“So much pain,” she murmurs. “So much loss.” Her fingers tighten on my throat. “Who are you looking for?”
When I refuse to answer, she cuts off my air. Black stars begin to bloom within my sight. Out of the darkness, my sister calls my name. And I think, Christ, Sullivan, you were right. This she-witch wouldn’t have me in a chokehold if I hadn’t answered that call. My sister brought me here—not Teacup, not Ringer.
My fingertips brush the stock of the rifle. The old cat-eating Silencer is laughing in my face, sour-breathed and tooth-deprived, buzz-sawing into my soul, chewing up my life as she chokes it out of me.
I can still hear my sister, but now I see Dumbo curled up behind the counter in the coffee shop, crying out for me with his eyes because he has no strength left to speak.
I go where you go, Sarge.
I left him, left him like I left my sister, alone and defenseless. Jesus, I even took his gun.
Holy crap. The gun.
19
FIRST SHOT IS at point-blank range, right into her saggy, cat-filled gut.
The bullet doesn’t break her hold. Unbelievably, she hangs on to my throat, squeezing. I answer with a squeeze of my own: A second shot that lands in the vicinity of her heart. Her rheumy eyes widen slightly, and I’m able to worm my arm between our bodies and push her away. Her crabby fingers around my neck loosen, and I suck in a lungful of the sweetest sour-smelling dander-infested air I’ve ever breathed. Grandma Silencer isn’t down, though. She’s just catching her second wind.
She lunges at me. I roll hard to my right. Her head smacks the wall. I fire again. The round smashes through her rib cage, but still she pushes herself from the wall and crawls toward me, hacking up wads of bright red, oxygen-rich blood. What drives that ancient body is ten thousand years old and contains more hate than the oceans hold water. Plus she’s been augmented by technology that strengthens and sustains her—psh! What’s a bullet or two? Come here, sonny! Still, I don’t think it’s the technology that drives her.
It’s the hate.
I back up. She comes on. My heel knocks against a stack of paper and I drop to the floor with a bone-jarring thump. Her ragged claws scratch at my boot. I hold the gun with hands that are bloody at last.
Her back bows like a cat stretching on a windowsill. Her mouth opens but no sound comes out, a lot of blood, but no sound. She makes one last lunge. Her forehead knocks against the muzzle just as I squeeze the trigger.
20
I SCOOP UP my rifle—screw the pistol—and bolt from the room. Hall, stairs, bank lobby, street. Finally back at the coffee shop, I crawl behind the counter. You better be alive, you big-eared son of a bitch.
He is. Fluttery pulse, shallow breath, ashy skin, but he’s alive.
So now what?
Go back to the safe house? The safest option, the option of minimal risk. The one Ringer would recommend, and she’s the expert on risk. Don’t know what I’ll find at the caverns, even if we manage to reach them: There’s another Silencer out there. The odds are that Ringer and Cup are already dead, which means that I’m not only marching to my own execution, but bringing Dumbo to his.
Unless I leave him here and pick him up on my way back, assuming I make it back. Better for him, better for me. He’s a burden now, a liability.
So I’ll leave him behind after all. Hey, Dumbo, I know you took a bullet for me and everything, but you’re on your own, pal. I’m outta here. Isn’t that how Ben Parish rolls?
Damn it, Zombie, decide already. Dumbo knew the risk and he came anyway. Taking that bullet for you was his call. Going back means he took the bullet for nothing. If he’s gonna die, at least give his death meaning.
I check the dressing for fresh bleeding. I gently lift his head and slide his rucksack beneath it for a pillow. I take the last syrette of morphine from the med kit and jab it into his forearm.
I lean down and whisper, “See, Bo, I came back.” Smoothing his hair with my hand. “I got her. The infested bitch who shot you. Popped her right between the eyes.” His forehead is blazing hot beneath my hand. “I can’t stay here right now, Bo. But I’m coming back for you. I’m coming back or I’ll die trying. Probably die, so don’t get your hopes up.”
I look away from him. But there’s nothing else to look at. I’m all jacked up, about to lose it. I’m bouncing from one brutal death to another. Eventually, something very important inside is going to crack.
I pull his hand into mine. “Now, listen to me, you elephant-eared motherfucker. I’m gonna find Teacup and Ringer, and then we’re picking you up on our way back and we’re all going home together, and everything’s gonna be fine. Because I’m the sarge and that’s how I say it’s gonna be. You got that? Are you listening to me, soldier? You are not allowed to die. Understand? That’s a direct order. You are not allowed to die.”
His eyes jitter behind the lids; maybe he’s dreaming. Maybe he’s sitting in his room, playing Call of Duty; I hope so.
Then I leave him lying in coffee grounds and wads of paper napkins and scattered coins.
Dumbo’s alone now and so am I, plunging into the black, dead heart of Urbana. Squad 53 is gone, broken apart, dead or missing or dying or running.
RIP, Squad 53.
21
CASSIE
I HAVE TO get this straight. Now. Like, right now.
This being my head.
Four A.M. Jazzed up on too much chocolate (thanks, Grace) and too much Evan Walker. Or not enough Evan Walker. That’s an inside joke, if you can make inside jokes in a private journal. I’ll get to the private parts later. Ha! Another joke. You know you’ve reached a very sad place when the only person who can make you laugh is yourself.