The Baron considered escaping the temple, but without the Zombie by his side, the thought was nothing more than a passing fancy. He took a seat just outside the perimeter of the assembled soldiers and waited while they distributed envelopes with marching orders. These had been typed out overnight in a war room deep within Tammany Hall. Now they were sending thousands of armed men into the streets of one of the largest cities on Earth.
After distributions were complete, the Oracle resumed his place at the podium. He called out calmly, “Gentlemen, your attention, please!”
The murmuring masses of the cult stopped, paying heed.
Maurice spoke clearly and firmly. “We’ve pulled strings, so no cops will patrol before six. You’ll move into position on foot. Don’t take taxis or public transportation. Conceal your weapons in bags or coats until you’ve reached your posts. If a given post is inaccessible or vulnerable, report back here before sunrise. We’ll track the holes in our coverage, and move to fill them. If you have any questions, come to me. Deployment starts at the half hour mark, so finish your preparations now. Good luck, gentlemen, and gods, grant us grace.”
“Grant us grace,” echoed many at once.
Several cultists went up to the podium and reviewed their instructions with Oracle Maurice, hashing out their concerns. The Baron waited, straining to overhear any important details, but he found little that wasn’t already obvious from the premises of this morning’s deployment. Enemies could be anywhere, so be ready for the worst.
The Zombie returned to the temple about five minutes later. He bee-lined for the Baron and knelt in front of him to confer in private. “Phyllis is on her way with Marco. They’re heading to his mother’s house, and she’ll put them on a train to New Jersey.”
“Glad to hear it,” the Baron said. “Did you update her on the situation with Schuler?”
“Yeah. She took your suggestion. She’ll make a few calls.”
“Good. Any idea who?”
“Other Artemisians, some Cosa Nostra contacts. Even Andrey Malik. The idea is to encourage someone to spring us from Tammany Hall, or at least draw away its security.”
The Baron raised an eyebrow. “Malik? Could be out of the frying pan and into the fire.”
The Zombie furrowed his brow. “I hate that expression.”
“Really? Why?”
“You can roll out of a fire. Frying pans have walls.”
“It’s not that literal…” The Baron caught himself. “Forget it. Did she say anything about Heckhaus?”
“Yeah. She wants to avoid him.”
“Smart.”
The Zombie smirked at that judgment. “She’s smarter than most of the jokers we’ve ever met. I trust her, and you know that’s high praise.”
“The highest, excluding the Pact.”
The Zombie upgraded his expression to a cheerful smile. “I admit, I like what she’s doing. No matter what, I’m seeing you out of this city, and extreme distractions will make that much, much easier. Malik is the only extreme option we really have.”
“Yes, but—ah, shh.” The Baron fell silent as a few cultists skirted past his table. Ten minutes were up, and the first New York deployments were packed up and finally leaving. They clumped together in groups of two or three, clutching street maps and scraps of paper with addresses typed on them.
All over New York City, similar deployments would be occurring. The Baron could only assume the greatest density would be across Manhattan and Brooklyn, near sites of public transportation, major streets, and various New York occult resources.
Tammany Hall would be especially well guarded.
Once the cultists were out of earshot, the Baron whispered quickly, “We shouldn’t wait around for Schuler to arrive. Oracle Clare doesn’t know he’s coming. We could go.”
“What do you mean, go?” the Zombie asked.
“I’m saying let’s officially surrender and ask for a ride to Tammany. We might get on the road ahead of the Diviner. Leave him behind. Keep the Cat away from him.”
“Why would that matter? He’ll just follow us to Tammany.”
“Our goal was to get Marco out safely, right?” The Baron kept parsing over the scattered cultists, hoping that nobody was actively listening in. “We’ve done that, and Maurice was willing to let him go without any questions because I’m still here. Now we need to buy time until Phyllis has our distraction ready. I don’t think we can avoid Schuler all day, but we can definitely avoid him for now, make a mess out of things. What do you think?”
The Zombie huffed. “What’s the point?”
“What do you mean?”
“We planned on seeing Tammany for a reason, right? Schuler included. We’re showing them that the Cat is in my hands. Grabbing their attention.”
“Right, but that’s my point. We already have their attention. They think we’re part of some secret war, and Marco and Phyllis are leaving scot-free. We don’t need the quick surrender after all. We can go to Tammany while hiding the Cat.”
The Zombie shook his head slightly. “There’s still value in going with Schuler, isn’t there?”
“I’m just trying to be adaptable.”
“Look, I’m loathe to admit this, but Schuler’s feelings matter.”
“They do—”
“If we skip out on him, he gets angry. We can’t afford to fight him if we’re going to reach Denisov before five. I say we take it easy. Wait for Phyllis to work.”
The Baron nodded once, ceding the point about Schuler. “Yes, we can’t afford to fight him, but we can delay his success, right? We can sit with New York for hours before they know anything is wrong. Schuler is the only way they’ll detect the Cat’s presence. We can hide it.”
“But why bother? He’ll catch up to us eventually.”
“You don’t know when information might make a difference. Imagine that CPUSA attacks someone across town, and they draw Schuler into a fight.”
“I’m imagining it. So what?”
“If that happened, the Cat could go undiscovered until Phyllis’s allies showed up to spring us.”
“Or until Malik shows,” the Zombie muttered.
“Exactly. So let’s surrender to the Oracle now. If Schuler catches up, nothing changes, and we’ll wait for the distraction. But if he doesn’t? We might escape without tipping our hand to Tweed. They might not even chase us.”
“Hmm. I guess.” The Zombie stood tall, looking at their surroundings. About half of the soldiers had filtered out. The streets would be especially dangerous this morning, now that the cults were bringing their armies to bear. A moment later, he squinted down at the Baron.
“What is it?” d’Holbach asked.
“I’m just thinking. If we sit around in New York custody, Heckhaus might think we’ve lost the Cat. He might come for us then, even if New York doesn’t know.”
The Baron winced, a sharp moment of recognition, then let out a pained sigh. “Right. Right.” He’d almost forgotten about the National Guard exercise. Heckhaus had a lot of secular firepower at hand. “Listen, I don’t think we can control Langley’s mood, but we should definitely try to keep off the radar until we make our move to reach Denisov. Don’t you think?
“I do… wait.” The Zombie smirked. “You want to stay away from Schuler and avoid upsetting Langley?”
“Yeah.”
“What if we just tried running for it? No Schuler, no capture from New York.”
The Baron blinked. “What? Run from here? There are soldiers.”
The Zombie glanced around; nobody was nearby. “No. After the surrender, on the road. When New York ships us to Tammany, we bail from the car.”
The Baron gasped in understanding—then sighed again. Sometimes, by thinking very hard, he could become the dumbest man in the room. He’d been so bent on social manipulation and political power dynamics that he’d missed the straight road to freedom. “Better to never step into a cage if you can remain free. Fine, you win. We’ll break out en route if possible.”
The Zombie grinned so hard that his face would hurt, if not for his invincibility. “Standard jailbreak, okay? Intimidation, threats, then opportunity.”
The Baron chuckled. “That’s hardly standard. Only works because I’ve got you.”
“And I’ve got this.” The Zombie slid a hand into a pants pocket and pulled out Marco’s little Swiss army knife, flashing it to the Baron before dropping it back into hiding. “Call us a ride. I’ll be ready.”
The Baron stood up and yelled to the crowd. “Can anyone take us to Tammany? High Oracle Gagliano won’t want to be kept waiting. We should probably go!”
“Hold your horses, Baron!” the Oracle shouted, looking up only briefly from his work.
d’Holbach walked over to Maurice’s podium and inserted himself into the small crowd of soldiers at its foot. “Maurice, please.”
The Oracle glanced up, flashing his irritation at the Baron. “What?”
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be. It’s not about commanding you around. We need to report to Tammany. Really.”
The Oracle huffed and pointed at a young, thin man with a suede jacket and a book bag slung over his shoulder. “Mason, you brought the car?”
“Yes, Oracle!” Mason said, casting his boss a quick salute. “Sure did, sure did. No problems, ready to go. Free to drive.” His voice carried a beatnik’s drawl, an affected laziness that was more style than inactivity, but it was double-speed. All things considered, he was acting especially chipper for someone awake before dawn.
The Oracle gestured towards the exit. “Pick a man with a Tommy and escort the Baron to Tammany. You can drop the soldier at his post when you make your next delivery.”
Mason saluted again. “That might be after dawn, sir. Late, you know?”
“If that happens, stay at the hall until we can give him new marching orders.”
“Yes, Oracle. Can do. Can do.” Mason had thin hair, thin eyes, thin skin traced with pale green veins. He swiveled around, looking for a soldier to accompany him.
It occurred to the Baron that this thin man was probably cramming down pep pills to work long hours. The amphetamines wore you down, or at least kept you up too long and moving too hard.
“I’m out back,” Mason said to the Baron. Then he walked away, calling out, “Decker! You’re with us!” A glance back to the Baron. “Follow, man, follow!”
A soldier with a Tommy responded to the call, falling into line behind Mason’s jittery footsteps. The Baron and Zombie trailed at the rear, and as a group, they crossed the temple towards the exit. On the way, the Baron evaluated the new threat in front of him.
This armed soldier, Decker, was typical of his kind, a country boy from upstate New York who’d fled the Adirondacks for the fields of France and Germany and had come back exhausted. Stubble peppered his cheeks, yellow teeth lurked beneath chapped lips, and shoulders sagged, as if he trudged beneath a permanent burden. Mason’s order didn’t mean much to him. It was all the same, whether he sat in some booth or rode shotgun back to headquarters.
The Baron had seen these cases in every great war, and they’d been given every diagnosis and treatment under the sun. The war had stolen a bit of their humanity, deprived them of the most basic comforts, and dulled them to pain and suffering until only fits of passion could revive them. The only consistent cure was time, and there hadn’t been enough time for this soldier. The Baron marked Decker as someone who’d have to be controlled in a fight.
The Zombie was scowling. He must’ve sensed the same risks. He’d probably aim to sit behind Decker, where he could strike easiest. Whether or not they could disable the soldier neatly would depend on their relative locations in the car.
Down the stairs, through the bookstore, out the front, and around the building. They reached a four-door sedan in the back alley. It was a pre-war model, heavy, creaking, and as dark blue as the ocean depths. The soldier opened the rear doors for the Baron and Zombie, and they sat down on cold, cracked leather seats.
The Baron sat on the left behind the thin man, Mason. The Zombie sat on the right behind the fatigued soldier, Decker. Doors shut, the car rumbled into life. Clutch, gears, and a touch of gas, and they rolled slowly through the side alley before emerging onto 8th Street.
Tammany Hall wasn’t far from here. In an objective sense, they’d have to act quickly, so the Baron launched immediately into the first step of the Zombie’s favorite jailbreak routine.
First, intimidation. “Do you know who I am?” the Baron asked. “Just curious.”
Mason glanced into the rearview mirror. “Yeah, you’re the Atheist, I know you. I’ve read about you in the lady’s book, yeah. You’re crazy, right, let a bunch of people die at Salem.” Amphetamines had clearly pushed Mason off-kilter. He was already talking too much.
“That’s right,” the Baron said. He wouldn’t have characterized the events of Salem as “letting” people die, but it wasn’t worth hashing out whose responsibility it was. People died when the Zombie fought on the Baron’s behalf, and that was that.
“I don’t know you.” Decker patted the stock on his Tommy in his lap. “But I think you’re gonna stay calm and quiet.” He cast a tired glance back at the Baron. “Ain’t that right?”
“Ignorance like that can get a man killed,” the Zombie said plainly.
Decker shifted in his seat to look behind himself, and a flicker of harsher emotion passed over his baggy face. “A Nip, talking about ignorance.”
“I’m not Japanese—”
“Shut it, Nip,” the soldier said, and he began to shift back, as if interrupting the Zombie had established dominance.
“Cool your jets,” warned Mason, casting a wide-eyed gaze at the soldier. “We don’t need fighting. Not with these two. Nuh-uh.”
“Whatever,” Decker muttered.
Second, make threats. The Zombie slipped the Swiss knife out of his pocket, thumbed open the blade and said, “You turn your back on me like I’m a civvie.”
“You are one,” Decker muttered.
“Ha! You aren’t stopping a scrap. You’re starting a row.”
“What?” the soldier asked gruffly. “I’m armed, Nip.”
The Zombie leaned forward in his seat. “Turn around or I’ll knife you, asshole.”
Decker lifted his Tommy off his lap.
“Just cool it!” Mason shouted, slamming both hands on the steering wheel.
The soldier lowered his weapon back to his lap, grimacing at the driver. “Will you calm down?”
Mason took one hand off the wheel long enough to slug Decker in the arm. “Fuck off, dippy! That’s the Zombie!”
“Stop shouting!”
“Look here!” the Zombie called. When the soldier glanced his way, the Zombie ran the edge of the blade across an eyeball, eliciting a quiet gag of disgust from Mason, who was watching in the mirror.
“That a circus trick?” Decker asked.
“Nah, man, he’s invincible, invincible!” Mason said urgently.
“What?”
“That’s the Salem killer, man!”
“Him?”
“You just saw it, man!”
“What—the eye thing?”
The Zombie interrupted their argument: “I’m very real, and very dangerous. Why is this even under discussion?”
“Just treat them well,” Mason insisted. “We’ll be all right, just… well.”
Decker grunted with frustration, keeping his focus on the driver. “You know, my brother wanted me to make a wish for my temper. That’s why he got me into this cult. He didn’t say those stories were real.”
Mason twitched his shoulder. “Well now you know!”
“I thought Apostasy was like the Bible or something.”
“Look again!” the Zombie cried, and when the soldier looked, he pushed the tip of the blade into his nostril and stretched his nose as far as it could go without bending the metal.
“God fucking damnit,” Decker cussed. “Will you stop being weird?”
The Zombie drew the knife down his face, slowly dragging the edge into the folds of his skin, tracing the grooves of his heavy sneer, his sharp display of killer intent.
“You should apologize,” the Baron said calmly. “He’s murdered men for less.”
“Yeah, whatever. Sorry,” the soldier muttered irritably. “I know the stories. Sorry.” He faced forward, as if avoiding the Zombie’s glare made it a little less real.
Now both driver and guard were off-kilter. The Baron only needed one more thing before the Zombie could spring them from this momentary prison—an opportunity. They were heading down 14th Street, and there were at least three stop lights between here and Tammany.
If one of those lights brought the vehicle to a stop, the Baron could safely bail. He hadn’t buckled up. The door wasn’t locked. It’d be little more than a second to freedom. He’d run while the Zombie disabled both threats and potentially the car itself.
The Baron checked his watch. Radium dials formed a vertical line, 6AM. There was a little street traffic right now, but very soon, the roads would fill up and the sidewalks would flow with pedestrians of every size and shape. Within the next few minutes, hiding in plain sight would become far, far easier.
They breezed through the first stop light, but it flipped from green to yellow at the last moment. The second light, further ahead, was still green, but it’d turn yellow soon, then red before they arrived. That’d be the spot. He lightly snapped his fingers at the Zombie.
His friend took notice. He switched grips on the little knife, made eye contact with the Baron, and then eyed the soldier in the seat ahead. It was a question.
“Where?” the Baron silently mouthed towards his feet.
The Zombie patted his right shoulder and arm. Disable the shooting arm.
The Baron shook his head. While it’d be advantageous if Decker couldn’t shoot, both New Yorkers were in the right state of mind to hesitate or even surrender. Being aggressive would trigger the soldier’s fight or flight response, and flight wasn’t an option.
With a subtle frown—barely visible in the pre-dawn gloom—the Zombie folded up the knife and returned it to his pocket. He didn’t like the Baron’s orders, but he understood that doing the right thing was often risky. Though the Baron walked beside a violent and evil man, they could work together to minimize the spread of unnecessary misery and pain.
The destination stoplight loomed, streaked out in the windshield glass. Twenty meters to a full stop, and Mason eased the brakes, slowing down. Headlights cut across the middle of their vision; a dark sedan was accelerating towards the intersection from the right.
“Speeding before sunrise,” Mason muttered, judging the other driver.
When the new car hit the intersection, it swung sharply left, locking its brakes. Tires shrieked against the pavement, and it fishtailed and slewed into their lane, turning to face them head on.
“Fuck me!” Mason yelled, slamming on his own brakes.
The onrushing car matched the motion, screeching to a halt in front of them. In their own headlights, they could see a windshield of sea-green glass, cracked from end to end from a gunshot. It was a CPUSA vehicle, battletorn from some earlier conflict.
The Zombie flipped out his knife.
Mason tried to shift into reverse but hit neutral and gunned the engine. Tires rolled forward slowly. Not a stable situation, but no time to wait.
“Go,” the Baron ordered, and he threw open the rear door.
“Where?” Decker started.
“Fuck ‘em!” Mason yelled.
The Baron jumped out of the car and into a full blown sprint towards the intersection.
Union Square Park was on the northeast corner, filling the entire block bordering Tammany Hall. Once upon a time, it’d been a common site for worker rallies and other public displays of the political machine. Here and now, it was two hundred yards of open plaza surrounding a claustrophobic grove of dense trees. In this stretch of open medians and broad intersections, there was no closer cover. The borders were all medium-rise office buildings and tenements, forming an unbroken brick-to-brick wall. It was either the woods or the open street.
The Zombie stepped out of the car with an open blade brandished.
Decker got out in front of him, immediately stepping up to control the situation.
The driver’s door opened on the CPUSA vehicle, and a man called out, “Baron, stop or die!” It was a voice with confidence, and one the Baron heeded immediately. He paused at the median, turning to face the voice, to recognize the dangerous man who’d found them.
This man normally wore an Anglican cassock; today, he wore black wool clothes and leather gloves. The eyes behind his lustrous copper frames were clear and steady. He didn’t smile. No cheerful cries rose from his throat. He was fully lucid and in control.
He also wasn’t visibly armed, and the Zombie was staring at him.
“Meister Schuler?” Decker called out. Even this barely-inducted cultist recognized the face of the most powerful man in their cult.
“Point your weapon at the Baron,” Schuler commanded. “Do not fire unless I have explicitly commanded it, or you will die.”
Decker turned nervously and sighted his Tommy over the top of the car.
The Zombie didn’t like that. He whipped his arm over the door and stabbed Decker in the arm like a viper’s strike to the tricep, in and out. Decker squealed, twisting around; the Zombie came around the rear door, caught the soldier’s face in his free hand and shoved his head back through the front door’s window. Safety glass splashed out of the frame, and the soldier slumped, terribly dazed, leaning against the open car door.
Mason was terrified. He threw open the driver door and flew for Union Square Park on wings of adrenaline and methamphetamine, leaving his vehicle in neutral gear. The sedan rolled forward, dropping the dazed soldier to hit the back of his head on the asphalt. Then the car ran up against Schuler’s parked vehicle, bumper to bumper, and stopped with a soft crackle of bent metal. Screaming like he was about to die, Mason had abandoned everything.
“Do you have a gun?” the Baron yelled to Schuler.
Schuler raised his left arm, and showed them a shoulder holster pulled far back, holding a black 1911. “I stole it this morning—with the car. Don’t make me use it.”
The Zombie seemed to hesitate, lowering his knife hand. Behind the door, he slowly turned the weapon over, settling the back of the blade against his palm. The point pressed against the base of his thumb. The blade was gripped tight between his fingers, with the handle out. The Baron could see it through the open car doors. It was a knife-throwing stance.
“I think we all understand the futility of resisting me?” Schuler called.
The Zombie raised and whipped his arm down faster than most men could react, but in perfect concert, Schuler calmly stepped to one side. The knife sailed down the street, barely passing by Schuler, and snapped when it struck pavement.
The Zombie didn’t hesitate or marvel at the dodge. If a Diviner could avoid an arrow by intuition of the human position, there was no hope of a thrown knife striking the target. His awareness of the environment was too absolute, fed into him directly from the gods.
That throw was about buying time for the real attack.
The Zombie charged the Diviner, sweeping in to punch him center of mass, an undodgeable blow from an invincible man. Trying to guard against the hit would only break Schuler’s bones. Yet the Diviner shied back while folding over the hit, grunting as the air burst from his lungs. For a moment, it looked like a solid blow—then Schuler rolled off to the right, immediately sucking in a breath and dancing back, light on his feet. One hit, no kill.
“Fucking slug!” the Zombie yelled.
“You know how this works!” the Diviner cried. “I hear the music of your miracle, and you can’t choose to change the tune. I won’t even throw you around, and I’ll still win!”
The Zombie raised his fists into a fighting stance. “You can’t shoot him without giving me an opening,” he said to the Diviner. “I’ll beat you down.”
“Strike me if you like. I’ll play harmony to your notes, mechanical man!” Schuler grinned. “Divine intervention can never kill me!”
The Baron was frozen with indecision. If he stayed, they lost, but if he turned to sprint, Schuler would absolutely harm him if not outright kill him, exactly as threatened. Of all creatures on this wide world, a skilled Diviner had the least to fear from the Zombie. Their past with Kaiser Abbas had proven this true. Abbas had taken hundreds of blows from the Zombie’s fists, and he’d always moved by intuition, forcing an exact method for the gods’ intervention. Against the Diviner, the Zombie’s invincibility would never produce a killing force. Every punch was soft.
This was hopeless, and he wasn’t even taking into account that the Zombie was an object, susceptible to prestige. Meister Schuler could launch the invincible man into a nearby office building like a catapulted stone.
The Zombie tried for a grab, fading right in order to back Schuler against the open driver’s side door of his car. Without looking, Schuler took an extra step left, jumped backwards onto the car, and rolled neatly over the hood of the vehicle. After coming to his feet on the far side of the vehicle, he bowed like an acrobat.
The Zombie gawked, then glared. If there’d been even a moment of hesitation, he could’ve nabbed Schuler and crushed him between his arms.
“I hear the whispers of the world,” Schuler said gleefully. “I heard the door behind me, saying no, no, I’m here, you can’t come through me.”
The Zombie cast a worried glance towards the Baron, then fixed his gaze back on his talkative foe. “I’m warning you, Schuler. Back off.”
The Diviner laughed. “I need no warnings, devils! I can hear you from a mile away. Even now, I hear the chant out of history, the Cat o’ Nine Lives. You were trying to go where I wasn’t, but I’m tuned in. You’re too loud on the bands. Despair, devils. Surrender!”
“Fuck yourself, asshole,” the Zombie said. He vaulted up onto the hood, a crunch of steel under his shoes.
“Going to jump?” Schuler mocked.
The Zombie charged across the vehicle.
Schuler didn’t even move to dodge. “Trip,” he said.
Something about the Zombie’s footing gave out. His left shoe came down on a frictionless stretch of car hood, and his foot flew out behind him, sending him forward into an awkward tumble off the vehicle.
“Slap!”
The air itself swept at the Zombie, batting him down to the Earth like a cat’s paw. The Baron could hear and feel the sudden gust of wind. The Zombie faceplanted into the asphalt, smashing it into gravel and forming the dent of a future pothole.
Schuler jumped, lifting his legs high.
The Zombie’s arm swept through the space where his feet had been.
Schuler took one step back as the Zombie flailed up at him, relentlessly kicking into the world to drive himself at his enemy, one foot crushing the wheel well, another jamming off asphalt, both arms reaching out to bend, maim, and strangle.
“Obstructed,” Schuler said, and using his right hand on the roof of the vehicle, he quietly vaulted over the struggling Zombie, just as the invincible man lunged across the ground. An instant later, the invincible man tore into the side of the vehicle with the ferocity and durability of a steel crocodile. Schuler landed on his feet in perfect silence, ignoring the vehicular violence, taking two light steps to clear some distance from the Zombie’s rage.
“Obstructed?” the Baron called.
Meister Schuler drew his 1911 and calmly aimed it at the Baron. He didn’t use the sight, but the Baron doubted a man who was that aware of his environment needed his eyes to aim. “Scales over his eyes,” Schuler answered kindly. “The gods understand what I mean. Now, surrender? Please?”
The Zombie rolled over on the ground, clawing at his face. There was a thin, opaque film over his eyes, fragile but concealing. It tore easily, and he blinked through fresh slits in the mask. “Fucker! What the fuck?”
“You aren’t a man,” Schuler said, keeping his focus on the Baron. “I may draw the world against you.”
“You’ll run out of prestige,” the Zombie said, pushing to his feet. “I’ll never stop.”
“After days, the struggle might exhaust me,” Schuler said, “but look! I measure your beloved Baron in seconds to surrender.” He wiggled his 1911 at d’Holbach. The barrel was a gaping hole that contained doom and destruction for nations and men alike. “Three, two—”
“We surrender!” the Baron shouted.
“Do we?” Schuler asked the Zombie.
The Zombie slammed his hands on the CPUSA car, banging in spans of the steel. One strike, two strikes, three strikes, four—
“Do we?” Schuler repeated loudly.
“We do,” the Zombie said, finally relenting on property destruction. His words were like a strong acid, sour enough to kill lesser men.
Schuler holstered the weapon and circled around the arrangement of the Baron and Zombie, coming towards the New York sedan that’d brought them to this battleground. The Diviner slid neatly over the hood of the car, and then peered through the passenger door, through the broken window at the soldier on the ground.
“Are we among the living?” Schuler asked.
“Yeah,” Decker croaked. He was sitting with his back to the thin running board, holding the stab wound closed with his left hand and blinking slowly. He was concussed after hitting the ground, and there was blood in his hair.
“Look at me, son.”
He looked up at Schuler. “Sir?”
“Do you want to keep working?” Schuler asked.
“Yes, sir,” Decker mumbled.
“Your head is healed. Your arm is healed. Mental problems, fixed for your loyalty.” He motioned the soldier to rise. “Get up. You’ll be driving the messenger’s car to the Tammany lot.”
Decker stood, taking a deep breath. “Thank you sir.” He touched the back of his head. “Still bloody though.”
Schuler laughed. “Take a shower later. Right now, work and feel better, son.”
“Yes, sir,” Decker agreed.
The Zombie walked over to meet the Baron while wiping his face down with his hands, seeking any scraps of the thin film that’d covered his eyes. “That was a new trick.”
“Yeah,” the Baron muttered, watching Schuler check through the New York vehicle.
“Think he invented it?” the Zombie asked.
“Oh yeah. That’s some fancy chemistry, pulling raw materials out of the air.”
The Zombie grunted. “I’ll bet you that the wish is expensive as hell.”
“At least you’ll know why you’re blind next time,” the Baron said.
“True enough.”
“Regardless, I don’t think we can beat him in the open. We’ve lost.”
“He knows we have the Cat too.”
“Yeah, I heard him.”
“Any plans then?”
The Baron breathed slowly, aiming to stay calm while thinking quickly. “We’ll go to Tammany and delay for as long as possible. Phyllis will make her move when she can. For all of Schuler’s posturing, I don’t think he’ll try to force you to hand over the Cat. New York would kill him for killing me in front of their leadership.”
Schuler approached but stopped a few feet away from them. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I must interrupt. Baron, you’ll ride with me. Zombie, you’ll run to the Hall entrance. Feel free to keep the Cat on hand, but do come. His life depends on your presence.”
“Are you threatening him?” the Zombie asked.
Schuler smiled. “I don’t have to. New York will be very unhappy, don’t you think?”
The Zombie closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to calm himself. “Where the hell is Enzu?” he asked. “He was supposed to be driving you.”
“I sent him on the first train back to the Hall.” Schuler started towards his stolen CPUSA vehicle. “There’s a war on. I found this, deployed on a city street!”
The soldier slammed the doors on the New York sedan and shifted into reverse, pulling away from the light fender bender. Only the CPUSA vehicle remained, with Schuler, the Baron, and the Zombie all arranged in the orange glow of the headlights.
Schuler pointed one finger across Union Park Square. “There’s your destination, Zombie. We’ll see you at the entrance.”
The Zombie gave the Baron one glance, then turned and sprinted for Tammany Hall.
“And then there was one,” Schuler said to the Baron. He opened the passenger door of his stolen vehicle and gestured to the seat within. “Please, have a seat. I’ll be your driver.”
Author’s Note:
We’re entering the third act of the book!
As always, thank you to the beta readers for helping with this chapter!
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