back into it, hands under Clyde’s shoulders, heaving. The clearing is disappearing fast, thick wooden walls closing off our exit.
Everything is dark and close. I’m scooting backwards on my arse, bumping up against someone’s heels, Clyde a dead weight behind me.
Another clearing. Malcolm shouting again. Another loose bwoom of sound. Another tunnel. Clyde’s feet bumping over roots and shattered floorboards.
“They’re going to crush us.” It’s Jasmine talking, her voice climbing the octaves. “There’s no way out. They’re closing the exits.”
And I’m not one for pessimism, but it is starting to looking like I’ll be getting a closer look than I’d like at how pâté is made.
“Quiet.” Malcolm’s voice is a low roll of thunder. “Need to work out where they are. They’re giving us a lot of cover.” There is a brief tense moment of silence. Then, “This way,” Malcolm rumbles.
We shuffle on. Everything’s quiet now. No more lightning cracks. No more… well whatever the hell the other thing is.
We come to something that, relatively speaking, seems like a clearing. I wedge my way into the tangle of brambles, branches bending and cracking.
“Shhh,” Malcolm hisses. He’s lying on his belly, clutching a gun with a barrel long enough to suggest that he might be compensating for something.
I twist, trying to see what he’s looking at. We’re near the edge of the tress, I realize. Just a thin web of branches separates us from open space. A few yards of open floorboards, and then a doorway. A sign glows above it, letters bright and red: EXIT.
The woman is still there, her back to us. She’s bent over a desk studying something. A few bookshelves still stand between her and us. Malcolm holds the pistol in both hands, drawing a bead on the back of her head.
Shooting her while she’s so completely unaware will not exactly be a sporting move, but the other team is using magic so I think the rules of gentlemanly conduct have been cast pretty far away.
The whole world seems to narrow, seems to become the two points of focus. Malcolm. The Russian. I can see the sweat on his forehead. I can see the light of the LEDs around the woman’s wrist reflecting off the sheet of paper she holds up. I can see Malcolm bring his breathing under control. Slow and steady. One. Two. The Russian’s hair moves slightly as she changes the angle of her head. Three. Four. Malcolm’s finger starts to tense.
“No!” a voice howls. “Run! It’s a trap! A fucking great ginormous trap!”
A pile of books explodes out of one of the shelves. A leg concertinas out of the whirling mass. An arm. Winston.
Then the tall Russian stands up behind him, from where he was taking cover. Between bookshelves. Between us and the woman. Staring and smirking over Winston’s shoulder.
“What the f—” someone is yelling, but then the Russian’s arms bunch. Lightning flares off the ground. I dive backwards, half-dragging Clyde, half-falling backwards. Aiko rolls through branches. Malcolm catapults forwards, into Winston’s path. Jasmine pulls her guns, too late, too late.
The lightning hits the tall Russian. Winston flails his arms, still running. The Russian flings his arms forward. The air coalesces around them, becomes a ball of gel that slops forward and rolls through the air. Winston hits the tree line. I hit the floor.
The ball of gelatinous space hits Winston.
Bwoom.
Winston stops, staggers. He drops to his hands and knees.
He manages to raise his head, trembling all over. He looks through the trees, looks me right in the eye.
“Bugger, mate,” he says. “Balls and buggery-fuck.”
EIGHTEEN
I dive away from Winston, my gun out, finger squeezing, barrel barking. It’s not as easy to hit things while doing that as they make it look in the movies. Flying through the air, body thrumming with adrenaline—it’s not exactly good for the aim. Still, it’s satisfying to see the Russian dive for cover.
The
Everything is dark and close. I’m scooting backwards on my arse, bumping up against someone’s heels, Clyde a dead weight behind me.
Another clearing. Malcolm shouting again. Another loose bwoom of sound. Another tunnel. Clyde’s feet bumping over roots and shattered floorboards.
“They’re going to crush us.” It’s Jasmine talking, her voice climbing the octaves. “There’s no way out. They’re closing the exits.”
And I’m not one for pessimism, but it is starting to looking like I’ll be getting a closer look than I’d like at how pâté is made.
“Quiet.” Malcolm’s voice is a low roll of thunder. “Need to work out where they are. They’re giving us a lot of cover.” There is a brief tense moment of silence. Then, “This way,” Malcolm rumbles.
We shuffle on. Everything’s quiet now. No more lightning cracks. No more… well whatever the hell the other thing is.
We come to something that, relatively speaking, seems like a clearing. I wedge my way into the tangle of brambles, branches bending and cracking.
“Shhh,” Malcolm hisses. He’s lying on his belly, clutching a gun with a barrel long enough to suggest that he might be compensating for something.
I twist, trying to see what he’s looking at. We’re near the edge of the tress, I realize. Just a thin web of branches separates us from open space. A few yards of open floorboards, and then a doorway. A sign glows above it, letters bright and red: EXIT.
The woman is still there, her back to us. She’s bent over a desk studying something. A few bookshelves still stand between her and us. Malcolm holds the pistol in both hands, drawing a bead on the back of her head.
Shooting her while she’s so completely unaware will not exactly be a sporting move, but the other team is using magic so I think the rules of gentlemanly conduct have been cast pretty far away.
The whole world seems to narrow, seems to become the two points of focus. Malcolm. The Russian. I can see the sweat on his forehead. I can see the light of the LEDs around the woman’s wrist reflecting off the sheet of paper she holds up. I can see Malcolm bring his breathing under control. Slow and steady. One. Two. The Russian’s hair moves slightly as she changes the angle of her head. Three. Four. Malcolm’s finger starts to tense.
“No!” a voice howls. “Run! It’s a trap! A fucking great ginormous trap!”
A pile of books explodes out of one of the shelves. A leg concertinas out of the whirling mass. An arm. Winston.
Then the tall Russian stands up behind him, from where he was taking cover. Between bookshelves. Between us and the woman. Staring and smirking over Winston’s shoulder.
“What the f—” someone is yelling, but then the Russian’s arms bunch. Lightning flares off the ground. I dive backwards, half-dragging Clyde, half-falling backwards. Aiko rolls through branches. Malcolm catapults forwards, into Winston’s path. Jasmine pulls her guns, too late, too late.
The lightning hits the tall Russian. Winston flails his arms, still running. The Russian flings his arms forward. The air coalesces around them, becomes a ball of gel that slops forward and rolls through the air. Winston hits the tree line. I hit the floor.
The ball of gelatinous space hits Winston.
Bwoom.
Winston stops, staggers. He drops to his hands and knees.
He manages to raise his head, trembling all over. He looks through the trees, looks me right in the eye.
“Bugger, mate,” he says. “Balls and buggery-fuck.”
EIGHTEEN
I dive away from Winston, my gun out, finger squeezing, barrel barking. It’s not as easy to hit things while doing that as they make it look in the movies. Flying through the air, body thrumming with adrenaline—it’s not exactly good for the aim. Still, it’s satisfying to see the Russian dive for cover.
The
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