Wurn’s teeth dug into his wounds, and Felon heaved off his chair pulling the Eyesore forward. Upright, he rammed the freak into the doorjamb- focusing his mind and tortured muscles on a steady line of fire. The Eyesore’s breath exploded and he released his hold on the gun.
Balg’s body was trapped in the physical. Chunks of flesh flew. Fire scorched the floor under him. He screamed. Scarlet fluid pumped out of his chest. There was a flash as it ignited and his whole body boiled with flame. Felon fired until the clip was empty. Through the blaze of treasures, he could see Balg writhing on the floor. The bestial skeleton exposed, his cloven feet beat the deck as he steamed to Ardor.
Felon spun around to kill Wurn, but long thin hands closed on his throat. Passport’s teeth were exposed in a carnivorous smile. Felon shoved the hot gun barrel into the narrow face. Their impetus took them through the office doors and across the open companionway. They wrestled, struggling onto the yacht’s deck. The rail shuddered when they struck it.
Below, the water was thick with Swimmers. Their waxy bodies pressed against the yacht’s hull and choked the sunken street. Their lifeless eyes glimmered as they surged upward. Their hands clawed the air.
Thin lines of blood ran from Passport’s temple but his confident smile remained. Fury fired Felon’s mind. The assassin craved murder. He heaved back and pounded his forehead into Passport’s face. The Demon’s assistant frowned when the first blow crunched home. Felon rammed his skull into Passport’s face again and again, until the thin cheekbones collapsed and blood welled from the raw wound of his nose and mouth. Passport’s eyes crossed and Felon dropped him over the rail. The Swimmers pushed upward on the waves, claws catching the Demon’s assistant before he hit the water. They tore him to pieces.
Felon staggered back, dizzy. He looked down; saw his left pants leg was slick with blood. The stitches had ripped open. He had to tie it off or risk passing out. He had no idea how much blood he’d already lost.
He turned. Lucifer was standing there. Black smoke from Balg’s immolation curled out of the doorway behind him.
“You’re my favorite!” the Devil said and smiled.
89 – The End of the Wild Bunch
Driver thrashed awake. He coughed on a lung full of smoke. The room was dark. He pushed himself upright. The action brought a gasp of pain from him. With trembling hands he felt the wound in his thigh. It was ugly. The bullet must have snuck past his bulletproof greave, and mushroomed on impact. It had torn a hole three inches wide, ricocheted off the femur and mutilated the delicate venous system. He was fucked. Blood was seeping out. He pulled his belt off, tied it tightly around his upper thigh. If he was lucky, the Texan knew he’d just lose the leg.
He focused on the mind techniques that Tiny and he had learned so long ago. Breathe. Calm. Breathe. Calm. He had to push the anxiety away. The pain was terrible, but it wouldn’t kill him-panic would. Driver saw one of his. 9 mm’s on the floor where he fell. He picked it up, pulled the clip and yanked a fresh one from his vest to replace it. He had to get out. There was moaning all around him. A few feet away he saw the dead minister’s smoldering shoes. The fire had ravaged the fellow.
To his immediate right he saw Bloody. The impact of the heavy caliber bullets had exposed most of the upper right section of his ribcage, and had torn the right arm off. It hung from a few useless pieces of muscle that twisted like little worms. The dead man looked at him. His sunglasses had been knocked aside-the glass was pitted and scorched.
“Over,” the dead man said.
Driver stifled an angry curse. He had little strength left. “Where’s Tiny?”
Bloody turned his head along the length of the bar. Driver could just make out the salesman’s legs in a tangle of bar stools.
“Dead,” Bloody said, focused on the distance.
Driver dragged himself through his own blood toward his fallen friend. The Texan clutched at his chest when he got to him. The salesman’s eyes were wide, looking into nothing. He was in Blacktime.
“Well, goddamn, Tiny you bought it,” the Texan whispered, as he probed the salesman’s wounds with his fingers. He had misjudged before. The two bullets had struck Tiny in the stomach, but a third had knocked a hole in his sternum-stopped his heart.
“So, I guess you’ll know how Bloody feels, then.” For promise his immediate emotions grabbed onto the potential of Tiny’s walking death. “The king is gone but he’s not forgotten…” But it’s not over yet. “You’re goin’ to be hell to live with.” Driver had to survive the next few minutes-just long enough to get some help for his leg. He couldn’t imagine the three of them walking around zombies.
He looked back at Bloody. The dead man’s sunglasses had frozen on him. A powerful feeling rested on his features.
“Don’t go gettin’ sympathetic!” he muttered. Crawling toward Bloody. “This ain’t over yet.” Driver looked at the dead gunman. His legs were undamaged. “Ain’t no fat lady singing, brother…”
“But I guess I need some cover, till I get this tended to.” He looked at the salesman’s body. “Tiny’ll be as right as he’ll ever be. He can wait a spell.” Driver scanned the room. Moans still escaped from dying lips. “There might be reinforcements comin’ though. Can you help me get somewhere so I can stop this bleedin’?”
Bloody bent his legs, then pushed himself up with his remaining arm. The fingers on the other fanned the air where they hung. The gunman bent and heaved Driver to his feet.
“Thank you, brother. I need to get somewhere with water, or heat-a kitchen maybe.” Pain and blood slowed him. He limped beside the dead man, his damaged leg dragging. “I’ll bet we could hide out just about anywhere.” He paused to look out a broken window. Many miles out, a battle raged in the clouds. The sounds of it echoed, rang hollow, and the Texan hoped he wasn’t deaf. The sky was filled with glowing red tracers, bullets, he reckoned. And there were burning white shapes of power rocketing through the clouds, and red fellows with batwings flying. The ground was alive with fire and the flicker of gun battles. “With all this shit goin’ on, it would surprise me if they look for us at all.”
They turned the corner in the hall. Driver saw that the elevator shaft on the right was active. The button to summon it was lit up.
“Get down, Bloody.” Driver gingerly positioned himself beside Bloody’s ragged form. “Don’t move.”
He closed his eyes, heard something thump. Felt air move beside him. But blood loss started to get the best of him. Sleep was drifting close, and he was awful tired of swimming. If he just latched onto that restful feeling for a minute-let go, he could rest. Just for a minute.
90 – Raphael
Karen looked up at the face of the Angel who carried her. Moments before, she had heard voices that she recognized, but all those impressions were lost when she opened her perceptions to the impossible being. I am Raphael. His eyes told her. He shimmered with a golden light that warmed her soul. She was dying. The colors in the air had torn her insides.
But the Angel’s gaze promised hope. His beautiful face looked down at her, a bright smile spread across it. Be at peace. He told her without words. All will be well. The scent of cinnamon wafted from his brown feathers.
“Forgive me,” she whispered, her lips stuttered over the words.
“Forgiveness is God’s.” The light of his halo muted the illumination in the hallway.
“I have sinned.” She berated herself that she had found no other answer-that her love was not enough to stop the Prime, or Felon.
Raphael smiled. “You doubted. A question validates the answer.”
“I did nothing.” Tears blinded her.
“The time for any of us to do is past.” The Angel carried her along the hallway.
Karen sobbed, her heart sucked down by despair. Poor Able. Where was he now? She could remember the shooting and the explosion.
“You have witnessed rare events.” Raphael breathed the words like spring. “Such a thing can be hard to endure.”
“Such pain.” Karen ached. She longed for memories that she could not bring up. Her life before the Change
