BZRK: Apocalypse (BZRK 3)

“The house!” Tanner yelled. He aimed the sleigh toward it and then, at the last second, sank the brakes into gravel and the sleigh skidded sideways into a stop. O’Dell had already opened the canopy and now leapt, pistol in hand, to rush the door.

The sniper fired once, and O’Dell slammed onto his face and did not move. At the same moment the door of the house flew open and a young black kid in a bathrobe appeared, dragging Sadie by one arm.

The sniper fired and missed.

Tanner spotted the muzzle flash, and thanked whatever God watched over him that the sleigh had skidded sideways, because his weapons were pointed in the right direction. He launched a missile that blew a hole in this second structure, and while the sniper was recovering Tanner emptied his pistol at the roofline.

“Get in! Get in!”

The boy climbed in, hauling a nearly helpless Plath after him. The canopy would not close with Plath’s legs sticking out, but Tanner wasn’t waiting. He gunned the engine and roared away toward the ramp, firing his thirty-mil cannon continuously, causing bright-red flowers to bloom on walls, empty ground, and a couple of men.

“Get her in, get her in!”

“Can’t, there’s no room!” Bug Man cried, but nevertheless he hauled a screaming, bloody Plath the rest of the way into the cockpit, a tumble of limbs and hair on Bug Man’s lap.

“Who are you?” Tanner demanded.

“They call me Bug Man.”

“Yeah, well, listen up, Bug Man. See this? That’s the throttle. That’s the brake. This is the yoke. The computer will help.”

“What? Why? Are you bailing out?”

“No, but you will be. There’s another one of these at the top of the ramp.”

Lear rose from the floor, woozy, took a stutter-step, and fell into the wall. She left a trail of blood behind.

“Fu … The … Yeah …” she muttered.

Her legs were jelly. Her head was going around and around and around and oh, no. She vomited onto the floor. Felt a little better after that. Wished she hadn’t been drinking. Wished she had more sleep. Yeah. Sleep would be good.…

Stillers came pounding in, gun drawn. Three other men, all armed.

“Boss!”

“Di … get ’em?”

“They’ve got the sleigh, but Tara’s getting airborne.”

“Kill them. Kill them,” Lear said, slurring where she wished she was shouting.

“Someone get the doctor!” Stillers yelled.

More voices yelling, all around her; voices yelling and walkie-talkies blasting away and something burning.

“I’m ‘kay,” she said. Why wouldn’t her mouth work?

She felt the side of her head, then stared at her hand, red with something she couldn’t bring herself to understand. “Mom?” she asked.

Slowly, slowly, her head stopped spinning. Her legs were still weak but she could stand. A white-coated doctor was doing something to her head. Someone else was putting something in her mouth. Water. Had she asked for water?

She blinked. Her father was here. What was he doing here?

She shook her head, which set off a cascade of pain. She was sitting now on a couch stained with red handprints.

Caligula. He had come around to peer at her, keeping his distance, but saying something. “She’s dead, Lyssie, she’s dead, and you can’t ever tell anyone what you’ve done.…”

“My head,” she managed to say. “Give me something. Give me something. Hurts.”