Powers by James A. Burton

Author:James A. Burton [Burton, James A.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: fantasy, novel
ISBN: 9781607013655
Publisher: Prime Books
Published: 2012-04-02T04:00:00+00:00

XV

Bitter reek of explosives, dust, burning, tortured metal—Albert’s nose sorted through the smoke. If I can smell things, that means that I’m probably still alive. Against the odds.

He opened his eyes. That didn’t help. Except . . . a faint light defined the billowing black, low against the floor, white rather than orange. Not fire. If he wanted to stay alive . . .

He tried breathing, nose scraping the floor. Oxygen content low, dust content high. He coughed and scuttled toward the light on hands and knees. The air got better.

He broke into light and cut left, on the general principle that he didn’t want to stay in the doorway. That doorway wasn’t a healthy place to be. Now he could see green. Trees, grass, shrubs. A green metal post with three scorched green metal plates welded to it, angled low-middle-high, he guessed they had held booby-trap mines triggered by the door. Unfriendly greeting.

A man in blue uniform stood beside a tripod-mounted green tube. The tube belched and farted orange fire, soundless, a stream of fire that disappeared through the hole that had been a door. White light burst back out of the smoke, trailing white smoke. Albert centered the sights of the automatic on the man and fired twice. Fired without sound, even though the gun jerked in his hand. The man clutched at his belly and fell writhing to the grass. Bad shooting, Albert had been aiming at the chest.

No bang. Okay, I’m deaf. We’ll see whether that’s permanent. Just keep moving. If you’re moving, you’re still alive.

He had the gun, damned if he knew how. Convulsive grip, probably. For that matter, he still had the cane in his other hand and Mel’s pack on his back screwing up his balance. Her pack. Where the fuck was she?

Did she get out of that hell? She’d been shielded by the concrete, like him . . .

Two uniforms struggled, off on the other side of the belching smoke of the door. Fifteen, twenty yards, maybe. Damn near same uniforms, blue coveralls with patches, and no snowball’s chance he could read patches at this distance. One had black hair, one didn’t. One had a shotgun, one didn’t. He aimed, but didn’t dare fire.

One of the uniforms staggered and fell. The dirty one, the ragged one, the black-haired one. You couldn’t have been inside that shit-storm and come out clean. He fired twice at the standing clean uniform, saw it twist away and fall. Then he ran, weaving, ducking. She’d only waved two fingers at him before the blast but he expected more damn soon. She’d rolled to her hands and knees by the time he got to her. He pulled her up by the collar of her coverall. Blood and soot and tattered cloth. She started to yell at him, he could see her lips moving, her throat moving. He pointed at his ear.

She grabbed the shotgun from the ground, spun around for a quick check, and staggered off toward the nearest clump of trees.

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