The Drowned Cities (Ship Breaker #2)(66)

The sergeant leaned close. “I got news for you, half-bar. None of us is getting out of here alive. You get it? We’re just walking dead. So don’t worry so much about surviving, right?” He slapped Mouse’s leg, grinning. “Don’t take it so serious. We’re just meat in the mill.”

Mouse closed his eyes and wanted to cry, but Pook grabbed him. “Come on, half-bar. Time to earn your verticals.”

Ocho pointed at the building across the canal. “You get your ass in there and find that spotter. Get the 999 off us, and maybe we get out of here alive. Fight another day, right? Only way out is if we shut down that 999. Otherwise we’re kill food.” He slapped Mouse on the back.

“Go on, half-bar! Hunt!”

And then he shoved Mouse into the canal, right into a hail of bullets. Mouse went down, came up sputtering. Wondering what he was going to do.

He thought about trying to swim away, to flee, but then Pook splashed into the drink with him.

“Come on, half-bar. Let’s get your prick red.” And then he was swimming for the far side.

All of Mouse’s senses were alive. It felt like he was looking in twenty directions at once. Army of God boys down the canal, shooting at them. Rubble raining down from above. Mules in the water, swimming around, braying and thrashing and climbing up on one another, and being dragged down and tangled by their harnesses.

They hadn’t seen it coming. None of them had. One second they’d been patrolling, working muscle while a bunch of civvy slave labor moved scavenge down the canal—just making sure the scavenged wire and marble and pipes and I beams all went out and bought them more bullets—and the next they were in a firefight for their lives.

Mouse made it to the far side of the canal.

Pook had an AK that he held above his head as he swam, and it slowed him, but then he made it, too. They climbed into the building through a shattered window, swimming through the interior of a swamped floor plan, hunting for a stairwell that would lead them up out of the water. Slime and heat hung heavy and the roof was only a few feet above their heads, but it was enough.

“Here!” Pook whispered. They squelched up a stairway, dripping and trying to be silent as they stepped around garbage and dead animals from who knew how long ago.

Raccoons dashed away from them, running up the stairs. Pook pulled Mouse close as they reached the first dry story of the building.

“They got to be on the south side of the building,” he said. “Looking down on us. Thought I saw some reflections, up five more stories. Stay stealthy, right?”

Mouse nodded, gripping his bottle of acid in his left hand and his machete in his right.

They stole up the stairs. Outside, another shell whistled down. Mouse was briefly glad that he was inside and not out in that nightmare, but then they hit the floor they’d been looking for and all hell broke loose.

They would have surprised the godboys completely, except that he and Pook had scared up that pack of raccoons. The animals dashed out of the stairwell, scattering like cockroaches, and the Army of God were right there in front of them—three of the bastards, leaning out the window and laying down artillery.

Another shell came booming down and the godboys all whooped when it hit, and then the raccoons came piling through.

The boys turned and grabbed their rifles. Pook dashed forward, screaming and firing. He hit one of the boys. Mouse glimpsed surprised brown eyes wide, long hair spraying, as the boy’s head whipped back, and then he went right out the window.

Another godboy took a bullet in the leg but was swinging his rifle around. Mouse ran toward him with his bottle and sprayed him like he’d been trained, right in the face, follow the stream up and down and all over, and suddenly steam was rising and burning and bubbling, the kid’s face burning off. But the boy was still shooting.

Mouse dropped to the ground as bullets flew wild. Pook slammed down beside him, blood and shattered face and surprised eyes.

Mouse tried to get his bearings. The godboy with the acid face was on the floor, flopping around and screaming, the other one was dead and gone, out the window like he’d learned to fly. Pook lay beside him with his jawbone blown off.

And then there was the radio boy. Just standing there. Staring.

Mouse and the radio boy both looked at each other, and then the godboy was scrambling for his gun, and Mouse grabbed for Pook’s rifle. He couldn’t get it off Pook’s shoulder. Bullets rained down, chipping concrete as the other boy opened fire. Mouse got Pook’s rifle up and took aim as the other gun blazed away. He pulled the trigger once.

A red stain opened on the boy’s chest. Blood spattered the wall behind him. The kid just sat down, looking surprised, and suddenly everything was quiet, except for the squawk of the radio asking for bearings.

For a long time, Mouse stared at the boy he’d shot. Blood ran from him. His eyes were staring at Mouse, but Mouse couldn’t tell if he was dead or not. He was breathing, Mouse thought, and then he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. He didn’t think he could shoot the boy again.

Mouse started to shake. He was alive. Pook was dead. The other three were dead. And he was alive. Fates. He was alive. He stood up, trembling. Amped with adrenaline. He ran his hands over himself, amazed, trying to find a bullet anywhere on him.

It was just like the Army of God boys said. They were immune to bullets. Blessed. Bullets were supposed to just bounce off them, because their general blessed them. They had amulets to keep them safe. Mouse could see the ones these boys wore, little aluminum disks marked by their priests to ward off bullets. But they were all dead and he was alive.