Clyde bounces like a rag doll. He spins and skitters. His mask flies off, spins across the floor.
The tall pale man whose body Clyde controls lies unconscious on the floor. I’d forgotten that face. Too oddly proportioned to be handsome, but a face you would remember. Delicately boned. Skin pale enough you feel you should see the bone beneath. No fat. No excess. Cheekbones and skin.
The eyes are open. They see nothing.
“Clyde!” I shout. I start running—to the body at first, but then I remember that’s not where Clyde is. That’s not who he is. I run to the mask, scoop it up.
For a terrible moment I think it’s going to be cracked, spilling circuitry and Clyde’s soul. But, thank God, it’s still in one piece. I scoop the mask up, head over to the body. I flip it roughly onto its back. Then, as carefully as I can, I slip the mask back over the head.
“Clyde?” I say. “Clyde?”
Nothing. The head lolls. And does he need time to re-establish control? To reboot?
“Clyde!” I say again, my voice rising.
“Shhh!” Aiko hisses. “He’s unconscious.”
And what is he doing? How long does rebooting take? Any time at all is too long right now.
So that’s our biggest gun down. Time to rely on the little ones.
“OK,” I say, suppressing the expletives that want to spill from me. “We need a good firing position. Somewhere—”
“Move!” Malcolm bellows.
Above us the universe grinds on its gears. A shimmering bubble of space engulfs one of the bookshelves.
A branch lances towards us.
The clearing’s exit is a low tunnel. I back into it, hands under Clyde’s shoulders, heaving. The clearing is disappearing fast, thick wooden walls closing off our exit.
Everything is dark and close. I’m scooting backwards on my arse, bumping up against someone’s heels, Clyde a dead weight behind me.
Another clearing. Malcolm shouting again. Another loose bwoom of sound. Another tunnel. Clyde’s feet bumping over roots and shattered floorboards.
“They’re going to crush us.” It’s Jasmine talking, her voice climbing the octaves. “There’s no way out. They’re closing the exits.”
And I’m not one for pessimism, but it is starting to look like I’ll be getting a closer look than I might want at how pâté is made.
“Quiet.” Malcolm’s voice is a low roll of thunder. “Need to work out where they are. They’re giving us a lot of cover.” There is a brief tense moment of silence. Then, “This way,” Malcolm rumbles.
We shuffle on. Everything’s quiet now. No more lightning cracks. No more… well, whatever the hell the other thing is.
We come to something that, relatively speaking, seems like a clearing. I wedge my way into the tangle of brambles, branches bending and cracking.
“Shhh,” Malcolm hisses. He’s lying on his belly, clutching a gun with a barrel long enough to suggest that he might be compensating for something.
I twist, trying to see what he’s looking at. We’re near the edge of the trees, I realize. Just a thin web of branches separates us from open space. A few yards of open floorboards, and then a doorway. A sign glows above it, letters bright and red: EXIT.
The woman is still there, her back to us. She’s bent over a desk studying something. A few bookshelves still stand between her and us. Malcolm holds the pistol in both hands, drawing a bead on the back of her head.
Shooting her while she’s so completely unaware will not exactly be a sporting move, but the other team is using magic so I think the rules of gentlemanly conduct have been cast pretty far away.
The whole world seems to narrow, seems to become the two points of focus. Malcolm. The Russian. I can see the sweat on his forehead. I can see the light of the LEDs around the woman’s wrist reflecting off the sheet of paper she holds up. I can see Malcolm bring his breathing under control. Slow and steady. One. Two. The Russian’s hair moves slightly as she changes the angle of her head. Three. Four. Malcolm’s finger starts to tense.
“No!” a voice howls. “Run! It’s a trap! A fucking great ginormous trap!”
A pile of books explodes out of one of the shelves. A leg concertinas out of the whirling mass. An arm. Winston.
Then the tall Russian stands up behind him, from where he was taking cover. Between bookshelves. Between us and the woman. Staring and smirking over Winston’s shoulder.
“What the f—” someone is yelling, but then the Russian’s arms bunch. Lightning flares off the ground. I dive backwards, half-dragging Clyde, half-falling. Aiko rolls through branches. Malcolm catapults forward, into Winston’s path. Jasmine pulls her guns, too late, too late.
The lightning hits the tall Russian. Winston flails his arms, still running. The Russian flings his arms forward. The air coalesces around them, becomes a ball of gel that slops forward and rolls through the air. Winston hits the tree line. I hit the floor.
The ball of gelatinous space hits Winston.
Bwoom.
Winston stops, staggers. He drops to his hands and knees.
He manages to raise his head, trembling all over. He looks through the trees, looks me right in the eye.
“Bugger, mate,” he says. “Balls and buggery-fuck.”