Suddenly, she saw it, lying torn and open on the dusty ground. She grabbed for it, then sprinted after Smithback. The group had halted near the tunnel leading toward the platform, their exit blocked by a ragged line of Wrinklers.
“Shit,” D’Agosta muttered fervently.
“Hey!” Margo heard the unmistakable voice of Mephisto shouting above the noise and confusion. “Fat Napoleon!”
She turned to see Mephisto scrambling onto one of the empty platforms, turquoise necklace swinging wildly around his neck. There was another blast, farther away this time; a gout of flame arose from the midst of one of the scattered processions.
Frock turned in his direction, squinting.
“Drug-addled bum, am I? Take a look!” Mephisto dug deep into the crotch of his filthy pants and drew out what looked to Margo like a kidney-shaped disk of green plastic. “You know what this is? Antipersonnel mine. Chock-full of metal splinters coated in Teflon, propelled by a charge equal to twenty grenades. Very ugly.”
Mephisto shook it in Frock’s direction. “It’s armed. So tell your leathery minions to back off.”
The Wrinklers paused.
“A bluff,” Frock said calmly. “You may be filth, but you’re not a suicide.”
“Are you so sure?” Mephisto grinned. “Tell you what. I’d rather be blown to pieces than end up decorating that little A-frame of yours.” He nodded toward Pendergast. “Yo, Grant’s Tomb! You’ll forgive me, I hope, for appropriating this tidbit from your armory. Promises are all very nice, but I planned to make sure
Pendergast shook his head and tapped his wrist, signifying they’d run out of time. Frock gestured frantically to the hooded figures surrounding the platforms. “Cut his throat!” he cried. The Wrinklers swarmed toward Mephisto, who pulled himself up to the center of the platform.
“Good-bye, Mayor Whitey!” he called. “Remember your promise!” Margo turned away in horror as he tossed the disk into the masses surging around his feet. There was a sudden orange flash—the dank, filthy space filled with the heat of the sun—then the overwave of pressure hit, a massive blast that threw her to the ground. Rising to her knees, she looked back to see a great sheet of flame roar up behind the ruined hut, red against the brilliant white of the flares. For a moment, she could see the silhouette of Frock—standing as if triumphant, his arms outstretched, his white hair tinted orange by a thousand tongues of fire—before all was engulfed in roiling smoke and flames.
In the confusion, the ragged group of Wrinklers before them was parting.
“Move!” Pendergast cried over the roar of the firestorm. Hoisting her pack, Margo followed them under the archway at the far end of the Crystal Pavilion. On the railway platform beyond, she could see D’Agosta and Smithback come to a halt beside a slightly built man in a black wet suit, his face slick with sweat and camouflage paint.
There were wet wheezing sounds behind her. The Wrinklers had closed ranks and were bearing down on them. At the narrow mouth of the archway, Margo stopped and turned.
“Margo!” Pendergast shouted from the platform. “What are you doing?”
“We’ve got to stop them here!” Margo cried, digging into her pack. “We’ll never outrun them!”
“Don’t be a fool!” Pendergast said.
Ignoring him, Margo grabbed two of the liter bottles, one in each hand. Gripping them tightly, she hosed a stream of liquid across the archway entrance. “Stop!” she cried. “I’ve got two billion units of vitamin D3 in these bottles!”
The Wrinklers came on, their eyes blood red and streaming, their skin mottled and burned from the intense light.
She shook the squeeze bottles. “Hear me? Activated 7-dehydrocholesterol! Enough to kill all of you ten times over!” As the first Wrinkler reached her, knife raised, she hosed it in the face, and then hit a second Wrinkler just behind it. They fell backward, writhing horribly, small wisps of acrid smoke rising from their skin.
The other Wrinklers paused, a gibbering sound rising from their ranks.
“Vitamin D!” Margo repeated. “Bottled sunlight!”
She raised her arms and sent two delicate streams of liquid arcing over the milling crowd. A wail rose up, some falling and tearing at their cloaks, splattering droplets on their companions. Margo stepped forward and hosed the rest of the front rank. They fell backward in sheer panic, the sounds of gibbering and wailing filling the air. She advanced again, spraying a thick line of solution from left to right, and then the mass of Wrinklers broke and turned, scrambling over one another to get away, leaving a dozen convulsing, smoking bodies on the floor, ripping desperately at their cloaks.
Margo stepped back, and hosed the rest of the solution across the floor of the archway, then up along its sides and ceiling, leaving the exit tunnel wet and dripping. She tossed the empty containers into the Pavilion. “Let’s go!”
She ran after the others, catching up to them by an open grating at the far end of the platform.
“We’ve got to get back to the rally point,” the black-suited figure said. “Those charges are set to go off in ten minutes.”
“You first, Margo,” D’Agosta said.
As she dropped to the level of the tracks and began to descend into the drain below, a series of shattering explosions sounded behind and above her.
“Our charges!” D’Agosta cried. “The fires must have set them off prematurely!”
Pendergast turned to answer, but his voice was drowned in a rumble which, like an earthquake, was felt first in
