Skidding to a halt, I grabbed for the Bible and the helmet. I stopped to turn around, and looked up into the bright light. A helicopter hung in the air directly overhead. It would be impossible for a sniper to miss.
A shadow, like a soap bubble film, appeared between the helicopter and me. Then, the spotlight blew out with a deafening crash. "What the hell are you standing there for, girl?" Rebeckah's disembodied voice shouted. "Run!"
As with all of Rebeckah's commands, I followed it without a second thought. Footsteps echoed behind, following me to the shelter of the doorway where Daniel slumped against the archway.
Kneeling beside him, I said, "Hang on. We're going to get you out of here."
The intercom crackled as Rebeckah sent out the fallback order to the Malachim. To me, she said, "I'm going to stay and make sure everyone gets out. Get him to safety."
Daniel's face looked ashen. Covered in sticky blood, his hands trembled where he grasped at his wound. There was a thin whistle in his breath and a wet, sucking sound in his chest. I looked up to where I imagined Rebeckah was standing and shook my head. He's not going to make it, I tried to say. Instead, what came out was, "I can't carry him alone."
"Did you get the Bible?" Daniel's cold hand covered mine imploringly.
Tipping the helmet so he could see the Bible nestled inside, I nodded. "It's safe."
"Do you think they'll let me in?" His voice was a whisper.
For a moment I didn't understand what he was talking about. "Heaven?" I pulled out a courageous smile. "Nah, Danny, Saint Peter will stop you at the front gate. I keep telling you: God is a Catholic. You Protestants have got it all wrong."
"We'll see." He smiled,
"Not soon, I hope," I whispered. I looked at the entrance, toward Rebeckah, then down the stairway. Maybe I could carry him out, I thought, if Rebeckah or another Malachim helped. As I glanced back and forth, my gaze strayed past Daniel. Daniel met my eyes and held them. The look he gave me told me he knew; he knew he was dying. "Oh, Danny."
The air shook as one of the helicopters slammed into center field. A fireball illuminated the stadium. I threw myself protectively over Daniel's helpless form. When the debris settled, I still held him close.
"That night -" Daniel's words came out through great effort, close to my ear. "– I wanted to say I was sorry ... really, sorry. Why me? Who had to gain from the Pope's murder?"
I shook my head. I'd asked myself those questions a thousand times over the last year. I had partial answers only – nothing I could give Daniel. "I don't know."
"You remember ... that night?"
^Of course."
"What if ... what if ... that Jordan data ... tripped someone's alarm?"
Daniel had gotten that phone call from the "big guy" right in the middle of searching those files "A trigger. Of course," I said. "That's the connection Danny. Whoever stole that tech for Letourneau had a trigger planted as self defense. You stumbled onto it, and it possessed you. Maybe the same thing has been happening to the Malachim."
"Malachim ... Angels," Daniel's voice broke my excited ramblings. I looked down into his eyes; they no longer focused. Like his gaze, his mind wandered. "Surrounded by angels."
"Oh, Danny." I tugged on his trench-coat collar lovingly, as if to beg him not to go. "I want you to know: I believe you; it wasn't your fault. None of it."
"Hmmmm," he said, and I prayed to God that he heard me, because the next thing that came from his mouth was a dry, unearthly rattle.
Still rhythmically smoothing the collar of Daniel's coat, I shut my eyes and bowed my head. It wasn't right; I'd just gotten him back. He couldn't be gone.
"Danny?" I whispered, even though I could smell the loosening of his bowels. "Danny?"
I opened my eyes, only to see death's touch relax and blur the features of the face I knew so well. It wasn't fair, I fumed silently, as tears rolled down my cheeks.
But, like so many things I tried to deny over the last few days, my protests failed to change the truth: Daniel was dead. With a trembling hand, I closed his eyes.
Police lights flashed against the wall of the stadium, red and white. The glare reflected by the glass hurt my tear-tired eyes. Footsteps echoed in the stairway. The police would be approaching soon, now that the Malachim had retreated. Touching Daniel's chest, I whispered, "I have to go."
I pulled on my helmet and tucked the Bible under my arm. As I stood up to leave, I took one last look at where Daniel lay. He slumped against the wall like a sleeping drunk. His ill-fitting prison trousers and ratty trench coat only added to the illusion. Such an ignoble death for such a brave heart, I thought, as I headed down the stairs. "Maybe I was wrong," I whispered. "Maybe Saint Peter will let you in, after all."
I burst into the open air. The parking lot appeared deserted, except for a lone, crystalline streetlamp. I felt horribly exposed; I could hear the distant whir of a helicopter's blades. The muscles of my back itched with the expectation of a flechette sting. I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and ignored the rest. My vision focused on the alleyway in front of me, and I headed for the relative safety of the glass buildings.
Adrenaline propelled me deeper and deeper into the glass city. At random intervals I turned corners, hoping to shake any possible pursuers. The pads of the armored boots made a sucking sound as I ran, the soles automatically adjusting to give extra traction on the slippery glass surface.
Rebeckah had instructed us to regroup at Jerome Avenue near what was once Highway 87. From there, the survivors would make their way back to a new Malachim headquarters. Though the original HQ had not been compromised that she knew of, Rebeckah was unwilling to take the risk of leading someone there. Given the ease with which the police had located me, I had to agree with her logic. However, that meant if I didn't make the rendezvous, I'd never find them.
The moonlight threw brittle shadows at my feet that mocked my sense of direction. I looked around for street names or landmarks, but I didn't recognize any of them. I was lost.
This place was a ghetto of radiation for the Gorgons; most humans, even the police, stayed out. Thus, I wouldn't know a landmark if one hit me in the face. Even the shapes of the buildings seemed strange and squat to me. The Bronx was a city from another lifetime, preserved forever in glass.
I'd slipped on the helmet before entering the city, wanting protection from any surface radiation. My breath came in ragged spurts and my side ached. Daniel's Bible felt heavy in my hand. The deserted emptiness of the glassy streets was eerie. I missed the usually pervasive hum of traffic. Leaning against the hulk of a glittering taxicab, I gulped the night air. Though my hair itched horribly under the helmet, I didn't dare take it off, as that would disable the radiation armor.
The squatness of the Bronx disturbed me. Unlike Manhattan, moonlight fell easily to the streets here, unobstructed by traffic tubes and mile-high buildings. Tubing became popular after the war, as a solution to the continuing problem of the city's expansion, and the borough seemed foreign with only one level for all modes of traffic. Next to a Chevy decades older than mine, a glass-covered bicycle rested against a lamppost, secured for all eternity with a glittering, icy chain.
I began to realize that I was very, very lost. I couldn't even LINK into a global locating system, since I was afraid that I'd tip off the police. At the sound of a howling yell, I dropped to my knees. Peering over the hood of the cab, I searched for the source of the yelp. I heard nothing over the short, raggedhuffs of my breath, which were amplified in the helmet. The street remained quiet and empty. Glass brownstones glinted dully with reflected starlight. I waited.