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He was barely twenty yards away when the first bomb hit the ground.
One of the basic natural laws that one learns early in Everlost is that things that cross over always do what they were meant to do. Boats float, airships fly, and appliances run even if they're not plugged in. Unfortunately the same thing goes for bombs. They explode--especially bombs that were ecto-ripped, and had no good reason to be in Everlost in the first place.
If anyone had been watching they would have thought the shuttle was lifting off. Flame and smoke blasted from the ground beneath the great spacecraft, expanding as the explosions multiplied and merged into a single massive blast.
Nick was blown off his feet, and sent soaring through the air. Shrapnel tore through him--jagged, burning pieces of metal that left huge Swiss-cheese holes all over his body-- and still the explosions grew louder behind him.
He landed, embedding in the living world so deep that he almost went under. With little more than his head aboveground, it took all his will to push himself out of the earth. Had he been in any deeper, it would have been hopeless, and all his thrashing about would have done nothing but take him farther down. But bit by bit he hauled his shrapnel-blasted body upward. Perhaps the holes helped. Perhaps they made him lighter.
The explosions had stopped by the time he pulled himself out of the ground, and he looked at his own damage. As always the wounds were painless, but that didn't mean the sensation was pleasant. He watched as the wounds healed themselves closed. Even though they were gone, they left a haunting memory of their presence, like the lingering feeling of nightmares.
Nick turned back to the spacecraft to see what was left of it--and of Johnnie-O. To his surprise, the shuttle, the fuel tank, and boosters were all still there suspended in midair, completely undamaged. Perhaps the ship had been designed to withstand such explosions or perhaps its memory was too proud and permanent to ever be troubled by an attempt to take it down, whether intentional or accidental. Of course the same could not be said for the Ripper's rickety scaffold. It was completely gone, which was no surprise. Nick suspected the thing would have fallen if someone had blown on it too hard.
Up in the now-empty cargo hold, Johnnie-O still clung to the inside of the hold, the structure of the shuttle having shielded him from the worst of the blast. Unable to hold on anymore, he slipped and fell, yelling all the way down. He hit the lip of the cargo hold, and bounced off it, tumbling down the tail and careening off the shuttle engines, until landing face-first on the all-too-solid deadspot tarmac, a hundred and fifty feet below the spaceship.
"Johnnie!" yelled Nick, racing to him.
Johnnie-O sat up, dazed. "Am I blown up?"
"No," said Nick, "you're okay."
He looked no worse off than the shuttle itself, except for one thing--the cigarette that had perpetually hung from his lip since the moment he died was now gone--the only part of him incinerated by the explosion. Nick helped him to his feet and decided it was best not to point that out; best to let him discover it for himself once he was in a state of mind to notice.
Then from behind them came a wail of absolute and utter despair.
"My collection!" screamed the Ripper. "Look whatcha done to my collection!"
Nick looked around him; twisted gun barrels and unrecognizable pieces of tortured metal littered the deadspot-- and beyond the deadspot even more destroyed weaponry was sinking into the ground of the living world.
"Look whatcha done! Look whatcha done! It's all gone!"
Nick had no sympathy, and stormed up to him. "What kind of idiot keeps a collection of live ammunition and armed bombs?"
"I ain't no idjit," screamed the Ripper. "You're the idjit! I got nuthin' now, thanks to you!"
And that's when Nick realized something.
In truth he had realized it before, only it hadn't fully registered. It was there in the Ripper's eyes, in the shape of the face, and in the lilt of the voice. Nick reached for the Ripper's Confederate cap, trying to pull it off, but of course it didn't come. Just like Nick's own tie, it was a permanent part of the Ripper.
"Get yer hands off!" Zach the Ripper said, slapping Nick's hand away.
But Nick knew this was no "Zach" at all.
"You're a girl!"
The Ripper's eyes narrowed, boldly staring right at him. "You got a problem with that?"
Chapter 7 A Fistful of Forever
It was not uncommon once war was declared between the North and South for boys to lie about their age so they could serve. Nor was it uncommon for battle-ambitious girls to cut their hair and lie about their gender. Few got away with it, though.
Fourteen year-old Zinnia Kitner was one of those few.
Named after her mother's favorite flower, she had always hated her name--hated the fact that so many Southern girls of their day were named for such passive things as flowers: Violet. Rose. Magnolia. She shortened it to Zin, and allowed only her father to call her Zinnia.
She was not a girl of privilege--no Southern belle. She knew little of fancy things and delicate education. In fact, she had no schooling, and hated the prissy girls of the South's high society. She had no love of slavery, either, but she did love her father and brothers who all hated the North.
Then the South seceded from the Union, and war was declared. With her mother long dead, she knew she would be the only Kitner left at home; a Confederate War orphan left in the care of weepy neighbor women who wrung their hands raw in vain attempts to worry their men home.
