They were short, but also rather top-heavy through the chest and shoulders with a weird, stooped-over posture. Their limbs were muscular and gnarly and their faces all looked like they’d just come from an ugly convention. All had the same design worked into the front of their jerkins, a big, lidless, reddish eye.
One of them saw Ray and approached slowly with an awkward rolling gait that reminded Ray a little of Crypt Kicker. Ray watched, unconcernedly, as the thing got closer. After all, it only had a sword while he had a holstered Ingram. If he needed anything more than his hands.
The thing had no expression as it approached. It stopped half a dozen feet from Ray and asked in passably good English, “Do you have the medallion?”
“Medallion?”
“The keeper of the bridge,” the thing explained patiently. “Did he give to you the medallion of safe passage?”
Ray suddenly remembered the big golden thing the old guy at the bridge had worn over his T-shirt. The medallion of safe passage. Shit.
“No,” Ray said. “He had to take a little trip.”
“Then die,” the creature said without emotion, drawing his sword.
“Screw you,” Ray replied. There was no sense messing around with these assholes. He drew the Ingram before the poor fuck had a chance to take a step forward and unzipped him with a short burst that punched through the chain mail covering his chest like a can opener going through the lid of a beer can.
The thing was thrown backward by the impact of the slugs. For a moment he just lay there, and then he was gone. He rotted before Ray’s eyes, decades of decomposition passing in seconds. For a brief, mercifully short moment there was the unbearable odor of putrid flesh, then that was gone too, and there was just a skeleton in a shot-up suit of armor that promptly stood up on its bony feet and came clanking at Ray, sword raised high.
“Christ,” Ray said as the skeleton swung its sword.
Ray blocked the stroke and smashed the skeleton’s sword arm. Arm and sword both clattered to the ground. By then the other guards were all around Ray and he had no time to watch the arm flop around on the floor like a fish out of water, swinging the sword wildly and blindly as it tried to inch closer to Ray.
There were a few desperate seconds. Ray was outnumbered seventeen to one, but not all of the guards could get at him at once and he was a lot quicker and stronger than any of the medieval dicks trying to bash him.
He took a sword cut across the ribs, but by that time he’d put three of his attackers on the ground. Then came the welcoming sound of gunfire at his back and he knew that the rest of the team had joined the attack.
The pig-faced guards were blown apart by the explosive bursts of Danny’s automatic shotgun and the continuous stream of bullets from Battle’s assault rifle.
Crypt Kicker waded into the assault at Ray’s side and part of Ray watched and analyzed the dead ace’s style. There was no science or art to his attack. He just tore the guards apart with his bare hands, twisting off heads and limbs like a sadistic child let loose on a bunch of helpless Barbie dolls. These guards also rotted into animated skeletons moments after death, and the skeletons continued to attack.
A few of them had bows. From the corner of his eye Ray saw Nemo take an arrow in the shoulder. But the wound just seemed to piss him off. He roared wordlessly and marched stiff-legged into the guards, dismembering them with the same brute strength and lack of technique exhibited by Crypt Kicker.
It was over in moments. Nemo’s bruised shoulder and Ray’s sliced ribs were the team’s only real wounds. Crypt Kicker had been cut several times by the guard’s scimitars, but his wounds seemed to bother him even less than Ray’s did.
Another advantage, Ray thought, of being dead.
He heard Danny cry out behind him. When he turned, she had dropped to one knee. She was holding one shoulder, her face tight with pain.
Ray went to her. “What happened? They get you?”
“Not me,” she muttered. She took away her fingers. There was no blood. “One of my… sisters. Lanced by a fish.”
“How do —” Ray began, then asked, “Is she all right?”
“Just a flesh wound.” She moved a shoulder hesitantly, then got back to her feet. “I’ll be fine.”
Clutching skeletal fingers were still clawing at his ankle. Ray brought his heel down hard, heard the bones crunch and snap as he ground them underfoot. “What the hell were these things?”
“Don’t you know?” Danny asked. Everyone looked at her.
“No,” Ray said.
“Don’t you guys ever read?” Ray looked at her bewilderedly. Truth was, he didn’t. But he couldn’t see what that had to do with anything. “They’re orcs. You know, from Tolkien.”
“Tolkien?” Ray asked.
Danny gave an exasperated sigh. “J.R.R. Tolkien. Lord of the Rings. They’re even wearing the insignia of Sauron’s Eye.”
“Oh, yeah,” Ray said. He suddenly remembered a coed he’d dated back when he was in college. He hadn’t done much for those four years besides drink beer, play football, and screw cheerleaders, but there was this particular girl who was always trying to get him to read some silly-ass shit about rabbits or habits or something. Maybe he should have read the damn books. She was great in bed but she’d left him for some pussy English Lit major who, she said, was more romantic and cared for her as a person and really, really loved Tolkien, especially the habits, or whatever the hell they were.
Battle brushed annoyedly at some phalanges that were trying to slither up his pants leg. “Whatever they were,” he said, “they’re dead now.”
“Look, we gotta get him up.” The Outcast shook Croyd’s body once again. Nothing happened. Croyd — looking like Andre the Giant in blue spiked armor — slumbered on. His feet were sticking several inches out from the bed; the spikes had torn holes in the sheet covering him. Several of the spikes terminated in puckered, fleshy mouths — perfect, the Outcast thought — for spitting poison or searing acid or something. This body was a war machine, he was certain of it. Unfortunately at the moment it was a sleeping war machine.
The penguin was skating around the Sleeper’s bed. “We could always just throw him at them,” it said.
Kafka stepped forward with a glistening hypodermic. “Epinephrine,” he said. “Adrenaline. And other stuff. It’s an upper cocktail.” He jabbed the needle at Croyd’s bicep; the needle broke off with a metallic ting and went spinning away. Kafka rummaged through the medical kit, muttering, and pulled out a much larger and thicker syringe.
Outside, through the fog, they could hear the continuing assault. The voices of the Rox hammered at the Outcast. The Outcast sent another wave of demons at the Jersey Gate troops; he rebuilt a fallen wall; he sent a messenger knight to Shroud telling him to send reinforcements to the north. He tried to pay attention to a dozen different sites at once. The effort was draining. He could barely see what was happening here in front of him.
Kafka managed to wedge the needle between two scales of Croyd’s new skin and sunk the plunger home. They waited.
Croyd began to snore. The penguin giggled.
“Hey, Mr. Wizard! If you’re through playing doctor, we could really use some help out here.”
Modular Man sailed through the open window. He looked like he’d dodged a close hit — a long black scorch mark ran down one leg. “Where’s Pulse?” he asked.
“In the infirmary,” Bloat said. “With a glucose feed.”
“Then I need you to make another gap in the causeway,” Modular Man said. “Ahead of Snotman and Detroit Steel.”
The Outcast glared down at the sleeping Croyd. He sighed. Then he tapped the end of his staff on the stone-flagged floor. The glow from the amethyst was very faint, but he could feel it happen. “Done,” he said. “Concentrating your attack on Detroit Steel was a good move, by the way. You wounded him, did you know? The right leg and arm of the suit aren’t working very well for him, and he’s bleeding inside the suit. He’s wonder
ing whether they should retreat. Maybe a little more damage”
“He’s not the problem,” Modular Man said. “Snotman is. We’ve got to work out a way to beat him without violence, without directing any energy at him.”
“Hey, give His Largeness a break,” the penguin said, skating around Modular Man’s ankles. “He’s a little buried in his work right now.”
Modular Man seemed to consider that. “That’ll do,” he said. “I’ll need plastic explosives, a manual, and detonators. And you’ll need to evacuate the main gatehouse, because you’re going to lose it.”
The Turtle lurched sideways. Mistral’s wind howled around the shell like a gale out of hell. He heard Danny say, “Oh, shit!” Her rifle went sailing end over end past his cameras as the wind ripped it out of her hands. She grabbed the shell with both hands. “Help!” she screamed. “The netting…”
Tom could hear it ripping loose.
He tilted the shell to shield Danny against the fury of the wind. Mistral was floating serenely above him, smiling like the queen of the hop. Tom tried to summon his teke, a cannonball, a fist, anything to knock the wind witch senseless, but it was impossible to concentrate. The gale was pushing him back and down; he had to shove back hard just to stay in the same place. Sweat trickled down his forehead.
Then the sound of an elephant’s angry trumpeting cut through the roar of the wind. He saw the charge on his overhead screen as Elephant Girl came flapping up at Mistral.
Three tons of flying elephant does tend to get your attention. Mistral turned her attention on Radha, and suddenly the winds were gone. With nothing to push against, the Turtle bolted upward like a shot from a cannon. Danny shrieked as more of the safety net tore free.
Mistral grew larger on his screens. He reached out with a telekinetic hand, wrapped phantom fingers tight around her. I got her now, Tom thought. Elephant Girl was closing too.
Mistral made a short, sharp gesture at Radha.
The hurricane smashed into the elephant full force. Three tons of solid gray flesh, and the winds slammed her aside like a Ping-Pong ball. Corporal Danny was swept off Radha’s back. She flew past, her shout lost in the storm. Tom reached for her with his teke, Mistral forgotten. Then the elephant crashed into the shell, and Tom lost it.
The shell went end over end, a Frisbee in a hurricane. The safety harness dug into Tom’s chest. Everything inside the cabin that wasn’t tied down was flying through the air. Something bounced off the top of his head. Tom blinked, dazed. They were falling, plummeting like a iron parachute, still tumbling.
All he could think was, I’m going to die. The fog swallowed them again, his screens all going to gray. He was too dizzy to care. Every muscle in his body went tight with fear as he imagined the water coming up to smash them. Then he heard Danny screaming.
Somehow Tom made himself close his eyes, take a deep breath, and push. The shell jerked to a sudden stop, hung wobbling in the air. The world around them was an ocean of yellow-gray. There was no ground, no sky. “Danny,” he whispered breathlessly.
“Still here,” she said. He found her then, clinging tight to the safety netting. Two corners had torn away.
“Your sister…” he said, remembering.
“…okay … chute’s open…” Her voice was ragged. Tom glimpsed motion in the fog overhead. His lingers tightened on the armrests as he tried to ready himself for Mistral, for more demons, for whatever the fuck was coming at him.
Elephant Girl came gliding out of the mists, searching. She blew a short note on her trunk when she saw them. Tom thought it sounded relieved. Radha was in bad shape. Her wounds wept blood. One eye had swollen shut, and the right side of her head was a massive bruise. Tom didn’t know how she’d managed to stay conscious, but it was a damn good thing she had.
“RADHA,” he said through his speakers. “I’M GOING TO MOVE DANNY OVER TO YOU. HEAD FOR THE JOKERTOWN CLINIC.”
“What about you?” Danny said.
“I’VE GOT A SCORE TO SETTLE WITH MISTRAL,” Tom said.
“She’ll kill you,” Danny said. Radha trumpeted agreement.
“I CAN TAKE HER,” Tom insisted. “SOMEBODY’S GOT TO DO IT.”
“No,” Danny said. “We did our job. Leave it be for now.”
Tom frowned. “What do you mean, we did our job?”
Danny hesitated a moment. “They never expected us to win, Turtle. We were only a diversion. And it worked. The covert team is inside the Rox, undetected.”
“The covert team?” He was confused. Then, when he realized what she was saying, the anger took over. “Son of a fucking bitch!” he swore.
“Turtle, please. My shoulder hurts. Take me back. I don’t want Mistral to kill you.” She patted the top of his shell. “You don’t have any extra bodies either. I bet.”
Tom’s head was throbbing. He felt inutterably weary, betrayed, heartsick. All of a sudden, he found he just didn’t care anymore. “YOU WIN,” he told them. “WE GO BACK.”
The shell slid through the fog, toward the northeast and safety. The elephant flapped wearily beside him. No one spoke, all the way back.
A quick flyover showed that Snotman and Detroit Steel were still stopped at the second gap. Snotman had propped the armored man against the bridge rail, and the giant was kicking him over and over again.
Still charging him up. At least it was taking longer.
Jokers were still evacuating the main gate. The android flew through it, absorbing the details of its architecture.
All the energy of the explosions would have to be directed outward. Fortunately there were plenty of sandbags lying around that had been used to help shore up the fortifications, and the android had memorized the explosive manual on the first read-through. Modular Man set charges against the main structural members of the gatehouse, then piled sandbags around them to absorb any energy directed inward.
Snotman and Detroit Steel appeared before he was quite finished, coming down the roadway to the crossroads where the four bridges to the Rox came together. Detroit Steel was being carried on the ace’s back, and the giant punched Snotman over and over with his working arm, feeding him energy. The two hesitated on the far side of the drawbridge, Snotman obviously hoping someone would start shooting at him. No one did.
What’s keeping him going? Modular Man wondered. Any sensible person would have quit by now, alone in enemy territory with no support and a wounded man. Was Snotman’s hatred that strong? Or was he thinking at all?
Maybe he just thought he was invincible.
Modular Man thought he might just have to concede that point.
Detroit Steel punched again and again. Modular Man strung wires.
Snotman held out a hand, pointed. A burst of energy blew away one of the two chains holding up the drawbridge.
Good, Modular Man thought. Keep using that energy.
Another shot hit the other chain, but the hard steel held. More punches and a third shot were required before the drawbridge boomed down.
The portcullis was blown away with a series of shots that put a man-sized hole in it. Modular Man flew back into the outer bailey from the gatehouse roof, trailing wire behind him. Anxiety flickered through him as he peered anxiously at the gatehouse tunnel.
The silhouette of Snotman, carrying Detroit Steel, appeared in the tunnel, and Modular Man pushed the detonator.
The walls of the gatehouse blew outward, and through the gouting flame and dust and flying rubble, the android could see the roof and upper stories falling downward.
He withdrew to the roof of the gatehouse leading to the middle bailey. The cloud of dust rolled over him.
When it cleared he’d know whether he was a shooter or a shootee.
What he hoped he’d done was to envelop Snotman in tons of mattresses — stone mattresses. If the idea worked, Snotman would have absorbed, from the rock falling on him, less energy than he would need to dig himself out.
The dust slowly settled. A few Bosch creatures flew tentatively
overhead. The revealed gatehouse was a sloped pile of rubble sitting between scarred walls.
Nothing moved.
Modular Man waited until he was certain that Snotman and Detroit Steel were well and truly buried, then he flew out over the causeway again until he found Danny Shepherd.
She was watching while some army engineers were trying to drop bridging equipment over the first gap in the causeway. Nervous marines crouched over their weapons in the roadway behind.
Modular Man dropped from the sky, snatched up the young woman, and lurched up into the sky. She kicked and yelled. Marines stared, pointed weapons, disappeared into the mist below.
“Stop fighting,” the android said. “I’m here to tell you something.”
Danny struggled for another few seconds, then gave up. “Okay,” she said.
“Snotman and Detroit Steel failed,” he said. “You need to tell Zappa to evacuate his people from the perimeter and the causeway.”
“Bullshit.”
“If they don’t leave,” Modular Man lied, “Governor Bloat is going to turn all their weapons and armor into very large monsters. Then he’ll unleash another wave of hell creatures and everyone will die.”
Danny thought about that. Wind blew her blond hair around her face.
“I’m not really on their side,” Modular Man said. “I’m being compelled to do this.”
“No one’s going to believe that.”
“If I were on their side, you’d be dead. And all those soldiers on the causeway.”
He spiraled downward until Liberty Park stretched below them. He dropped Danny onto the scorched green grass and took off before anyone could respond.
Below him, the shootees lay unmoving.
The Outcast — no, the entire Rox, the whole massed chorus of head-voices — thought that it was over. The Turtle had retreated from the Manhattan Gate; Elephant Girl had moved off into the fog away from the Rox; Modular Man had won the battle of the Jersey Gate, burying Detroit Steel and Snotman and leaving behind scores of dead both from the Rox and the nats. Teddy had fought too, directing the battalions of the demons; trying to keep them between the jokers and the nats; throwing his mind-creatures in suicidal attacks at the strength of the assault; listening to the head-voices of his people and responding, trying his best to be in twenty places at once.