Torch Song: A Kickass Heroine, A Post-Apocalyptic World: Book One Of The Blackjack Trilogy (40 page)

Jo had dropped into a bedside chair, speaking urgently into a sys, her voice hoarse and raw. Judith stood with her hand on Jo’s shoulder. No more crying for now. Action had to be taken.

It occurred to me then: the elevator. Hannah had disabled it. In the time between my first trip to the family floor, to see what Samm was yelling about, and my second, when I’d heard Lizzie’s cry and the dog’s whine.

Hannah had unfixed the elevator so that no pursuers could beat her to the first floor.

If Hannah wasn’t dead she needed to be.

I heard a groan in the living room.

I stepped out again to see Ky holding his head, drooling blood and crying. But Hannah was gone.

How much could Electra take?

I left the Colemans to care for the Colemans. I didn’t stop to tell Jo where I was going. Once she looked into the living room and saw that Hannah was missing, she’d figure it out.

My sling was lying crumpled near the door. I grabbed it and stuck it in my pocket. Owen was still slumped in the hallway, only now someone seemed to have figured out what he was sorry for. One of the elderly janitors was standing over him with a gun that must have been as old as he was. Quinn’s body was gone. I knew that, unlike Hannah, he hadn’t walked away.

I ran for the stairs and headed for my car.

That floater Newt had promised me— fat chance I’d ever see it— would have been faster than Electra, but maybe I could still catch Hannah. I had some idea of where she was going.

My eyes were focused on the road but I couldn’t get the Colemans out of my mind.

Their strongest people either dead or gone on the road to the border to fight Rockies.

Judith, a sister, almost a mother to Samm, her eyes covered by wide ring-laden hands, sobs shaking her big solid body. Tears I never expected to see on that strong, round face.

Jo, a sister, crumpled in a chair, talking into her sys, unable to move away from the bedside but struggling to organize, order, move her people where she needed them to be.

Lizzie, screaming, beating and kicking an unconscious killer.

Zack, a comrade. Hearing from a distance that his friend and commander was dead, driving toward a battle with troops that were now all his.

Drew. When and how would he hear about it? I’d seen the adulation in his eyes when he looked at Samm. He might not rage like Lizzie, but this would hurt him for the rest of his life.

And then there was me. I was just getting to know Samm. He had a wild edge I liked, a sweet smile, a ferocity and strength I admired. A secretiveness I wondered about sometimes. A touch of humor that made me think we could be friends. I pictured him laughing, dealing poker, and my eyes blurred. I squeezed them clear again. I was driving much too fast for tears.

The airport was easier to find a second time. Straight out of town on Stateline, northeast five miles. I followed the line of trees to the unmarked entrance, wondering how hard it would be to take off on the cracked and rubble-strewn tarmac I’d noticed that first time. Hannah was just learning to fly. Maybe she’d crash into a hangar or fail to clear the trees. Side windows down, I pulled my laser out of my waist band, hoisted my wounded left arm up, stuck my hand out the window, and aimed straight ahead, ready for the first good shot. I knew I could shoot left-handed. I’d done it before. But every bump in the road sent pain screaming into my elbow. Doc had been right about five days in the sling, but almost-four would have to do.

I was going so fast I nearly ran over a foot-thick branch that had fallen across the entrance road. Zigzagging around it, tires spitting dirt and rock, I raced for the near runway. Because I could hear something, an engine starting up, behind the closer of the two intact hangars. I kicked my speed up another three notches, flying down that runway so fast I almost expected to take off myself. There it was, the white Gullwing, swinging around, finding its position, pulling onto the bumpy tarmac dead ahead of me.

I heard the hiss of a laser; it melted a two-inch hole in my windshield and smoke puffed from Electra’s passenger seat.

My turn, bitch
. I steadied my arm and took aim. Zapped a wing, but not enough damage to stop her, I was sure. Fired again, missed. She was rolling fast now, the plane’s engine humming. I kept after her, falling in behind, speeding up even more— how much could Electra take?— and firing again.

The plane jolted and jerked as the right wheel hit a big rock, shooting sparks. The wheel wobbled for a second but seemed to right itself. I fired straight at the open cockpit, but I couldn’t see Hannah clearly. She was hunched down. I could only aim and hope for the best: a dead Hannah. Second best, a disabled Hannah. Third best, a disabled plane. But despite that wobble I thought I’d seen she was having no trouble keeping the Gullwing on a straight course; it started to lift. There was one more thing I could try, one more way to do some damage. Where was that storage niche again? I aimed for the fuselage behind the cockpit, fired again and kept firing until— Got it! The safety parachute bay flapped open, the fabric lifting and snagging on a tree and ripping away from the plane. If she had trouble landing for any reason, the Gullwing wouldn’t be able to float gently to earth.

As the plane rose into the air, banking and heading west, my car speeding behind and now below it, I took a couple more shots, one at the cockpit and one at her landing gear. Just as she rose out of laser range something dropped from the underside. I watched it come down, marking it with my eyes, and drove to the end of the runway. There it was, in the grass. That right landing gear wheel.

I wondered if Hannah could set the plane down without it, and without the parachute. I hoped she couldn’t. I hoped she flew until her fuel ran out, tried a belly flop into the ocean, split the Gullwing apart, and drowned. Better yet, got torn apart by sharks.

Samm would be a Viking

Where was Lizzie?

Jo had seen her going into the living room a few minutes ago. She hadn’t come back.

She wasn’t there. Billy, dead eyes staring, lay in a wide puddle of blood that was leaching into the carpet. There couldn’t have been any left inside him. Ky was bruised and bloodied, unconscious but alive. She yanked the curtain cords down and tied his hands and feet tight, then pulled down a curtain and tied him to the couch. He needed a doctor but there wasn’t one and the hell with him anyway.

Where was Hannah? Hadn’t she been lying there, dead, just a few minutes ago? And what had happened to Rica? Where had Rica run off to? Was she with Hannah? Following Hannah? Running away? When would she be back? Would she be back? Jo hoped so.

Something caught in her throat. She coughed. Gagged. Oh, shit. She ran for the bathroom and knelt, losing her dinner, her lunch; would tomorrow’s breakfast stay down? Who cared? She rinsed her mouth and wondered again where Rica had gone. And Lizzie.

Where was Lizzie?

Jo thought about what she had to do next. She’d already rounded up the employees who were too lame or old to go with Zack and stationed an armed guard of sorts at the casino doors, in case Newt had more in mind than killing Samm. One of the guards was holding Owen until she could get to him and learn what he was moaning about.

Oh, yes. She should call Frank. Let him do his job.

He answered right away.

“Frank. Samm’s dead.” Her throat constricted on the word. He started babbling. “Shut up and listen. He was killed by Hannah and Ky Scorsi and Billy. They killed Quinn, too. Billy’s dead. Hannah’s missing. Ky’s unconscious.”

He said he’d be right there. Jo wandered back into the bedroom. She couldn’t look at Samm this time. Judith was sitting in the chair next to the bed.

“Did Lizzie say where she was going?” Judith asked.

Jo shook her head. She needed to go look for her. Where? Maybe she’d just gone to her room, too flayed by grief to do anything else. But she doubted that. She buzzed the girl’s sys. No answer.

She walked out into the hall again, thinking Lizzie might have magically reappeared. Quinn’s body had been taken away. Owen, the blind barker, raised his head and seemed to look in her direction. She approached him and spoke his name. The man guarding him stepped back to give her room.

“Jo. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Why? Sorry for what?” He couldn’t have killed Quinn or anyone else.

He was sobbing. “I was afraid.” She waited, lost. “Afraid that you and Samm would bring back the bad times. Newt said you would.” Oh. Newt said she would. Did she have to know any more? “They picked me to help because I’ve been here so long, long enough to know when the halls are quiet. And to know where everybody’s room is.” He looked almost hopeful, as if his long-time status might save him. “There was only me to show them. And everybody left, so I told them it was quiet.”

Show them. The blind man had diagrammed the second floor in his mind and guided them to Samm’s room. Owen was a Scorsi spy. She looked at him, his blind eyes raised toward her, begging.

“I’m so sorry. I was so afraid. Billy would have killed me, too.”

He was a Scorsi spy and Rica hadn’t named him. Had she not known, or was this all part of the plan? A man they didn’t suspect led the killers to Samm’s bedroom, and now Rica had run.

Jo stared down at him. She touched the pistol at her side. She pulled it out, aimed it at his head, right between those foggy, chemical-burned eyes. Of course he was afraid. The old days had done this to him.

It was the wrong thing to do, she knew. She might always regret it. There was no reason to spare him just because he’d been scarred inside and out a long time ago.

“Get out.”

“Out?”

“Go away. Don’t ever let me see you again. If I do, you’ll die. ”

He stumbled to his feet, hand reaching back to touch the wall, and felt his way to the stairway. She heard him fall once on the way down, scramble upright and start down the stairs again.

The janitor who’d been his guard looked to Jo for instructions.

“Go down to the front doors and stand where you’re needed.”

Frank showed up with his deputy. Jo was glad Marty was with him. She had a lot more common sense than he did.

“You looked out the window, Jo?”

“Window?” What was he jabbering about now?

“Looks like a fire over at Scorsi’s. I saw the smoke on my way here.”

A fire at Scorsi’s?

“Well. Marty, guess we better clean things up,” he told her, jerking his thumb toward Billy’s body. “I’ll help you get Ky into the car, you call Doc’s nurse, take him over to the clinic, get him patched enough to go to jail.”

Marty looked doubtful. “Maybe he shouldn’t be moved until the nurse sees him.”

Frank turned to Jo. “You want to keep him here?” She didn’t. Frank turned back to his deputy. “He’s okay. First the clinic, then we stick him in jail and keep him there until Doc can get a better look at him.”

Frank and Marty hauled the now-conscious and sobbing Ky to the stairs. He didn’t look so bad after all.

Frank came back alone a few minutes later.

“Where’s Quinn’s body?”

“We moved him downstairs and called his family.”

Frank nodded. “Okay, then.” He hoisted Billy’s corpse onto his shoulder, smearing his pressed sky blue uniform with drying blood. “I tried to call Larry Scorsi about his kid. Tried Newt and Carl and some of the others, too. Couldn’t raise anyone over there. Guess they’re busy. I’ll go by and check on it.”

“Good.” Why was he bothering her with this?

“I suppose you want Samm to stay here, not go to the morgue or anything?”

“Of course!” she snapped.

She and Judith would talk about Samm. They would plan the cremation. A funeral pyre, like a Viking warrior. That was what he’d always said he wanted. Samm with his Asian eyes and dark hair. More like a Samurai. What were Samurai funerals like? She had no idea, and it didn’t matter. Samm would be a Viking.

Her sys buzzed. It was Drew. His voice was hoarse.

“Zack told me about Samm.”

“Yes.”

He sniffed. Sighed. “I just wanted you to know that I know. Is Mom okay?”

“She’s okay.”

“Lizzie?”

She hesitated. She had no idea about Lizzie. “She’s okay.”

“Oh, shit! Got to go!”

“Be careful.” She didn’t know whether he’d heard that or not.

* * *

Somehow they hadn’t been paying enough attention to who came along for the battle. If anyone had noticed a dozen of Newt’s finest driving toward the border, they’d ignored it.

Andy saw them first, while Drew was talking to Jo.

“Drew!” He pointed down the hill. A Rocky khaki-clad was on his knees, his head resting on a stump, and a big merc— oh, my god, it was the one Newt was running for Council!— was standing over him, a couple of his buddies alongside, with a heavy sword in one hand and a laser pistol in the other. One of the buddies was Yulie, the bartender they’d just learned was a spy. He seemed very friendly with the other two. The lead merc raised his sword. No! Drew cut Jo off, pocketed his sys and started running, screaming at them to stop. Killing in battle was one thing, murdering prisoners was something else.

The merc brought the sword down at the side of the Rocky’s neck, a fountain of blood shot into the air and his head tumbled to the ground. The killers, sprayed red by the murder, laughed, turned toward Drew and began to run at him. In an instant, Andy was at his side shooting. They stood together and fired. The three mercs dropped. But before he and Andy could climb the hill again, shots from above crackled past them and they had to take cover behind a tumble of rocks.

Drew was acutely aware that Zack needed to know. They’d been trading information back and forth for hours. Drew punched his sys and Zack’s voice, strained and half drowned out by screams and shouts, came through.

“Newt’s mercs are here!” Drew yelled, thinking his own hoarse voice might be hard to hear in the melee. It had turned out that there were more than five dozen Rockies, they still didn’t know how many, really. Zack’s large force— Drew thought there must be close to two hundred including the new volunteers— was spread thin, trying to push them back to the border, fighting to hold every hill, pursuing the ones who broke through and headed west, cutting their way through woods and down mountains, in twos and threes, to kill or capture them. A dozen Rockies and thirty defenders were shooting at each other across the top of this hill, the one that he and Andy were charged with holding onto. “And we’ve got a hard fight going.”