All That Lives Must Die

lampposts-everything shades of gray. It was depressing.

The strangest thing, though, was the traffic. There were three lanes full of honking cars and trucks, but all going north. On the southbound lane that they traveled on. . it was empty.

Pretty weird, if there was a Mardi Gras.

Robert slowed as they approach the end of the off-ramp and looked around. Down either side of the street was a towering canyon of office buildings. The only movement was papers blowing in the gutters. No people.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” Eliot asked.

“Positive,” Robert answered, annoyed. He sounded unsure now about the reliability of his sure thing Mardi Gras tip.

A few blocks away, thumps echoed from the city center.

“Come on,” Robert muttered. “Sounds like something’s going down. Maybe the party’s started or it’s a parade.”

Eliot nodded, but he detected something in Robert’s voice he didn’t often hear: worry.

Eliot’s hand rested on Lady Dawn’s strings, just in case.

Robert eased the Harley into gear and went slow, the bike’s engine shaking the frame.

Eliot had an urge to get out and walk, so, if nothing else, he could properly hold his guitar. It was claustrophobic in this sidecar. Sure, the leather padding was comfortable. . but it kind of reminded him of a coffin on wheels.

On the other hand, maybe it was best to stay in the vehicle that could accelerate past the sound barrier-in case they had to make a quick exit.

They moved closer to the downtown office towers, each with the same dirty square windows, the same square entryways. There were, however, splotches of color here and there. Plastered on the walls were posters. In them, a man stood in a heroic pose holding a pistol in one hand, a sword in the other. He was drawn in angular red, white, and black lines. A red flag waved behind him. At the bottom of each poster, black bold letters proclaimed: COL. V. C. BALBOA. PRESIDENTE DE POR VIDA.

This guy gave Eliot the creeps.

Robert pulled up to a four-way stop and predictably rolled through the ALTO sign into the intersection. This gave them an unobstructed view into the center of Costa Esmeralda.

And they saw exactly who was throwing this “Mardi Gras.”

There were hundreds of soldiers. They wore faded green uniforms and held rifles with bayonets. A few hefted bazookas. Squads moved among the buildings, rounding up civilians and ordering them to stand against a wall.

One man shouted at the soldiers-and got clubbed to the ground for his trouble.

Eliot’s hands rolled into fists. Seeing this enraged him more than anything, even the unfair, potentially lethal classes at Paxington-those students were there because they wanted to be. They knew the risks. This was just a bunch of bullies picking on people.

Eliot wanted to climb out, grab Lady Dawn, and. .

All his heroic thoughts ground to a halt.

On a corner three blocks away squatted an armored tank, its muzzle pointed down the street at head level. . at them.

Robert gunned the Harley, spun around, and roared down a side street.

They went fast, but it was just fast. Not the fast that Eliot knew they could go-fast that made the rest of the world stand still.

They raced for two blocks, screamed around three corners, and Robert skidded to a halt. He doubled over, examining the bike’s exposed V-pistons.

“Something’s wrong,” Robert murmured.

A block behind them, two primer gray Humvees careened through an intersection.

Gunshots cracked.

Holes chipped in the wall over Eliot’s head. “No kidding something’s wrong! Just go!”

Robert twisted the throttle and they sped off, quickly outpacing the larger vehicles-slalomed around two corners-then down an alley.

Rolling to block the alley’s exit, however, were two more Humvees. These had their tops off, roll bars exposed. . with mounted fifty-caliber machine guns. They fired.

“Holy-!” Robert ducked, spun them around, and peeled out, scraping the alley’s wall.

Behind them, gunfire chewed through the concrete. Eliot instinctively crouched deeper into the sidecar (as if the fiberglass were going to stop a bullet).

Robert plowed through a row of trash cans.

Sparks flew and bullets puckered the metal. . both cans and the bike’s frame.

Then the Harley was around the corner.

Robert accelerated to ninety miles an hour. . still nowhere near the magical speed Eliot wished they were going.

Four blocks away, a helicopter skimmed over the rooftops. It rose, spun, and angled toward them.

Robert spotted it, too. He pressed his body low and went faster.

But there was no way they’d outrun a helicopter. They needed another option.

Eliot gripped Lady Dawn. He could summon Napoleon-era cannoneers and cavalry. Or that ghostly fog. At least that’d give them some cover.

But nineteenth-century artillery and soldiers on horseback against automatic weapons, bazookas, or armored tanks? They wouldn’t last two seconds. Fog would get blown away by the helicopter, and besides. . the spirits inside that fog wouldn’t care if they attacked soldiers or civilians.

The Harley flashed through an intersection.

Eliot looked for more Humvees or tanks. The adjacent street was a blur of concrete gray and iron black- except for a spot of gleaming white and chrome.

He knew those colors. Not what specifically they belonged to, just that he had seen them before.

He tapped Robert and made a circle around motion.

Robert nodded. He braked, turned, and gunned the bike back the way they’d come.

The helicopter thundered overhead, overshooting their position.

Eliot pointed down the side street. Robert leaned the bike into the turn so far that the sidecar wheels lifted.

One building on this street was different. It was three stories, and on top was an enclosed glass atrium, gleaming in the tropical sun. There was an iron statue in front: the same gun and sword-wielding Presidente in the posters. Red flags fluttered alongside the wide stairs that led to steel double doors.

But this is not what Eliot had recognized, not what now made his heart catch.

Parked in front of the building was a 1933 Rolls-Royce limousine, all white curves that seemed to never end, chrome that looked like dripping quicksilver, and the woman-with-wings-swept-back-and-arms-held-forward hood ornament.

It was Laurabelle. Uncle Henry’s car.

“Hang on and duck!” Robert shouted.

He veered past the limo’s bumper-over the curb, shot up the stairs, and crashed though the double doors.

The Harley flopped over and skidded into a wall. The engine coughed and died.

Eliot tumbled out, Lady Dawn in one hand. . the room spinning.

He was in was a lobby with more flags and oil paintings of Colonel V. C. Balboa, Presidente de por vida, but otherwise it was deserted.

Robert went to the doors that hung askew in their frames and shoved them back (more or less) into place.

Eliot looked over his shoulder. There was a thump as that helicopter passed overhead and faded-then the shadow of a jet flashed across the street and there was a teeth-shaking rumble-followed by three Humvees that rolled by. They didn’t stop.

Eliot sighed and opened his mouth to ask Robert a million questions.