Page 79 of Just Dare Me
“We can beat him. That’s how we justify it. It was going to happen sooner or later. At least this way, we can get something out of it. This way, the world sees that we can help them.”
A colossal explosion sends up a mushroom cloud of smoke and fire from a Speedway gas station at the next intersection. We race past, glimpsing tall geysers of flame shooting up from holes in the ground where the gas pumps used to be.
I look at Madison West. “Canwe help them?”
A cold sweat breaks out on her pale forehead. “We have to.”
I slam my fist on the horn, honking at masses of people crowding the road. They’re fleeing from the RenCen campus and the Marriott hotel across the street. Seeing a cameraman standing on top of a news truck, I follow the angle of his camera just in time to see the hellhound spray fire down the length of a glass-covered walking bridge that stretches across the street. The glass tunnel disintegrates.
The elevated track of downtown’s People Mover light-rail is the next victim. The hound shoulders through it like a knife through butter, raining concrete and steel track across Jefferson Boulevard.
“Keep going!” Madison orders. “Get closer. Let him see us.”
“We can’t handle its fire. It’ll go straight through us!”
“Just get his attention. Here, stop here!”
I slam the brakes. We skid to a stop amidst the rubble of the light-rail, practically at the feet of the beast. It squares up to us, lowering its head to peer through what’s left of my windshield. Unable to meet its gaze, I can only stare ahead at its feet, those enormous black claws. My hand on the shifter, ready to pull it into reverse; my foot hovering over the gas pedal. I don’t know if my Crap-pile can outrun a jet stream of fire breath.
But we’re about to find out.
The hound sucks in a bellyful of fire from its back, ready to spit. I jerk on the shifter, but Madison slaps my hand away.
“No, don’t move!”
The shifter lodges between gears, so that when my foot drops on the pedal, the engine whines in neutral, and the gears complain with a teeth-rattling grind of metal.
Too late now. The demon dog hunches its shoulders, opens its mouth, and…is struck in the face by a horizontal bolt of lightning. It came from the valet kiosk of the hotel, from which several sorcerers are now spreading out into the street. As if stricken with a sudden bout of indigestion, the hellhound swallows hard, and the flames are pushed down its throat and back up along the ridge of its spine.
Director West leaps out of the car and hurries to join the fight. Each sorcerer takes turns zapping the beast with blue lightning that charges up in their fists, then explodes with a flash and an earsplittingcrack. Each hit forces the hound back a step, until more shocks come from behind it, where more sorcerers spill out from the lobby of the RenCen.
Peals of rolling thunder rattle storefronts and silence the screams of the panicked crowds. The blinding flashes of magic, the alternating sounds of crackling lightning and earth-quaking thunder, the spectacle of such an unbelievable show of power, completely arrests public attention. The running stops. People begin grouping up, huddling together, gaping at this new development, even moving toward the fight with renewed hope. Shouting and screaming resumes, only this time not from fear, but with support for this new player, cheering them on.Kill it! Get that son of a bitch!
The cameraman continues to film, now joined by several other news outlets, putting out livestreams. News helicopters, originally here to cover the marathon, now hover above the epic battle. I’m sitting here in my car, witnessing the greatest turning point in the history of the world. A blindfold being pulled away from the eyes of the entire human race. Their eyes blinking, adjusting, then opening wide, forever branded with impossible imagery that is now their new reality.
And yet they’re already recovering, already regrouping, accepting, organizing, rallying. My heart swells with pride for my city, my people. I join them, pounding the steering wheel, cheering the good guys. “Light him up! Fry his ass!”
The sorcerers have the demon surrounded, blasting two and three at a time now. If it turns to snap its jaws at an attacker, more lightning zaps it from behind, drawing its attention every which way, turning in circles, flinching in pain.
Nora’s motorcycle skids to a stop next to me. She doesn’t bother with the kickstand—just lets the bike fall over as she stares at the light show, mouth gaping.
Half a dozen police cruisers arrive. Jay jumps out of one, immediately taking control of the street, directing officers to secure the crowd, keep them back, set up barriers.
There’s a pause in the lightning. The sorcerers drop their arms in unison. With the last echo of thunder, the crowd goes silent in confusion and worry, like, “Is that it? The fight can’t be over. That thing—that monster—is still standing.”
But I know better. I see the sorcerers looking to their leader for direction, waiting on her cue. Madison West stands closest to the crowd, directly between us and the hellhound, her silver hair in stark contrast against a wall of black muscle and red flame. When she spreads her hands wide, the ring of sorcerers does the same. Simultaneously, their hands ignite with greenish yellow lightning, surging at the beast from all directions at once. Legs buckling, it drops to its belly with a piercing cry.
The crowd erupts with cheers, faces red with emotion, fists pumping. I step out of my car, wanting to see this moment clearly.
Groaning, the hellhound squeezes its eyes shut. Its whole body convulses violently. Steam rises from its skin, billows from its mouth. I expect it to explode into a million pieces any second.
Instead, the fire on its back changes from red to greenish-yellow, matching the exact hue of the lightning. Madison West drops her hands and steps back in shock. Confused, the other sorcerers also drop their hands, pausing the attack.
And in that pause, the hellhound picks itself up, standing tall and powerful, sucks the greenish-yellow flames into its body, and spews them at Director West. Her clothes and skin are instantly blown away, leaving a skeleton that only lasts an instant before shattering to dust. The beast then spins in a circle, vaporizing the entire ring of sorcerers in one breath.
The cheering is cut short as the crowd shrinks back with despair. Nora covers her mouth with both hands. I stare, transfixed by a swirling mist of ashes and fluttering bits of clothing that used to be Madison West.
The hellhound’s back is to us. Its head turns left and right, warily searching for signs of more sorcerers. Stillness and silence settles over the crowd with the collective dread that, any second, those black, pointy ears will perk up, and the monster will turn and spot us.
