Eve looked down at her bloody right hand.
Up into Ezekiel’s eyes.
“That’s the whole point,” she whispered.
The lifelikes opened fire, Ezekiel shooting back, crying out as a shell struck his shoulder, another his thigh. Verity fell with a bullet in her gut, Patience and Faith charging toward him. His speed was superhuman, his mind a machine. But they were just as fast, just as fearsome, and he knew how this had to end. He called out to Eve one last time, looking at that face he knew as well as his own.
Searching her eyes for the girl he loved.
A glimmer?
A spark?
He turned and ran, out through the hatches, barreling up the stairs. The Preacher leaned backward, muzzle flashes lighting the dark as he fired until his clip ran dry. Too busy running to shoot, Ezekiel tossed his pistol over his shoulder and the bounty hunter snatched it from the air, continued firing without missing a beat.
“Well, this is less than entertainin’!” the Preacher roared over the gunfire.
Ezekiel charged out into the foyer, almost slipping on the bloody floor. Through the window, he could see the street beyond was deserted, no help, no escape. Cursing, he reached backward, and with superhuman strength, ripped the bandolier off the Preacher’s coat. He tugged hard on the wire for his insurance policy, rewarded with sharp metallic pings as the pins in the grenades popped free.
Patience burst from the stairwell, teeth bared. And with a soft plea for forgiveness, he slung the bandolier at his sister’s chest.
The explosion bloomed bright, shattering Patience like glass. Fire and smoke, a deafening boom, Ezekiel not even pausing to watch her fall. Faith emerged from the smoke with a scream, bullets whizzing past his head as Uriel emerged close behind. The windows ahead of him splintered in the spray of gunfire, Ezekiel shielding his eyes as he leapt through it, the glass blasting outward in a glittering hail.
Empty street. No time to hot-wire an auto. Weight on his shoulders, bullet in his leg. No way to outrun them. Nowhere to run, anyway.
“You planning on flyin’ on out of here?” the Preacher hollered.
Fly…
Ezekiel broke left, dashing toward the ragged cliff edge, the drop down into Plastic Alley. Feet pounding the broken concrete. Gasping as another bullet struck his arm. Blood on his skin. Sweat in his eyes. The drop looming before them.
“Um, Snowflake?” the Preacher growled.
Ten meters away now. Howling wind and a weightless fall and a swamp of plastic sludge a long, long way below.
Lungs burning.
Five meters.
Wounds screaming.
Three.
Bullets whizzing past his head.
One.
“Snowflaaaaake!” the Preacher roared.
Flight.
The sky burned dark red as it fell toward sunset. Lemon was seated on a rocky outcrop, scoffing a slice of…well, she couldn’t remember what it was called, but it was sweet and sticky and about the most delicious thing she’d ever chowed down on in her life. It was the fourth piece of genuine fruit she’d ever eaten, in fact. The first three were already sitting comfortably in her stomach.
She’d managed to catch a few hours’ sleep, decided it was too hot to bail until night fell. Her mind was awash with the things she’d read during the day—the concepts of genetic mutation, natural selection, evolution. Looking around her, she could see the truth of it. She’d lived every day of her life in a world where only the strong survived.
She just never imagined she might be one of them.
Homo superior.
Lemon heard footsteps, coming close. She looked up to see the big boy, Fix, walking across the dirt in bulky camo pants and a T-shirt that was on the nice side of tight. Those wonderful green eyes of his were covered by his goggles, and he was carrying an assault rifle almost as big as she was. He stopped in front of her, patted his perfect quiff to make sure all was in place. She wasn’t sure how he made it stand up like that. Some kind of industrial glue, maybe.
“Major wants to see y’all,” he said.
“What for?” she asked.
“I look like a personal assistant to you, Shorty? Whyn’t you come along and find out? And what the funk you doin’ out here, anyways? Can’t just sit around in the open during wartime.”
“Um, nobody told me that.”
“Well, I’m tellin’ you now. Let’s funkin’ move.”
The big boy hefted his rifle, waiting expectantly. Lemon sighed and climbed down off her rock, rubbing her sticky hands against her uniform pants. She followed Fix across the sand, stomping back down into Miss O’s.
“How long have you lived here?” she asked as they descended the stairs.
“Goin’ on about four years now,” Fix replied.
“Grimm said you rescued the Major from a wreck?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he nodded. “I was the first of us he recruited to the fight. Diesel joined us about a year later. Then Grimm after that.”
“So he’s only found three of you in all that time?”
“Wellll, he’s found a couple more. Problem is, funkin’ Brotherhood tend to find ’em first. There ain’t many of us to begin with. And most freaks don’t get the gift like us. They just get birthed with six fingers or an extra nostril or some such.”
“And the Brotherhood nail them up anyway.”
He glanced over his shoulder, quirked his eyebrow. “Only the strong survive, Shorty. Be grateful you got what you got.”
They reached the entry level, and Lemon looked the big boy up and down. Fix was gruff, tough, scary big. But she remembered how gently he’d cradled Diesel in the garden downstairs, the relief in his eyes when she’d opened hers. He was named for what he did—fix things, not destroy them—and that struck her as a pretty fizzy talent to be known for. Besides, nobody who spent as much effort on his hair as this kid did could be pure evil. Where would he find the time?
“Hey, did you really grow all those plants downstairs?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” he nodded, unlocking the main hatch.
“They’re amazing.”
Fix’s lips curled in a small, handsome smile. “Well, Shorty, if you’re trying to worm your way into my affections with flattery, that’s a good start.”
Lemon smiled back, followed the boy into the common room. Grimm had told her the “freak” crew operated mostly at night, and she found Diesel sitting on the couch, chowing down on some vacuum-packed breakfast.