A sudden terrible thought presses in on me, driving straight past my determination. This is suicidal. I don’t want to think it, but I do. It is a wicked whisper inside my head, a dark promise that foretells my future with sly certainty. I have been fooling myself into thinking escape is possible. It is not. I am going to die.
As if in response to this invasive conviction, everything goes to hell a minute later. Shouts rise up from the other direction—from the direction in which the other group went—sharp and clear, deep-throated and guttural. Goblins. Screams follow and weapons fire reverberates. Spitfires: the nickname given to the long-barreled automatic weapons used by the Goblins, spewing projectiles in sustained or single bursts. There are growls and snarls from the Ronks, and the screams increase. Frantic activity. Desperate pleas rise out of the madness. Our friends, begging. A few final, awful sounds of dying and then silence once more.
They are all gone. All seven of them, caught and killed. I know it is so. I know it as surely as I know we will be next.
Tommy scrambles out of the ditch and looks around. Sees something and beckons us out. We follow him up in a mad rush. Distant vehicle lights shine in the darkness, revealing movement: Ronks. Impossible to mistake them for anything else—hunched shoulders, burly and shaggy bodies, all of them tearing at the remains of our friends. They are a long way off, but it feels like they are already on top of us. The others in my group start out, but I cannot move.
“Auris!” Tommy grabs my arm and drags me away.
Forget them. They’re gone.
Does he speak the words or do I think them instead? Doesn’t matter, does it? It is what it is.
We run. I’m not sure toward what, if anything, but I do know why. Escape requires movement, and we are moving fast and hard. Ahead there is a building, low and squat. Tommy heads for it, and we follow. Is there safety to be found? Does Tommy know something we don’t? Did he know this building was here and is that why he insists on running toward it?
Tommy, the survivalist, trying to keep us alive. I have to believe that.
I glance back once. The lights of the pursuing vehicles are moving, swinging about in our direction. Coming for us.
We reach the building and find a pair of wide doors opening into it. They are heavily locked. Khoury uses her substance once more, but there isn’t all that much left. The metal sizzles and steams, but the lock holds. Malik shoves forward abruptly, seizes the locks in both hands, and yanks hard while twisting—once, twice. The lock separates and the door opens.
We rush inside. Black as darkest night, but light from the moon and stars illuminates four vehicles, all of them similar to the ones coming for us. We clamber into the closest—all but Tommy, who is doing something under the hood. Then he is aboard and in the driver’s seat and we are off, bursting out of the building with a surge of power, tires spinning and then gaining traction, racing wildly across the flats.
“Which way?” he yells, as confused by the dark, featureless look of the landscape as the rest of us.
No one answers, because no one knows what to say. Except…maybe I do. I have the oddest feeling that I know just which way we should go. Maybe I am crazy but my certainty tugs hard at me.
“That way!” I shout suddenly. And maybe Tommy is crazy, too, because he follows my lead without hesitation, swinging the vehicle in the direction I am pointing.
Behind us, we find three vehicles giving pursuit, Goblins in each, their spitfires flashing. Hunkered down for protection, we hear the sound of multiple charges pinging off the armored shell of our sturdy machine. We have no weapons save for a few handmade knives. But JoJo rummages around inside a footlocker in the rear of the vehicle’s interior and yanks out a pair of long-barreled spitfires. He grins in wild abandon as he flings open a top hatch and rises up to fire at our pursuers. I can’t see the results, can’t determine the consequences. JoJo drops back down.
We hit a series of rough spots that throw us all over. Another barrage of weapons fire strikes our vehicle, bouncing off the armor and flying away into nowhere. Except for one that doesn’t. That one penetrates through a crack in a vent behind the driver, flying about like a guided missile gone rogue. It stops only after it slams into the back of Tommy’s head.
Just like that, he is dead.
The shock freezes us all in place, until JoJo screams, “Grab the steering!”
Tommy is slumped over the controls. Malik lifts him away, settling him onto his lap and clasping his friend’s lifeless body like a parent would a child, whispering to him. JoJo vaults over the seats and takes Tommy’s place. He fumbles about for a few precious moments that cost us speed and distance from our pursuers, and then figures it out. Our vehicle lurches forward with a fresh surge of power, widening our lead anew. I am already thinking about what we have lost. Without Tommy, we have no survivalist knowledge, no steady voice of command, and no leadership to guide us.
Suddenly I am incensed. At fate for depriving us so pointlessly, at the Goblins for being the animals they are, at life in general for its quixotic nature, and mostly at myself for just sitting there. I snatch up the spitfire that JoJo has abandoned and poke my head through the hatch. My hair flies out in a dark stream as I sight down the barrel and start firing in sharp bursts. Whatever sort of ammunition we are using, it is deadly. The spitfire’s charges streak in fiery lines to their target—the front windshield of the closest pursuer—and the driver’s head explodes. The vehicle veers away, tumbles end-over-end, and bursts into flames.
One down, two to go.
I am newly confident now, emboldened, the bloodlust rushing through me red-hot as I take aim at the tires of the second Goblin vehicle, thinking to take it out as well. How did I learn to shoot like this? I don’t remember ever having used a weapon that wasn’t a blade, but the spitfire feels oddly natural, familiar. Instinctively I know that if I hold down on the trigger, the spitfire will release six short bursts—which is what happened with the first vehicle. If I press and release, it will send a single rocket with six times the punch. I test my instincts by taking aim at the tires and pressing once on the trigger. A rocket streaks out, but the tires hold. I try again. Still nothing. Bullets fly all around me and I duck down. The tires are tougher. I will have to go back to attacking the windshield.
No one tries to take my place in the top hatch. All of them are cheering me on, surprised and grateful that I know how to use the weapon. Flush with excitement, I rise up and open fire once more—this time with a quick release aimed at the windshield. The charge strikes with such force that the glass explodes into fragments. I keep firing. The vehicle catches fire, veers away, and is gone.
More cheers and shouts of appreciation and encouragement. I duck down again, grinning madly. I have a purpose now. I have a use. I have a way to vent my rage. I am elated enough to think we are going to escape after all, that we will get out of this mess and find help.