Page 26 of Night in a Waste Land

She unslung her pack and pulled out her thermal binoculars to scan the area. Nothing at first, and then – a human signature. One of her fellow knights: Gallo, judging by his gait. She dropped the binoculars to dangle around her neck and pulled out her flashlight; fired off a quick signal, and waited. A few minutes later, Gallo stepped between two trunks and came to stand on the edge of the bank opposite.

He lifted his hands and shrugged in question.What happened?

She offered the hand signal forconduit. And then held up two fingers, and pointed upstream.

Angel or demon?he signed.

It was raining too heavily for her to have caught that distinct whiff of brimstone, but she’d seen the eyes.Demon, she signed back.

He nodded, lips pressing into a grim line.

A shadow moved behind him; a figure stepped from the trees. Metal glinted, faintly, flashing amidst the silver raindrops.

Rose shouted.

Gallo turned – too late.

The conduit woman brought the axe down, and took Gallo’s arm off at the elbow, one clean stroke.

Rose pulled her sidearm – all carbon fiber and polymer, waterproofed – and fired.

The round caught the conduit dead-center in the forehead. Rose saw the spray of blood and gore that fountained behind her, as the head kicked back, and the hands went limp on the axe. The conduit fell, down for at least a few minutes, as the demon inside the shell fought to repair all the nerve pathways that would allow the body to stand again.

Gallo had fallen to his knees, clutching the stump of his arm in his other hand; blood spurting through his fingers, spraying down his pants, gathering on the forest floor. He was screaming, a high, wild, animal scream of pain and terror she could just hear above the rain.

“Frankie!” Rose shouted, already scrambling for the bank. If they didn’t get the bleeding stopped–

She pulled up short when the low hum of conduit energy prickled up her neck; buzzed in her bones.

She had a knife in her hand before she turned, and struck before she laid eyes on her target. The blade severed the tendons in the conduit’s wrist; his hand opened, and his rifle barrel dropped to the ground. She saw his eyes flare, some kind of demonic shock, and then she emptied the rest of her magazine point blank into his chest.

He staggered back, his torso a pulpy ruin, blood and viscera visible through bullet-shredded clothes. He clutched at his wounds with his good hand, the rifle forgotten on the ground, and he glared at her – not with hatred, but with annoyance. He was a hell beast, and she was just a tiny human inconvenience.

She holstered her gun, and slipped her hand inside her jacket, curled it around the hilt of a different dagger in her holster, and advanced on him with the first.

When she was within range, he reached out with his good hand and snagged her wrist. She watched the shock and pain bloom across his face. Heard the faint sizzle like bacon fat in a skillet, and saw the smoke boil up between them from the place where he touched her – where he touched one of the trinkets she’d bought at the market in New Mexico with Lance. A cuff studded with silver spikes, hidden ‘til now beneath her jacket sleeve.

“That’s pure silver, bitch,” she told him, drew her hell dagger from its sheath, and plunged it into his heart.

Man died and demon fled with one last, startled gasp. The eyes dimmed, and the corpse fell back against a tree trunk; her blade slipped free, dripping red, viscous blood, and she was turning back around before the body had toppled to the forest floor.

Gallo was still down, and the conduit was twitching.

Rose loaded her gun with a fresh magazine, holstered it along with her daggers, all save one slender, wicked blade that she kept in her grasp, and plunged down the hill into the stream.

She fell the last few feet, sliding in the mud, and hit the water with a splash. The cold of it shocked her all over again; she clenched her teeth against it, and set off through the chest-deep current. It wanted to drag her farther downstream; each step was a fight; she lunged through the water, straining for the far bank.

It seemed to take an age. When she arrived, gripping a tree root with the white knuckles of one hand, body slumping forward with exhaustion, she knew she couldn’t afford to take the rest she needed. Gallo was bleeding, the conduit was healing.

Where the hell were Lance and the others?

She started to climb, slipping here and there, not willing to let go the knife, nor to sink its perfect tip down into the mud and use it for a handhold. Beck would turn in his – well, not grave –onhis spit? Where he roasted in hell?

She gritted her teeth against a growl, and kept going, hand over hand, the rifle heavy on her back, the weight of her soaked clothes dragging at her. She reached the top, and called on one last burst of energy to heave herself up and over the edge, muscles screaming where they weren’t numb from cold.

No time, no time. She rolled to her feet, heaving for breath, knife still clean in one hand.

Gallo had slid down, sitting on his backside in the mud, spine curved forward in a protective, vulnerable C. He cradled the stump of his left arm in his hand, fresh blood bubbling between his fingers as quickly as the rain could wash it away. His face was bone-white, his eyes wide and hectic; it was with a child’s terror that he looked up and her, and whispered, “Rose. Please.”

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