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“It’s all the same,” Sam muttered weakly, as Quinn appeared out of the smoke.
Edilio took two steps back, grabbed Quinn by the shoulder, and said, “He’s not in charge. Don’t listen to him. You understand? You listen to me.”
Whether Quinn understood what was going on or not, he knew the power of conviction when he saw it. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“Tell you what, Sanjit,” Lana said.
“What, Lana?” he asked.
“See this?” She held up her cigarette. “This will be my last one. I promise.”
Sanjit shook his head slowly. “What are you talking about?”
Lana looked around the shambles of a room. There were twenty-one victims: Some were dead and hadn’t been cleared away. Others would live, for now, at least. There were more in the room next door. More still in the hallway.
Lana felt hollowed out. The endless hurry to save this one or that one, the sleeplessness, the soul sickness that came from seeing death and disfigurement, it was all finally too much.
And still she felt it. She felt its mind, its will, its glee as it killed.
She took a long drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke out, savoring it. “Last one.”
“What are you doing?”
Lana put her hand on Sanjit’s face. He made a tentative reach for the pistol at her waist. She was surprised. She pulled it out and handed it to him.
“No, not that,” she said, smiling. “I don’t think that’s in me. Different fight I have in mind. The time has come. Listen to me, Sanjit. I’m going outside. Don’t follow me.”
She left then, walked down the hall, ignoring the pleas of the desperate, down the stairs, and out onto the lawn.
She took another drag, squared her shoulders, closed her eyes, and said, “This is going to hurt.”
Gaia’s goal was not a fight. Her goal was slaughter.
Kill them all. Kill every last one of them.
Gaia did not rush out to meet the guns in the town plaza. She blew out the remains of the back wall of the church and stormed onto Golding Street.
Time. She felt it slipping away, and it would take too long to hunt down the shooters right now, too inefficient. Kill more sooner, that was the right move. Kill more now.
Seconds and seconds and she couldn’t run because there was a bullet in her leg and that leg did not want to run; it wanted to fold up under her.
Never mind, she would heal herself when they were all dead, and then, yes, there would be time, but her body, the body she had stolen, filthy weak sack of blood that kept leaking out, it was weakening, wasn’t it? She could feel it. The blood leaking out of her. Had to stop and heal that, at least, had to stanch the bleeding.
She bent over and pressed her hand against the wound, hobbling down the street as she did, an awkward, laughable-looking creature.
And Nemesis was doing something, moving, preparing, wasn’t he? She could feel him. He was a shadow of himself, weak, a ghost. Just die!
Just finally die, you stupid little boy!
The blood still leaked between her fingers. Why wasn’t the healing working?
She reached the highway and there were people, kids, running in panic toward the brilliant lights of the barrier.
A burned-out gas station.
An overturned FedEx truck.
Panicked children.
