Chapter 79
Ezra
We’re running in blind. Radio signatures aren’t picking up, so we have no idea where the remaining Angelics are cooped or the locations of Barclay’s men. There’s so much left burning that the tar-black smoke far outreaches the white. We stumble through the dense foliage that sits complacent, content to be set ablaze by the spreading fire. I saw Levi Finch’s severed corpse on my way to the tunnels. If he’s dead, all that risks this landscape from further scorching is what’s already burning. It’s some solace, but not enough. This is California, after all.
We’re headed directly for Dunsmuir station. Tracks materialize under our feet, showing the way forward. The fire reaches its destructive hands. The Angelic armor is flame retardant, but can only suppress so much. With enough pressure, I’m positive it could border on dangerous. The fire licks and beckons. The Angelics persist until the river can be seen below and our feet hit gravel. That’s where we find the brunt end of the battle.
The Shop is smoldering. Clumped behind a small warehouse is a cluster of the Angelic stragglers that saved me from Angela’s clutches. Several without offensive abilities fire aimlessly with their guns. Barclay’s men have taken refuge at the station. Portions of the building have succumbed to the destruction, to the growing flame.
Bullets rain relentlessly against our remaining Angelic comrades, holed up with little leeway. We sprint and don’t stop, but one of our own is hit by a stray bullet through the arm. Because of the thickness of the armor, it lodges itself deep in muscle and tissue, evidently not the same bullet that ground its way into Conin’s body many months ago. Blood spills on the tracks. Ambrosia lifts herself into the air, twists, and grounds in a three-point landing. With a strong motion of her arms, she renders Angela’s soldiers like rag dolls flailing in the air. Ammunition litters the tracks. More soldiers pursue through the thick smoke. Ambrosia boosts up once more before joining us behind the warehouse.
“How’s the wound?” someone asks. Who, I’m not sure. I stare down at the injured Angelic, unaware of their name and their story.
“Where’s Mafu?!” Atlas yells.
“Here,” he says. “I’m so . . . drained.”
“You’ve done a lot,” Ambrosia says, “but we need you to do one more thing.”
“They’re advancing!”
I watch in horror as Conin aims his automatic, sending bullets after our enemies. Ever since that night, ever since Mara, he’s been different. Yet he kept stubborn about defending Proctus’s walls, about keeping a gun on him at all times. Mara hadn’t died then, not until I’d finished her, but I know it’s traumatized him. I wonder if I’ll end up the same. I ended the lives of Mara and those soldiers without hesitation. And . . . I think I’d do it again.
“Can you retrieve the bullet from their arm?”
“I can try.”
“FUCK! I’m out of ammunition!” Conin exclaims.
“Here.” An Angelic trades him. That same Angelic twists on their heels and extends their hands in the direction of a water tower yards away. In a burst, the tower implodes. Water hovers midair while the legs collapse to the ground. The Angelic hurtles the liquified bulbous form toward the advancing men. Several drown in the water’s depth, hovering in the sky. The Angelic releases it and those trapped within smack onto the rails. I can hear the crunch of bones from where we stand, hidden behind our cover. Water-users: a dime a dozen, but damn useful.
“This is going to hurt like a bitch,” Mafu mutters.
“Just . . . do it.”
Mafu lifts a quivering hand and places it over the entry wound. He scrunches up his features before the trapped bullet falls into his palm. He grips it with trembling fingers, releasing it to the ground. Blood spews and pools in the gravel.
“Cauterize the wound. Quickly now,” Mafu informs, slumping against the wall of the warehouse. And to my surprise, here comes another Angelic—Bobby I think her name is. Her fingers heat, growing red on the pads. With a searing touch, she places them firmly on the Angelic’s skin. They wince but don’t complain. I hear them draw in a hiss.
“They’ve taken cover. For now,” says Conin.
“Let’s strategize,” Ambrosia suggests.
I gaze at the fire, somberly watching it eradicate and eat and leave nothing but charred remains. I think of that night and the car. I think of the flames that engulfed Conin’s vehicle, Levi’s attacks in Eureka, the ghostly touch of the burn that stretched up my arm. It was a reminder that I was alive. I’m still alive and I don’t plan on leaving this earth. Not today and not for a long time.
The Angelic that can manipulate water directs what little is left to the spreading flames. The trees are lit in a fiery, scalding light. Soon, it’ll find its way here.
“I’m afraid Mafu can’t do much in his condition. Neither can Taylor.”
“I can teleport behind their ranks, take out who I can,” Atlas says.
“It’s risky, but we may not have a choice.”
“No,” Conin argues. “That’s dangerous. You could be killed.”
Atlas grins sadly and places an armor-clad hand over the glass of Conin’s mask. Conin is terrified. I can see it in his stance, in the way the gun in his grip shakes, the way he takes a shuddering breath.
“Right now, it might just be our only option. I’ve done it before. I’ll be fine,” Atlas reassures. It brings absolutely no fucking reassurance whatsoever.
