fucks standing nearby with big-ass Russian guns aimed at his head.
He had opened his eyes a moment ago. He was still regretting it.
They'd left the bay doors open. They'd laid him out right next to the damned thing, so his first sight was green fields and jagged hills, gushing past below.
A long, long, long way below.
Yeah. Big fucking novelty.
To be honest, he couldn't even decide if he really was awake or not. Even with his eyes closed again, lights kept dancing weirdly in front of him, odd sensations were shooting up and down his left arm, and every time he tried to concentrate on anything the world went grey and prickly. Eventually he came to the conclusion he must be concussed. Maybe brain-damaged. Maybe dying.
Whatever.
He cast his mind back to the battle on the bridge, and tried to sort out what had happened. He remembered diving into the lake. Swimming to safety. Finding the little knot of Haudenosaunee fighters – all from different lodges, none of them recognisable – and staggering over to get some help for his bleeding legs. He remembered the way they'd looked at him – looked up at him – and instead of rushing round to check he was okay and pat him on the head, they'd pointed at the tank buster grenades and asked him:
What shall we do?
A couple of weeks ago he would've avoided the war painted pricks with their stupid clothes and daft ceremonies, and living-off-the-fucking-land, and 'Great Spirits' and 'Earth Initiates' and 'Ghost Dances' and yadda- yadda-yadda, and here he was: a leader.
Well then, he'd thought.
Might as well lead.
He remembered telling them what to do. Remembered the itch at the rear of his head, just like he'd felt back in NY, back when he was Hiawatha, except this time it was him in charge and that older, wiser, weirder voice consigned to an echo that he could attend or ignore as he chose. Best of both worlds.
He remembered the dull flicker of green and purple fire on the edge of his subconscious, and turning round on cue to find the Stranger sprinting up with that sexy black chick in tow, and that old guy Nike going splat, and the kid with the scarred face flipping-out, and reaching out to stop him, and And then something about light and fire, and pain.
And then confused blur-memories of a lot of people screaming and a lot of people dying, and men in grey and white laughing and shouting, and chanting in choral voices whilst guns chattered. And a radio hissing something about they're all fucking dead, they're all fucking dead, and a general retreat, and then the howl of rotors.
And that was about all.
Rick figured he'd been blown up. It certainly goddamn felt like he'd been blown up. He wondered how come he was still alive at all, and why these robe-wearing assholes were dragging him off to who-knew-where, rather than just… squashing him. He felt like he should be more scared than he was, but inside the sweat-lodge of his skull Hiawatha sat and played strange songs on stranger instruments, and everything was okay. Nothing hurt, except in the physical sense.
Which somehow just… didn't count any more.
Rick risked opening his eyes again, this time turning his head with a nauseous lurch to the other side, ignoring a muttered command from somewhere far away that might have been 'stay still, fucko.'
Yeah, yeah. Whatever.
He wasn't alone. Three other shapes, bundled side-by-side, head-to-toe, lay beside him. He kept his face down, focusing close through clouds of greyout blur.
All he could see of the recumbent figure directly next to him was a pair of boots. Muddy and bloody, fastened over tattered combats and the hem of a raggedy coat. Blazing, from the corner of his eyes, with a warm fiery glow.
The Stranger.
Beyond him was Malice. Her face was gone. Her skin was charred and burnt, her hair singed away in great bloody patches all over her scalp. If she was still alive, she didn't look it. Her eye was open. Unblinking. Staring straight at him.
Next to her were Nate's feet. Crazy red sneakers with army regs tucked into them, tied-together with a single loop of wire. He couldn't see past Malice's charred body to check if the old junkie was still alive or not.
All three lay, like him, on their bellies; arms twisted into the smalls of their backs, where pairs of black cuffs held them in place. Rick tried to move his own arms, unsurprised to feel a fresh tsunami of agony (all a million miles away, not worth worrying about) swarming along his left wrist. They felt impeded, sure, but there was something loose about the whole arrangement, a sort of dried, gluey stickiness rather than metal solidity.
Weird.
He tilted his head as best as he could, to peer down towards his own feet; hogtied, just like everyone else. Next to them, the Stranger was looking at him. Eyes open and alive, jaw clenched. Blood and flesh covered his face, and it was difficult to tell how much of it was his. They stared silently at each other for a moment or two, then the Stranger's eyes flipped downwards towards Rick's back.
Then back up again.
'Your hand's gone.' He whispered.
'Shut the fuck up!' One of the Clergymen screamed, stamping hard on the Stranger's head and mashing one lacerated cheek against the grille. Rick barely noticed, exploring his own body with a morbid sense of certainty.
The stranger was right. His left hand. His left hand was gone.
Well, shit.
It felt like they'd bound it up, maybe. Rags or bandages, tied at pressure, holding the arteries closed. Then they'd slapped the same old cuffs over the top of it and left him to it, maybe expecting him to die from blood loss, maybe just not caring.
He could move his wrist. He could unglue it from the sticky mess of dried blood and pull it free from the cuff. And if he could do that, it meant his other hand – no, his only hand – would be free to move.
Hiawatha sang a new song. The wind against the back of his head, from that great drop beyond, tousled his long hair and whispered strange things in his ear. Something about… about a gift?
He shifted his weight, trying to determine if any other interesting parts of his anatomy were missing. The pockets of his leathers had been chock-full of ammunition and handguns before the blast knocked him out, but now all he could feel about his person was a shitload of bruises and something tiny – sharp, but swaddled-up – in the zip-pocket on his ass.
The wind giggled.
The gift, it told him. Remember?
And then he knew what to do.
Poor kid.
Shell-shocked, I thought. He's been blown up. He's woken-up dangling over an abyss surrounded by fanatic goons, and he's got a bloody hand missing.
Shit, I'd be shell-shocked.
Outside, the green blur of land streaking past began to turn sooty and black. A sharp smell – like burning oil – filled the chopper, and above my head the three Choirboys muttered to one another, shuffling discreetly towards the open bay to see below.
The Haudenosaunee camp, I guessed, set-up far back from the war zone at the bridge. I couldn't see past the edge to whatever they were marvelling at, but I could imagine it. Blackened vans and charred wagons. The Tadodaho's weird mobile-home collapsing in embers and smoke. What else could it be?
We'd been roundly beaten; us plucky idiots with our ambush and our rebellion. Slaughtered and routed for our hubris. Taken prisoner. Taken away.
The smoke got thicker. I decided not to look.
Nor, evidently, did Rick. With the guards distracted his arms were moving slowly, gingerly releasing the swaddled stump of his left wrist from the cuffs and, thus freed, his right hand easing – inching – towards the pocket of his trousers.
