hide streaked with red stripes.

And then the Glassies are amongst us.

They’re still trying to use their fire sticks, but more like clubs now, swinging at us or poking at us with these long spikes that are stuck to the front of some of ’em. Skye rips through ’em, slashing one and then another. Circ and Feve get in front of me and Circ shouts something I can’t hear on account of all the screaming and the blaring of that searin’ noise from the city, but I know exactly what they’re doing. Protecting me so I can keep shooting.

I nock a pointer and release it into the neck of a Glassy who was pushing Wilde back. A dangerous shot, but these are dangerous times.

Another pointer finds its way into the gut of a Glassy who tries to double up on Circ, who’s already grappling with an enemy soldier. He looks so strong I’d never guess he’s got an injured arm and leg.

Circ’s muscles strain and he gets the advantage, whipping the guy’s neck hard to the side.

I reach for another pointer—the last one. Whirl ’round to find a good target. I see Grunt get hit in the side by a fire stick. He falls over, still gripping his useless sword. The Glassy points the stick at him.

Twang!

Thock!

The Glassy slumps over, feathers sticking from his chest.

Grunt’s eyes are bigger’n the water country ocean. “Run away!” I yell, thinking only of my promise to Veeva. This is no place for Grunt. No place for any of us. ’Cept maybe Circ and Skye and Feve.

Grunt nods and scrambles to his feet, running on unsteady legs toward where we came from.

“Siena!” Circ shouts from the side and I spin ’round to see what he’s hollering ’bout.

His cry was too late and I’m too slow, although I duck as the fire stick arcs toward my head.

Crack! It catches me in the face, but sorta on an angle so it doesn’t get me with full force. Even still, it’s enough to send me star-seeing to the ground, tasting durt and blood on my lips.

I look up to see three Glassies, identical, all pointing fire sticks at me. Circ’s yelling something but it sounds so far away, too far away to save me.

The three Glassies shift and fade in and out and then combine into one man, wearing a snarl. “Die you little bitch,” he says.

A big blur flashes from the side, yelling something, thumping into the Glassy with the force of a tug. The Glassy disappears from sight and I’m left staring at a puffy yellow cloud full of shards of light that I think are just a trick of my eyes.

Circ stands over me, speaking, reaching toward me. I can’t hear him, just see his lips moving. He’s saying something like, “Far two to fight.” That can’t be right.

I blink again, try to reach for his hand, but nothing’s working right.

I see Feve behind him, thrusting his sword into the gut of a Glassy, shoving him down.

With a roar, my hearing comes back in booms and clanks and the sound of Circ’s voice. “Are you all right?” he asks, and that makes much more sense.

“Who?” I ask, ’cause all I can seem to think ’bout is that tug of a human who came out of nowhere and saved me.

Grunt appears next to Circ. “I couldn’t run,” he says. “I saw you and I couldn’t…”

“Shanker,” I say, but I take his hand and he and Circ pull me to my feet, holding me up as I get my balance. I feel like I should thank Grunt, hug him or something, but there’s no time to think or do anything, not when there’s death all ’round.

I notice that it’s not just Feve protecting us, but Skye and Wilde too. There are Glassies everywhere, and it seems like less’n less of my people and the Stormers are standing with every second that passes. We’re being slaughtered, just like the Icers.

I give my head a shake and the cobwebs fall out and the stars fade and, although the pounding in my brain is still there, I’m steady on my feet. Drawing my short blade, I say, “We die t’gether.”

As one, we charge into the fray.

Tristan

When we’re less than half a mile from the New City, we hear the gunshots, hammering across the desert like cannon fodder.

Oh no
, I think. The Tri-Tribes have arrived first.

“Move!” I shout, feeling somewhat sick all of a sudden. Memories of bodies in the sand flash through my mind. We have to hurry or I’ll be seeing the same thing again, only it’ll be brown bodies this time.

Like legions of ants, we pour over the final dune separating us from the city, gaining speed as our feet find purchase on more solid ground, cracked and hard, specked with small stones rounded by wind and sand. A loud sound is emanating from inside the Dome, like a siren or an alarm. A call to war perhaps?

Abruptly, it stops.

I have the urge to pause, to wait to see what happens, but we’re like a flowing river now, moving forward until something stops us.

The gates—the ones Adele got in through—to the New City open.

Soldiers swarm through.

Adele

Even as my mind is stuttering over the fact that Jocelyn isn’t behind me anymore, the alarm stops.

The silence that follows is eerie, almost as if more than just the gut-wrenching sound has been sucked away. Soulless. Dead.

My shoulder’s on fire, like it’s being roasted from the inside out. Not a clean wound. The bullet’s in me somewhere. Blood squirms between my fingers as I try to stop the bleeding.

Glass crunches underfoot around the bend. Does the guard know I’m shot? He must, the way I cried out, but he can’t know the extent.

My pistol is a few inches beyond my feet.

Slowly, slowly, I ease a toe forward, gritting my teeth because my nerves are screaming. I hook the gun and slide it back toward me. The sound of metal scraping against the tile is loud enough to wake the dead.

Crunch, crunch
. The guard’s gun comes into view. He’s still being cautious, regardless of whether he thinks I’m hit or not.

My left hand leaves my shoulder to bleed.

Grips the gun, forefinger resting lightly on the trigger.

Breathe in, breathe out, through my teeth.

Heart racing—ignore it.

Drops of sweat quivering on my brow—doesn’t matter.

Focus.

The guard steps out and fires, a heavy blast meant to end this game, but I’ve already shrunk back another foot and his bullets sing and chirp and glance harmlessly off the wall.

The moment he stops shooting, I push to my feet and rush forward, one arm damaged and dangling, and the other held steady in front of me.

He’s reloading, scrambling to snap a new clip into his weapon.

I aim—

—point blank at his chest—

—and I fire.

He’s thrown back by the speed of the bullet ripping through his skin and veins and bones and heart.

His gun clatters to the floor, along with the clip.

I approach slowly, my gun never leaving its target. The guard’s not breathing, not moving. His eyes are open, unblinking. Dead.

I’ve made too much noise. Surely Lecter will be gone, having escaped through some back door. Or he’s waiting inside with ten more guards. But either way, I have no choice. This is my mission, my destiny.

The heavy wooden door stands before me. What lies beyond?

My right arm is useless, so I have to stuff the gun in the back of my pants and use my left hand to turn the handle. It’s unlocked and opens inward. Pushing it forward an inch, I grab my gun and kick it the rest of the way.

Crash! The heavy door reverberates off the inside wall, shuddering slightly.

It can’t be. It can’t. He’s there, waiting, just staring at me from across the large room, seemingly weaponless.

The man from the propaganda videos.

Lecter.

With a wave of his arm, he beckons me inside, like an old friend.

I aim my gun at the thickest part of his body and step inside, trying to guarantee I’ll hit him with the first shot. Just a step closer and there’s no way I’ll miss.

Before I can react, I feel the cold press of metal against the side of my head.

“Drop the gun,” Tristan’s mother says.

Siena

Feve goes down, hit by a fire stick. Wilde’s got blood all on her front, bubbling from a deep slash ’cross her belly. Circ’s being held from behind while another Glassy smashes his face. They don’t have fire sticks, so they musta lost ’em during the battle. Even Skye looks ’bout ready to topple over, though she’s still giving the Glassy baggards scorch.

Me, I’m surrounded by three Glassies. At any moment, they could send fire and magic shooting from their sticks, finish me off. But instead they’re having fun with it, laughing and poking at me with the knives on the ends of their weapons. They think they’ve won.

I dance away from a jab and they roar with laughter.

I duck a slash and they taunt. “This one’s still got fight in her! Might have to take her alive!”

But I won’t surrender. They ain’t taking me alive—that’s one thing I know.

With a wild yell, I leap at the one who said that, slash at him with my blade. He tries to jump back, but I’m too quick and I slice open his throat. His last words bubble out through his neck.

Then I stumble over my own two feet, fall, almost on top of the man I just killed. Even as I land face down in the durt, I know it’ll be my last clumsy, awkward moment, the last time my two left feet trip me up. But I roll anyway, ’cause if there’s anything I learned from my big sister, it’s that you hafta keep fighting, never give up.

Crack!

The sound of a fire stick exploding rings out so close I know I’m dead. I don’t feel nothing, so I keep rolling.

And then:

A shout. And another. Some close, some far. What’s happening? Why ain’t I dead?

I look up and there’re hundreds of boots running through the dust, thundering onto the battlefield. Familiar boots. It takes me a moment to place where I’ve seen ’em ’fore.

Water country.

The kind they wear on the decks of the ships.

The Soakers have arrived.

Still not dead, I push to my feet and see one of my tormentors taking aim at the newcomers. Rage filling me from gut to heart to head, I charge him, stab him from behind, not caring whether that’s fair.

He drops his searin’ stick. The third Glassy shoots fire from his stick and a Soaker falls in front of him, but there are ten more to take his place and they swallow him whole, trampling his bleeding carcass as they surge forward, moving on to other enemies.

I whirl ’round, the desert spinning like a dust devil: dead bodies and injured folks crying out and the Soakers finishing off the Glassies. And Skye, still fighting with ’em, killing another enemy, her brown skin glistening with sweat and exertion.

Somehow I always knew she’d be the last of us fighting.

I spot Grunt, who’s pulling himself to his feet, staring in amazement as the remaining Glassies flee for the safety of the city. He’s hobbling, one leg bleeding heavily from a hole near the top. He spots me and in his face I see horror and relief and pain, and the man who saved my life. I’ll never look at him the same way.

I throw myself at him, and almost knock him over, but his sheer girth holds up my skinny frame. He’s sweaty and durty and even less attractive’n usual, but I hug him with everything I got left. “Help me find Circ,” I say to him, my chest heaving. We pick through the bodies. Each one I turn over chips away at my heart. My people. Dead. So many dead. The tears are flowing down my face, hot and dripping, but I keep looking, ’cause I hafta see him one way or t’other.

Grunt calls out and I stumble toward him, fearing the worst.