Chapter Eighteen
"No. Fucking no way. "
Qhuinn had to agree with Z's read on Rhage's bright idea.
The bunch of them had struggled through the woods, with Rhage bearing most of Z's weight while everyone else circled the pair, ready to pick off anything or anyone who threatened from the fringes. They were now back at the airplane hangar, and Hollywood's solution to their mobility problem seemed like a complication with mortal implications, not anything that was actually going to help.
"How hard can it be to fly a plane?" As everyone, including Z, just looked at him, Rhage shrugged. "What. Humans do it all the time. "
Z rubbed his chest and slowly sank to the ground. After gathering his short breath, he shook his head. "First of all, you don't know if. . . the damn thing. . . can even get airborne. It probably has no gas. . . and you've never flown before. "
"You wanna tell me what our other option is? We're still miles from any plausible pickup location, you're not improving, and we could get ambushed. Let me at least get in there and see if I can get the engine to turn over. "
"This is a bad call. "
In the quiet that followed, Qhuinn did the math himself, and glanced over at the hangar. After a moment, he said, "I'll cover you. Let's do this. "
Bottom line, Rhage was right. This foot-race of an evac was taking too long, and that lesser had disappeared before they'd stabbed him, not the other way around.
Had the Omega given his boys some special powers?
Whatever - a smart fighter never underestimated the enemy - especially when one of his own was down. They needed to get Z to safety, and if that meant an airlift, so the fuck be it.
He and Rhage filed into the hangar and flicked on their flashlights. The airplane was right where they'd left it in the back corner, looking like it was the ugly stepchild of some much prettier mode of transportation that had long since fled the scene. Closing in, Qhuinn saw that the propeller appeared to be sound, and, although the wings were dusty, he could hang his weight off of them.
The fact that the door hatch squeaked like a bitch when Rhage opened the way in was less than good news.
"Whew," Rhage muttered as he recoiled. "Smells like something died in there. "
Man, must have been one hell of a stinky if the Brother could differentiate it from the rest of the smell inside the hangar.
Maybe this wasn't such a hot idea.
Before Qhuinn could offer a second read on the stench, Rhage turned himself into a pretzel and squeezed through the oval hole. "Holy shit - keys. There are keys - can you believe it?"
"How about gas?" Qhuinn muttered, as he swept his flashlight beam around in a wide circle. Nothing but that dirty-ass floor.
"You might want to step back there, son," Rhage hollered out of the cockpit. "I'ma try and fire this old lady up. "
Qhuinn eased away, but come on. If the thing was going to go up in flames, like fifteen feet was going to make much of a difference -
The explosion was loud, the smoke was thick, and the engine sounded like it was suffering from a mechanical strain of whooping cough. But shit evened out. The longer they let it run, the more even the rhythm became.
"We gotta get out of here before we asphyxiate," Qhuinn yelled into the plane.
Right on cue, Rhage must have put the thing in drive or something, because the airplane eased forward with a groan like every nut and bolt in its body hurt.
And this thing was going to get airborne?
Qhuinn jogged in front and hit the double bay's seam. Gripping one side, he threw all the power in his body into the pull and ripped the thing apart, various latches and locks popping free and going flying.
He hoped the airplane didn't take inspiration from those fragments.
In the moonlight, the expressions on John's and Blay's faces were pretty fucking priceless as they got a good look at the escape plan - and he knew where they were coming from.
Rhage hit the brakes and squeezed out again. "Let's load him up. "
Silence. Well, except for the wheezing plane behind them.
"You're not taking it up," Qhuinn said, almost to himself.
Rhage frowned in his direction. "Excuse me. "
"You're too valuable. If that thing goes down, we can't lose two Brothers. Not going to happen. I'm expendable, you are not. "
Rhage opened his mouth like he was going to argue. But then he shut it, a strange expression settling onto his beautiful face.
"He's right," Z said grimly. "I can't put you in jeopardy, Hollywood. "
"Fuck that, I can dematerialize out of the cockpit if - "
"And you think you're going to be able to do that when we're in a spiral? Bullshit - "
A smattering of gunshots came from the tree line, piffing into the snow, whizzing by the ear.
Everyone snapped into action. Qhuinn dived into the plane, pulled himself into the pilot's seat, and tried to make sense of all the. . . fucking hell, there were a lot of dials. The only saving grace he had was that he'd -
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
- watched enough movies to know that the lever with the grip was the gas and the bow tie - shaped wheel was the thing you pulled up to go up, and pushed down to go down.
"Fuck," he muttered as he stayed in a tuck position as much as he could.
Given the popping sounds that followed, John and Blay were shooting back, so Qhuinn sat up a little higher and glanced at the rows of instruments. He figured the one with the little gas tank was what he was looking for.
Quarter of the tanks left. And the shit in there was probably half condensation.
This was a really bad idea.
"Get him in here!" Qhuinn yelled, sizing up the empty, flat field to the left.
Rhage was on it, throwing Zsadist into the airplane with all the gentleness of a longshoreman. The Brother landed in a crumpled pile, but at least he was cursing - which meant he was with it enough to feel pain.
Qhuinn didn't wait for any door-shutting bullcrap. He released the foot brake, hit the accelerator, and prayed they didn't skid out in the snow -
Half the glass windshield shattered in front of him, the bullet that did the damage ricocheting around the cockpit, the whiff! from the seat next to him suggesting the headrest had caught the slug. Which was better than his arm. Or skull.
The only good news was that the plane seemed ready to get the hell out of there, too, that rusty-ass engine spinning the prop at a dead run like the POS knew getting off the ground was the sole way to safety. Out the side windows, the landscape started striping by, and he oriented the middle of the "runway" by keeping the two sets of trees equidistant.
"Hold on," he yelled over the din.
Wind was ripping into the cockpit like there was an industrial fan filling up the space where the pane of glass had been, but it wasn't like he was planning on going high enough to require pressurization.
At this point, he just wanted to clear the forest up ahead.
"Come on, baby, you can do it. . . come on. . . . "
He had the throttle down flat, and he had to tell his arm to ease off - there was no more juice to be had, but breaking the goddamn thing was guaranteed to fuck them even harder.
The din got louder and louder.
Trees moved faster and faster.
The bumps became more and more violent, until his teeth were clapping together, and he became convinced one or both of the wings were going to unhinge and fall by the wayside.
Figuring there was no time to waste, Qhuinn pulled back as hard as he could on the steering wheel, gripping the thing tightly, as if that could somehow be translated to the body of the plane and keep it all together -
Something fell from the ceiling and fluttered back in Z's direction.
Map? Owner's manual? Who the fuck knew.
Man, those trees at the far end were getting close.
Qhuinn pulled even more, in spite
of the fact that the wheel was as far toward him as it could go - which was a crying shame, because they were out of runway and still not off the ground -
Scraping sounds raked down the belly of the plane, as if underbrush were reaching up and trying to grab onto the steel plating.
And still those trees were even closer.
His first thought as he stared death in the face was that he was never going to meet his daughter. At least not on this side of the Fade.
His second and final was that he couldn't believe he'd never told Blay he loved him. In all the minutes and hours and nights of his life, in all the words he'd spoken to the male over the years they'd known each other, he'd only ever pushed him away.
And now it was too late.
Dumb-ass. What a fucking dumb-ass he was.
'Cuz it sure as hell appeared that his library card was getting stamped tonight.
Straightening up so the full force of that cold blast hit him square in the face, Qhuinn glared into the rush, picturing those pines ahead that he couldn't see because his eyes were watering from the wind. Opening his mouth, he screamed bloody murder, adding his voice to the maelstrom.
Goddamn it, he wasn't going down like a pussy. No ducking, no pathetic oh-please-God-no-saaaaaave-me. Fuck that. He was going to meet death with his fangs bared and his body braced and his heart pounding not from fear, but from a whole boatload of. . .
"Blow me, Grim Reaper!"
As Qhuinn was trying to get airborne, Blay had his gun muzzle pointed into the tree line and was pumping off rounds like he had an endless supply of lead - which he didn't.
This was a total goat fuck. He and John and Rhage were without any cover; there was no way of knowing how many slayers were in those woods; and for the love of God, all that ancient airplane was doing was leaving a toxic cloud of smoke in its wake as it rattled off like it was on a Sunday stroll.
Oh, and that POS was far from fucking bulletproof, but evidently had gas in its tank.
Qhuinn and Z were not going to make it. They were going to slam into that forest at the end of the field - assuming they didn't get blown up first.
In that moment, when he knew that one way or another a fireball was imminent, he split in half. The physical part of him remained plugged into fending off the attack, his arms sticking straight out, his forefingers squeezing out bullets, his eyes and ears tracking the sounds and sights of muzzle flashes and the movements of his enemy.
The other part of him was in that airplane.
It was as if he were watching his own death. He could imagine so very clearly the violent vibrating of the plane, and the out-of-control bumps over the ground, and the sight of that solid line of trees coming at him - sure as if he were staring out of Qhuinn's eyes and not his own.
That foolhardy son of a bitch.
There had been so many times when Blay had thought, He's going to kill himself.
So many times on and off the field.
But now this was the one that was going to stick -
The bullet struck him in the thigh, and the pain that raced from his leg to his heart suggested that his full attention needed to shift back to the fight: If he wanted to live, he had to completely focus.
Yet even as the conviction hit him, there was a split second when he thought, Just end this all now. Just be done with all the bullshit and the punishment of life, the almost-theres, the if-onlys, the relentless chronic agony he'd been in. . . he was so tired of it all -
He had no idea what made him hit the snow.
One moment he was staring toward the plane waiting for the burst of flames. The next he was chest-down on the ground, his elbows digging into the frozen, intractable earth, his injured leg throbbing.
Pop! Pop! Pop -
The roar that interrupted the sound of bullets was so loud he ducked his head, like that would help him avoid the chronic airplane's fireball.
Except there was no light and no heat. And the sound was overhead. . . .
Soaring. That bucket of bolts was actually in the air. Above them.
Blay spared a second to look up, just in case he'd gotten shot in the head and his perception of reality was fucked. But no - that piece-of-shit crop duster was up in the sky, making a fat turn and taking off in the direction that, if it could stay aloft, would eventually lead Qhuinn and Z to the Brotherhood's compound.
If they were lucky.
Man, that flight path wasn't pretty - it was not an eagle going straight and true through the night sky. More like a barn swallow fresh out of the nest - with a broken wing.
Back and forth. Back and forth, tipping from side to side.
To the point where it looked more like they had pulled off the impossible and gotten in the air. . . only to quickly crash and burn over the forest. . .
From out of nowhere, something caught him in the side of the face, smacking him so hard he flopped over onto his back and nearly lost hold of his forties. A hand - it had been a hand that had palmed his puss like a basketball.
And then a massive weight jumped on his chest, flattening him into the snowpack, making him exhale so hard, he wondered if he didn't need to look around for his liver.
"Will you get your fucking head down?" Rhage hissed in his ear. "You're going to get shot - again. "
As the lull in shooting stetched from seconds to a full minute, lessers emerged from the tree line up ahead, the quartet of slayers walking through the snow with their weapons drawn and poised.
"Don't move," Rhage whispered. "Two can play at this game. "
Blay did his best not to breathe as heavily as the burn in his lungs was telling him he needed to. Also tried not to sneeze as loose flakes tickled his nose on every inhale.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
John was about three feet away, and lying in a contorted position that made Blay's heart flicker -
The guy subtly flashed a thumbs-up, like he was reading Blay's mind.
Thank. Fuck.
Blay shifted his eyes around without changing the awkward angle of his head, and then discreetly exchanged a gun for one of his daggers.
As an unhinged hum started to vibrate in his head, he calibrated the lessers' movements, their trajectories, their weapons. He was nearly out of bullets, and there wasn't time to reload from his ammo belt - and he knew that John and Rhage were in a similar situation.
The knives that V had hand-made for them all were their only recourse.
Closer. . . closer. . .
When the four slayers were finally in range, his timing was perfect. And so were the others'.
With a coordinated shift and surge, he leaped up and started stabbing at the two closest to him. John and Rhage attacked the others -
Almost immediately, more slayers came from the woods, but for some reason, probably because the Lessening Society wasn't arming inductees all that well, there were no bullets. The second round rushed across the snow with the kind of weapons you'd expect to find in an alley fight - baseball bats, crowbars, tire irons, chains.
Fine with him.
He was so juiced and pissed off, he could use the hand-to-hand.