Page 125 of Gunslinger Girl
As they got closer to the Gallery, faint pops echoed.
“Ah, shit,” said Olivia. “I guess I was a little too late.”
They spun to opposite sides of the elevator as the doors opened. Bullets sliced through the air where they had just been, piercing the back wall.
Pity slammed a fist into the control panel to keep the doors open. “I’ll cover you. Stay low!” She leaned out and fired, glimpsing chaos as Olivia scrambled forward and threw herself behind a gaming table.
A pair of Tin Men—who must have been Sheridan’s—had control of the doors at the front of the room and were firing at anyone who approached them. Others, whose side was unclear, were scattered throughout the Gallery, along with prostitutes and patrons and anyone with the misfortune to have gotten caught in the crossfire. Bodies were scattered about. Some were moving; others lay motionless. One man was slumped over a table, a drink in his hand and his head half gone.
Pity took a deep breath. A slurry of scents filled her nostrils: gunpowder, whiskey, blood. Perfume that smelled of lilies. She let it out, then bolted from the elevator. Shots whizzed by her, but the main action was toward the front of the Gallery. What had come at her and Olivia were probably strays, but there was little comfort in that; stray bullets were indiscriminate in their targets.
She tumbled behind an overturned chair a few yards from Olivia.
“What a damn mess!” Olivia aimed her rifle but lowered it before pulling the trigger. “I don’t know who I’m supposed to be shooting at!”
“We need to find Sheridan.” Pity went first this time, ducking low and weaving through the luxury playground turned battlefield. She slipped behind a booth and then motioned Olivia forward.
“Pity!”
Flossie crouched a few yards away behind a couch. She had a tiny gun in her hand and one leg stretched before her, its lacy stocking streaked with crimson. Mad rivers of makeup ran down her cheeks. Beside her was a trembling young man whose name Pity didn’t know. Beyond the safety of their barrier lay Kitty, her eyes wide-open and lifeless.
Pity felt a stab of grief in her gut but pushed it away for later. “Flossie—are you okay?”
“No!” Her bosom heaved with every breath. “What the hell is going on? One minute I see Halcyon, Sheridan, and Daneko come out of Selene’s elevator. Not ten seconds later a bunch of Tin Men spill into the Gallery, ordering everyone to stay where they are. Then suddenly everyone is firing at everybody else, like we’re in the middle of a damn war!”
“Did Sheridan make it out?”
“No.” Flossie wiped at her face, leaving a smear of blood. “He got caught in the middle of the room somewhere. That bodyguard of his is down, though—somebody’s shot caught him in the throat.”
“We can still get him,” Pity called to Olivia.
“Better hurry.” Olivia peered over the table she was behind. “The front doors automatically locked when I raised the alarm, but it looks like Sheridan’s forces are trying to get in. The doors’ll hold, but not forever. If I can get outside with some Tin Men and flank them…”
“Go!” she yelled at Olivia. “I’ll take care of Sheridan!”
“On your own?”
“If they break through before you get outside, he’s the only one who can call them off.” Pity stared at Kitty—the sweet, pretty young woman who had tried to snatch holiday kisses from Duchess. The low burn of anger that had been coursing through her exploded suddenly, fury hot and vicious cold at the same time, and tinged with guilt. If she had gone to Selene sooner, none of this would have happened. Adora was dead. Beau, near enough. And Max…
“I’m not letting him get away. Not after all this.” She waved a gun. “Go!”
Olivia eyed the bar. “That’s my way out. There’s a trapdoor into the tap cellar. Cover me!”
Pity fired, one gun after another, as Olivia sprang up and dashed to the bar. She threw herself over it, bullets turning the polished wood into splinters. Pity aimed in the direction the bullets had come from until her cylinders were empty.
“Y’all keep your heads down, Flossie,” she said, reloading. “I need to move.”
Flossie brandished her tiny gun. “Be careful!”
Pity ran for a row of marble statues and then weaved toward a cluster of tables. She searched the Gallery, but she couldn’t see Sheridan.
No sense in playing it coy. “Patrick Sheridan!” she yelled as loud as she could. “You still alive?”
For a long moment there was silence. No answer, but no gunfire, either. It was as if the whole room held its breath.
Then: “I’m here.”
It came from a booth not twenty yards away.
