maelstrom
of rage and limbs surging just behind her, when Silas pulled the Luger’s trigger.
V-7
THE
CRIMSON BLOSSOM AND THE AMBER
Crack. Deafening.
Rob’s face shrank, imploded.
There was no other way to describe it. It was as if a black hole,
a tiny cosmic singularity, had formed inside his mouth, its sudden impossible
swell of crushing gravity sucking the rest of his head’s bone, teeth and
fleshly matter inexorably in toward a single point. There was only a faintest
haze of blood clouding in scarlet mist around the entry wound, but with the
upward angle of Silas’ weapon, half the contents of Rob’s head sprayed up over
the clamped tops of the fuel hoses.
Bandages flew in streamers, gouts of oiled hair tumbled up in
spirals. Ghost-white chunks of skull, each with yellowish curds glued poorly to
the inside surfaces of their triangles, sprayed high like deadly shrapnel,
rebounding off brick and bouncing down onto the plastic carry-alls strapped
over the H4’s roof.
There was a burst of some animalistic scent, moist and raw.
Something smelled like fragrant cheese.
The slug’s hot remnant ricocheted out over someone else’s head. The
oldest of the other men shouted out, his face an almost comical twist of shock
and revelation, O! And the nailed-through piece of lumber this man had
been holding dropped between his feet, bounced, then angled outward in the air.
The nearest other man, it may have been Morty, tripped over the
rebounding board and into the screaming blood-girl. They both fell over in a
tangle of limbs, one clawing, the other shielding.
Another man was erratically aiming a vintage green Springfield
carbine — a moment earlier, perhaps he had been trying to decide if he could
very carefully shoot the blood-girl in the face — while two filth-caked naked
women, one very old, were lunging toward him with broken fingers, their
fingernails turned into searching claws.
That was the last vision etched into Sophie’s memory. The next
she knew, she had pushed her submachine gun further over to the passenger seat
and was in, one leg trailing, clutching the H4’s wheel. Without thinking she
shunted out of park, hoisted her left leg in. In her panic she fisted the
stick over to four-wheel instead of drive. Her right foot stomped down on the
accelerator.
The engine roared, hacked and roared louder. The H4 lurched
forward out of the bay with men and women running after it. Someone shrieked
and fell, perhaps slipping in Rob’s blood and gore or stumbling over his body.
Perhaps Sophie had run part of him over, with her back wheel. She didn’t know.
Even over the engine the babbling voices were rising, shouts,
cries of panic and rage: “Stop her! Don’t shoot! Please! Christ, Zeke —
Stop! Don’t let them get away! Fuck! Get out of the way!”
But there was a louder voice, a trill of lust, a goddess song. Patrice
was chanting in Sophie’s head, Yes! Finally! You see? A bicycle wheel
with razor spikes. That, my love, is what happens to all the bad girls in a
world destroyed by men. Face in a cage. Raped and dead alive and dead and
dead and dead! All dead, all dead … cackling. But more solemn than
this rose Sophie’s own conviction, in silence and commandment:
Save the girl.
She had to try to save the girl.
Immediately after firing his LCP, Silas had somehow managed to jolt
and sit up, turning himself over. His fingers were bleeding where he had torn
some of his nails off, scrabbling upright. The pistol went flying from his
fingers when Sophie hit the gas.
Silas almost fell out of the Hummer as Sophie veered left and away,
trying to circle so far out from the fuel bay that no man could find the time
to open fire as she sped onward.
Swerving out of the bay, she had no time to calculate risk or
repercussion. There were only life and death. There was a candy-striped concrete
bollard sheathed in dented gray
of rage and limbs surging just behind her, when Silas pulled the Luger’s trigger.
V-7
THE
CRIMSON BLOSSOM AND THE AMBER
Crack. Deafening.
Rob’s face shrank, imploded.
There was no other way to describe it. It was as if a black hole,
a tiny cosmic singularity, had formed inside his mouth, its sudden impossible
swell of crushing gravity sucking the rest of his head’s bone, teeth and
fleshly matter inexorably in toward a single point. There was only a faintest
haze of blood clouding in scarlet mist around the entry wound, but with the
upward angle of Silas’ weapon, half the contents of Rob’s head sprayed up over
the clamped tops of the fuel hoses.
Bandages flew in streamers, gouts of oiled hair tumbled up in
spirals. Ghost-white chunks of skull, each with yellowish curds glued poorly to
the inside surfaces of their triangles, sprayed high like deadly shrapnel,
rebounding off brick and bouncing down onto the plastic carry-alls strapped
over the H4’s roof.
There was a burst of some animalistic scent, moist and raw.
Something smelled like fragrant cheese.
The slug’s hot remnant ricocheted out over someone else’s head. The
oldest of the other men shouted out, his face an almost comical twist of shock
and revelation, O! And the nailed-through piece of lumber this man had
been holding dropped between his feet, bounced, then angled outward in the air.
The nearest other man, it may have been Morty, tripped over the
rebounding board and into the screaming blood-girl. They both fell over in a
tangle of limbs, one clawing, the other shielding.
Another man was erratically aiming a vintage green Springfield
carbine — a moment earlier, perhaps he had been trying to decide if he could
very carefully shoot the blood-girl in the face — while two filth-caked naked
women, one very old, were lunging toward him with broken fingers, their
fingernails turned into searching claws.
That was the last vision etched into Sophie’s memory. The next
she knew, she had pushed her submachine gun further over to the passenger seat
and was in, one leg trailing, clutching the H4’s wheel. Without thinking she
shunted out of park, hoisted her left leg in. In her panic she fisted the
stick over to four-wheel instead of drive. Her right foot stomped down on the
accelerator.
The engine roared, hacked and roared louder. The H4 lurched
forward out of the bay with men and women running after it. Someone shrieked
and fell, perhaps slipping in Rob’s blood and gore or stumbling over his body.
Perhaps Sophie had run part of him over, with her back wheel. She didn’t know.
Even over the engine the babbling voices were rising, shouts,
cries of panic and rage: “Stop her! Don’t shoot! Please! Christ, Zeke —
Stop! Don’t let them get away! Fuck! Get out of the way!”
But there was a louder voice, a trill of lust, a goddess song. Patrice
was chanting in Sophie’s head, Yes! Finally! You see? A bicycle wheel
with razor spikes. That, my love, is what happens to all the bad girls in a
world destroyed by men. Face in a cage. Raped and dead alive and dead and
dead and dead! All dead, all dead … cackling. But more solemn than
this rose Sophie’s own conviction, in silence and commandment:
Save the girl.
She had to try to save the girl.
Immediately after firing his LCP, Silas had somehow managed to jolt
and sit up, turning himself over. His fingers were bleeding where he had torn
some of his nails off, scrabbling upright. The pistol went flying from his
fingers when Sophie hit the gas.
Silas almost fell out of the Hummer as Sophie veered left and away,
trying to circle so far out from the fuel bay that no man could find the time
to open fire as she sped onward.
Swerving out of the bay, she had no time to calculate risk or
repercussion. There were only life and death. There was a candy-striped concrete
bollard sheathed in dented gray
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