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On the fourth attempt Dekka saw Gaia floating above it all, bloodied, bruised, her clothing torn, her hair filthy, but not dead, very much not dead.
Gaia looked down at her, aimed, held Dekka directly in her line of fire, and laughed. “Very clever,” Gaia said. “It almost worked. But I won’t kill you. Not yet.”
Gaia floated calmly down as the mess settled around her, slowly, under her control now.
Dekka drew a pistol. Gaia flicked it easily from her grip and sent it flying away.
“Anything else?” Gaia asked.
“You’re getting weaker,” Dekka blustered.
“Mmmm. So are all of you.”
“You can’t afford to kill me.”
“No. But I can do this.” Gaia used her father’s power to raise a pew, a long, heavy oak bench, and blast it into Dekka’s chest, pinning her against the altar.
Dekka lay still.
Gaia turned away, limping and in pain. Why was this proving so hard? She’d lost speed, now she’d lost Jack’s strength, and worst of all, most dangerous of all, she’d lost control of Sam. He had gotten away, and he might come for her again. Or he might take his own life. Either way . . .
She had to heal herself and quickly.
Little Pete was doing something . . . something . . . she could feel it. She could feel his resolution. She could feel his anticipation. But she could also feel his ebbing strength.
So many left to kill. She would have to hurry.
The firing had stopped.
Edilio couldn’t see much of anything, blinded by smoke tears, trying to make sense of a battlefield. All he knew was that the firing had stopped when Gaia disappeared into the church.
Then he saw Jack and Sam. Sam had rolled Jack over so that instead of the small hole in his back what was visible was the exit wound, an explosion of viscera poking out through his shirt.
“Jesus, Mary,” Edilio said.
From the church came the loud crash of debris falling.
Edilio dropped down beside Sam. Sam was alive but looked almost as bad as Jack. There were burns on his body and arms. His shirt was tatters, a filthy, bloody rag.
Edilio began pulling at the chains.
“Edilio,” Sam gasped.
“I got you, man,” Edilio said.
“Do it, Edilio.”
Edilio shook off the request, pretending not to know what Sam was asking.
From the church a second loud crash.
Voices above called out, “Edilio! What should we do?”
“Do it, man. I tried. I don’t think I have the strength to try again, man: do it for me,” Sam begged.
“Dekka’s got her,” Edilio stalled as he pulled the last chains away. The links tore at burned flesh as he pulled them free.
“She’ll come out of there and—”
“Damn it, I can’t kill you! You’re asking me to commit murder!” Edilio exploded.
Sam stared. Nodded. “Yeah. Give me your gun, Edilio. I think I can do it with a gun. The other thing, though . . . It’ll be easier with—”
“I can’t do it,” Edilio said, shaking his head, weeping.
“She’s going to kill everyone—”
A third crash from the church.
“I’m going to go shoot her myself,” Edilio said.
“Edilio!” Sam called after him.
Edilio spun around, stabbed a finger at Sam, and said, “I’ll kill. I’ll kill. That’s enough. It’s enough! I won’t murder!”
“It’s all the same,” Sam muttered weakly, as Quinn appeared out of the smoke.
Edilio took two steps back, grabbed Quinn by the shoulder, and said, “He’s not in charge. Don’t listen to him. You understand? You listen to me.”
Whether Quinn understood what was going on or not, he knew the power of conviction when he saw it. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“Tell you what, Sanjit,” Lana said.
“What, Lana?” he asked.
“See this?” She held up her cigarette. “This will be my last one. I promise.”
Sanjit shook his head slowly. “What are you talking about?”
Lana looked around the shambles of a room. There were twenty-one victims: Some were dead and hadn’t been cleared away. Others would live, for now, at least. There were more in the room next door. More still in the hallway.
Lana felt hollowed out. The endless hurry to save this one or that one, the sleeplessness, the soul sickness that came from seeing death and disfigurement, it was all finally too much.
And still she felt it. She felt its mind, its will, its glee as it killed.
She took a long drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke out, savoring it. “Last one.”
“What are you doing?”
Lana put her hand on Sanjit’s face. He made a tentative reach for the pistol at her waist. She was surprised. She pulled it out and handed it to him.
“No, not that,” she said, smiling. “I don’t think that’s in me. Different fight I have in mind. The time has come. Listen to me, Sanjit. I’m going outside. Don’t follow me.”
She left then, walked down the hall, ignoring the pleas of the desperate, down the stairs, and out onto the lawn.
She took another drag, squared her shoulders, closed her eyes, and said, “This is going to hurt.”
Gaia’s goal was not a fight. Her goal was slaughter.
Kill them all. Kill every last one of them.
Gaia did not rush out to meet the guns in the town plaza. She blew out the remains of the back wall of the church and stormed onto Golding Street.
Gaia looked down at her, aimed, held Dekka directly in her line of fire, and laughed. “Very clever,” Gaia said. “It almost worked. But I won’t kill you. Not yet.”
Gaia floated calmly down as the mess settled around her, slowly, under her control now.
Dekka drew a pistol. Gaia flicked it easily from her grip and sent it flying away.
“Anything else?” Gaia asked.
“You’re getting weaker,” Dekka blustered.
“Mmmm. So are all of you.”
“You can’t afford to kill me.”
“No. But I can do this.” Gaia used her father’s power to raise a pew, a long, heavy oak bench, and blast it into Dekka’s chest, pinning her against the altar.
Dekka lay still.
Gaia turned away, limping and in pain. Why was this proving so hard? She’d lost speed, now she’d lost Jack’s strength, and worst of all, most dangerous of all, she’d lost control of Sam. He had gotten away, and he might come for her again. Or he might take his own life. Either way . . .
She had to heal herself and quickly.
Little Pete was doing something . . . something . . . she could feel it. She could feel his resolution. She could feel his anticipation. But she could also feel his ebbing strength.
So many left to kill. She would have to hurry.
The firing had stopped.
Edilio couldn’t see much of anything, blinded by smoke tears, trying to make sense of a battlefield. All he knew was that the firing had stopped when Gaia disappeared into the church.
Then he saw Jack and Sam. Sam had rolled Jack over so that instead of the small hole in his back what was visible was the exit wound, an explosion of viscera poking out through his shirt.
“Jesus, Mary,” Edilio said.
From the church came the loud crash of debris falling.
Edilio dropped down beside Sam. Sam was alive but looked almost as bad as Jack. There were burns on his body and arms. His shirt was tatters, a filthy, bloody rag.
Edilio began pulling at the chains.
“Edilio,” Sam gasped.
“I got you, man,” Edilio said.
“Do it, Edilio.”
Edilio shook off the request, pretending not to know what Sam was asking.
From the church a second loud crash.
Voices above called out, “Edilio! What should we do?”
“Do it, man. I tried. I don’t think I have the strength to try again, man: do it for me,” Sam begged.
“Dekka’s got her,” Edilio stalled as he pulled the last chains away. The links tore at burned flesh as he pulled them free.
“She’ll come out of there and—”
“Damn it, I can’t kill you! You’re asking me to commit murder!” Edilio exploded.
Sam stared. Nodded. “Yeah. Give me your gun, Edilio. I think I can do it with a gun. The other thing, though . . . It’ll be easier with—”
“I can’t do it,” Edilio said, shaking his head, weeping.
“She’s going to kill everyone—”
A third crash from the church.
“I’m going to go shoot her myself,” Edilio said.
“Edilio!” Sam called after him.
Edilio spun around, stabbed a finger at Sam, and said, “I’ll kill. I’ll kill. That’s enough. It’s enough! I won’t murder!”
“It’s all the same,” Sam muttered weakly, as Quinn appeared out of the smoke.
Edilio took two steps back, grabbed Quinn by the shoulder, and said, “He’s not in charge. Don’t listen to him. You understand? You listen to me.”
Whether Quinn understood what was going on or not, he knew the power of conviction when he saw it. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“Tell you what, Sanjit,” Lana said.
“What, Lana?” he asked.
“See this?” She held up her cigarette. “This will be my last one. I promise.”
Sanjit shook his head slowly. “What are you talking about?”
Lana looked around the shambles of a room. There were twenty-one victims: Some were dead and hadn’t been cleared away. Others would live, for now, at least. There were more in the room next door. More still in the hallway.
Lana felt hollowed out. The endless hurry to save this one or that one, the sleeplessness, the soul sickness that came from seeing death and disfigurement, it was all finally too much.
And still she felt it. She felt its mind, its will, its glee as it killed.
She took a long drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke out, savoring it. “Last one.”
“What are you doing?”
Lana put her hand on Sanjit’s face. He made a tentative reach for the pistol at her waist. She was surprised. She pulled it out and handed it to him.
“No, not that,” she said, smiling. “I don’t think that’s in me. Different fight I have in mind. The time has come. Listen to me, Sanjit. I’m going outside. Don’t follow me.”
She left then, walked down the hall, ignoring the pleas of the desperate, down the stairs, and out onto the lawn.
She took another drag, squared her shoulders, closed her eyes, and said, “This is going to hurt.”
Gaia’s goal was not a fight. Her goal was slaughter.
Kill them all. Kill every last one of them.
Gaia did not rush out to meet the guns in the town plaza. She blew out the remains of the back wall of the church and stormed onto Golding Street.
