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We are looking at acres of rolling woods and grassy plains. It’s even more beautiful from the air than I had imagined, ringed with ice capped mountains from which water runs into the network of little rivers running through the place.
“If my father is alive…”
ZOOOM!
A plane comes from overhead, a two-winged crop duster type with Imperium markings.
Atticus is here. He knew exactly where we were going. I’m not surprised. I’m resigned. Next to me, Orion seems to be in much the same state. What can we do against a malevolence which has no purpose in existence but to track us time and time again?
I wonder what Atticus’ plan is. Is he going to shoot us down? Hell, I don’t care. I’ll die in Orion’s arms, falling to my death onto the soil from whence I came. I’m made from the land below. My bones were knit into existence down there. If I die here, now, I don’t care. The end has always been inevitable. Going out free? That’s never been guaranteed.
But Atticus’ plane doesn’t attack us. Instead, the undercarriage of the plane opens, and something dark falls out. We watch at a helpless distance as a series of dark round things fly out in a trail following the plane’s path.
The first black dot lands somewhere down below and from that little speck arises a plume of intense fire leaping almost as high as our own craft, then crashing down in a wave all around it, spreading in a ring, like ripples in a pond, except it is not a harmless disturbance in the water. It is pure destruction. I watch in horror as the ground turns red and then black, fire racing across the lush lands, spurred by the sticky explosive material which burns hotter than any natural fire.
“Bastard,” Orion swears. I am speechless. There are no words to capture what I am seeing. Not long ago, Paris rained grenades on a town of innocents to protect us. Now Atticus rains his own brand of fire down on once lush lands, making them worthless, destroying their beauty and their value in a series of bright flashes. Is this karma? Do we deserve this? Maybe we do. Maybe it doesn’t matter.
Having destroyed my father’s lands, Atticus turns his attention to us. The heat from the fires below has made the air immediately turbulent. Our airship bumps and bounces around like a balloon on a string, completely out of control as his plane comes around, front gun rattling through the propellers. Our ship has no chance. It is not a maneuverable fighter. It is nothing more than a heavy transport behemoth. We are shot down in a hail of lead, just as Atticus said we would be, bullets tearing through the fabric of the flotation balloons, turning them into great, heavy curtains which immediately weigh us down to earth.
We descend in a zooming, twirling, heavy fall which should bring a scream from my lips, but doesn’t. I don’t care what happens to me anymore. I just want to get to the bottom and meet my miserable end.
But we don’t die.
All these things are happening so terribly fast, I don’t have time to panic between them. My childhood has been burned, my legacy destroyed, my ship is spiraling, but somehow Orion manages to land the craft in spite of the complete lack of buoyancy and we skid across what were fertile lands until we come to a stop in a thicket of thorns which have avoided the flames. The sharp points of the thorns catch the deflated skin of the craft in their embrace and perform the final braking maneuver.
We are alive.
But this is not over yet.
The sheriff is landing behind us, intending, no doubt, to finish the job.
“Stay behind me,” Orion says, pulling his gun out. He says nothing else, and I think we both know that this is about to end, one way or another.
Orion
“WHY!?”
The question bursts from my body in a roar as I stride across the distance between Atticus and me. The sheriff disembarks his plane, arrogant without reason. He is alone. He believed a plane full of explosives would destroy us, but it takes more than that to break me. Behind me, Josie is just as determined as I am. I feel the fire of her spirit. We are both bruised, filthy, covered in cuts and scrapes which ooze lifeblood. But it will not be our lives which end today. He’s made one final mistake. He thinks I give a fuck what he’s about to say.
“Because,” Atticus laughs. “If I cannot have it, nobody will. Certainly not you, outlaw. You’ll never own property on Cabbage Patch. You’ll never be anything other than a filthy criminal who ends his life swinging from the gallows. You’ll nev…” BOOM
“What’s that? You didn’t finish your sentence?” I ask the question of Atticus’ fresh corpse. Funnily enough, he doesn’t answer. Must be the way his brains are now spread in an intricate smear across the ground.
