Lamla ordered three low men and one of the vamps forward, put two on each side, and talked to them rapidly in another language. Flaherty gathered that a couple of them had already been down here and, like Lam, remembered about where the projectors lay hidden in the walls.
Meanwhile, Flaherty’s dragon — or, more properly speaking, his
At last — although it seemed a very long time to Flaherty, it was probably less than thirty seconds — the sharpshooters began to fire. Almost immediately both forest and dragon paled before Flaherty’s eyes, turned into something that looked like overexposed movie footage.
Encouraged, the sharpshooters began firing faster, and a few moments later the clearing and the frozen dragon both disappeared. Where they had been was only more tiled hallway, with the tracks of those who had recently passed this way marking the dust. On either side were the shattered projector portals.
“All right!” Flaherty yelled after giving Lamla an approving nod. “Now we’re going after the kid, and we’re going to double-time it, and we’re going to catch him, and we’re going to bring him back with his head on a stick! Are you with me?”
They roared savage agreement, none louder than Lamla, whose eyes glowed the same baleful yellow-orange as the dragon’s breath.
“Good, then!” Flaherty set off, roaring a tune any Marine drill-corps would have recognized:
They called it in return, and Flaherty picked up the pace yet a little more.
Eleven
Jake heard them coming again, come-come-commala. Heard them promising to eat his balls and drink his blood.
No.
Roland had taught him that self-deception was nothing but pride in disguise, an indulgence to be denied. Jake had done his best to heed this advice, and as a result admitted that “being tired” no longer described his situation. The stitch in his side had grown fangs that had sunk deep into his armpit. He knew he had gained on his pursuers; he also knew from the shouted cadence-chant that they were making up the distance they’d lost. Soon they would be shooting at him and Oy again, and while men didn’t shoot for shit while they were running, someone could always get lucky.
Now he saw something up ahead, blocking the corridor. A door. As he approached it, Jake allowed himself to wonder what he’d do if Susannah wasn’t on the other side. Or if she was there but didn’t know how to help him.
Well, he and Oy would make a stand, that was all. No cover, no way to reenact Thermopylae Pass this time, but he’d throw plates and take heads until they brought him down.
If he needed to, that was.
Maybe he would not.
Jake pounded toward the door, his breath now hot in his throat — close to burning — and thought,
Oy got there first. He put his front paws on the ghostwood and looked up as if reading the words stamped into the door and the message flashing below them. Then he looked back at Jake, who came panting up with one hand pressed against his armpit and the remaining Orizas clanging loudly back and forth in their bag.
He tried the doorknob, but that was only a formality. When the chilly metal refused to turn in his grip, he didn’t bother trying again but hammered the heels of both hands against the wood, instead. “Susannah!” he shouted. “If you’re there, let me in!”