All the Inside Howling (Hollow Folk #2)(100)
As that strip of reality started to widen, as I came back from the edge of unconsciousness, I realized I was being moved. Dragged, really, across the ballast. My body thumped over cold metal—the track, my brain said, he’s putting you on the track—and the taste of blood filled my mouth. I rolled onto my side, spitting, and something walloped me in the head. Again, the world went wobbly, and for a moment I struggled not to lose myself in that darkness. If I did, a tiny, animal voice warned, I’d be dead.
Through the pain and dizziness, I heard an awful shrieking coming closer and closer. The train. But it won’t stop in time. It’s too close, and even though it was already slowing down, it’s moving too fast. I got my eyes open, staring up into the scudding clouds. The thug stood over me, his foot planted on my chest. I heaved against his weight, but it was like trying to lift the Rockies. I tried again, pushing with all the strength I could muster.
“What I wouldn’t give,” the thug said, glancing down at me, “for a fucking bullet.”
The shriek of the brakes grew closer, higher, and the vibrations running through the track made my teeth chatter. Ballast rattled in place, as though a localized earthquake were happening just along this section of track. The heat of the train swept towards me in a cloud of dust and debris pushed ahead by its passage.
“Hey,” a familiar voice. “Shit-for-brains.”
And then I heard a solid thwack, and the thug grunted and staggered back. I looked up to see blood pouring from a cut on his head, and a chunk of ballast tumbled down to chime against the track next to me. His foot lifted from my chest, swung back, and caught on the track. Then gravity was against him, and his weight, which had previously been an advantage dragged him backwards and down.
“Vie,” Becca said, “the train.”
I dragged myself clear of the tracks, rolling across the ballast, and a moment later the train roared past. The force of its movement rattled through the ground, passing up into me, shaking me like I had the worst flu of my life. But somehow I got to my feet, and Becca urged me north.
And there was Emmett, all the smugness wiped off his face, his whipcord frame bent as he favored his shoulder. But he was alive. I fought the grin that crept across my face. He was alive, by every good thing in the whole universe, he was alive. And he had the duffle bag. My grin threatened to break my face, but hell, it was worth it.
As we helped each other up on the other side, dragging ourselves towards the busy street, I threw one last glance back. Lena stood at the edge of the trainyard, nothing more than a figure in dark clothes with her familiar helmet of perfectly sprayed blond hair. I waved, and then we disappeared into the city of Denver.
We skulked around the city for hours, waiting as long as we dared, moving among coffee shops and diners until well past midnight. Emmett, it turned out had been shot. But the bullet had struck something in the duffle bag: a massive revolver.
“It’s going to leave a hell of a bruise,” Emmett grimaced, rotating his shoulder as we huddled around a table at the back of a Starbucks. “But it’s better than the alternative.”
Becca giggled. She fought the laughter, and somehow that was worse, because the sound became manic, and then hysterical. Wiping her eyes, between bouts of giggles, she said, “A gun.” Another wave of laughter rolled over her, and patrons throughout the room were turning to look at her. “A gun saved you from a bullet.”
Emmett and I traded glances as Becca’s laughter spilled over, turning into shakes. If there was something funny about it, neither of us saw it. We bundled Becca out of the Starbucks and scrambled for our next place to hide.
It was near four in the morning when we finally decided to try the parking garage. Cop cars still lined the street in front of Union Station; they would be investigating Lena’s wave of death and destruction for a long time, I guessed, unless they got lucky and caught one of her men. Blue and red lights from the cruisers splashed against the parking garage as the three of us crossed the street. Had Lena found the car? Would she be waiting? Would she try something here?
But the parking garage was empty at this hour of the night—or, rather, the morning. Ahead of us, the Porsche sat alone against the unrelenting gray. The chilly, motor oil smell made us walk a little faster. We would get in the car, we would get on the highway, we would get home. It was that easy. God, it really was going to be that easy. My leg, which had stiffened from my fall, loosened up. I could run. I could dance, if I had to, because we were going to get in the car, we would—
Somebody—one of Lena’s thugs, I imagined—had forced open the rear engine compartment, and the bent metal and chipped paint showed that a great deal of force had been applied with a very little imagination. Emmett let out a groan, and he trailed after me as I moved to inspect the car. I didn’t know much about cars, aside from what I liked and what I didn’t, but I knew Lena had crippled this car. Wires had been cut, hoses punctured, and different-colored fluids dripped to puddle on the cement.
I spun around, expecting Lena to emerge and try to shoot us again, but we were still alone. Maybe it was the presence of the police that had stopped her. Or maybe she planned to wait. Either way, we were stuck.
“My dad,” Emmett groaned, banging his head against the Porsche’s door, “is going to kill me.”
After a flurry of phone calls, Emmett and Becca agreed: there were no rental cars anywhere in the city of Denver. There might be some in the morning, but all the twenty-four hours places had run out. I suggested sleeping in the Porsche. Emmett pulled a face like I’d recommended catching herpes for fun and profit, but Becca pointed out that Lena might be able to trace a credit card if we went to a hotel.