“Jackie ! Goddammit, Jackie—”
A hand grabbed him and yanked him back. Through that infernal chiaroscuro he saw forms like great scorched insects staggering through the murk. Someone shoved him through smoking rubble, the heaped bricks of a fallen tenement. A video monitor opened onto the ocean’s calm blue eye, blinked into sparks and the stink of melting wires. Jack fell to his knees, gagging, was pulled to his feet and half-dragged, half-carried into a passage dense with smoke, walls radiating heat as though he stumbled through a furnace. He coughed, choking on poisonous fumes. Whoever had pulled him to safety was gone. There was only smoke and echoing screams, an airless passage funneling into darkness.
As though he had plunged from a cliff, that world fell away. Smoke faded into frigid air. The darkness broke into plumes of crimson and violet. Jack shivered uncontrollably and looked around, dazed, saw that he was outside, in the street. There were people everywhere, thousands of them, the roar of flames and myriad explosions; sirens, screams, shouted orders, and the hoot of bullhorns. He saw a line of blazing cars, and overhead a vast pinwheel of green and violet, smoke and flames roiled into its core. A figure shook him fiercely and began to push him through the crowd.
“Keep moving, Jackie, keep moving—”
He turned and saw Leonard Thrope.
“Leonard,” he choked. “What—”
“Shut up.” Leonard pulled Jack close, holding him so tightly it hurt. “Fuck, I hope they’re here…”
Leonard stopped, panting. His skin was dark with soot. His cheek had been ripped open; Jack could see a spur of bone beneath the blackened skin. Leonard turned his head, spit blood, and pointed down a side street. “They should be there. Come on—”
He began to run and Jack followed, gasping with pain. “Who?”
“My limo. I told them to wait for me—”
They ran to where the sidewalk ended in a vacant lot strewn with wrecked cars. On the other side of the lot a grey stretch limo was parked. A man stood by the driver’s door, his mouthless mask shoved onto his forehead as he punched frantically at a cellphone. Another figure crouched beside the passenger door, face buried in his hands.
“Leonard!” the first man shouted, as Leonard and Jack ran up. “What the—”
“They blew ’em up!” Leonard yelled. The figure on the ground looked up: a young man in an anorak, stringy blond hair falling to his shoulders. “What the fuck’d you think, Fayal? Here—”
Leonard flung the passenger door open and reached inside, pulled out camera bags, and tossed them into the street. He looked over his shoulder at his driver and pointed first at Jack, then at the young man. “Okay, listen, Fayal,” he commanded. “I want you to take them to Yonkers—”
“Yonkers! The fuck I’m going to—”
“Just fucking do it!” Leonard thrust his hand into his leather jacket and withdrew a wallet. “Here,” he said, shoving a wad of bills at Fayal. “That’s for you. You’ve done a great job, now you’re fired. Take the car, take it and go—it’s yours, go wherever you want! Just take them first—”
The chauffeur shoved the phone into his pocket. He stared at the cash, took it, and stuffed it into his coat. “Shit. Where in Yonkers?”
Leonard cocked his thumb at Jack. “He’ll give you directions. But go, now—”
He grabbed Jack by the shoulder and pushed him toward the car, then snapped something at the blond boy. The boy just sat there. Leonard dragged him to his feet. “Get in the fucking car! No—in the front, with Fayal. Now listen to me, Trip—”
Leonard pointed at Jack. “He’s bleeding. Find something to tie off his hand with, your sock or something, and then just sit tight till you get to Lazyland. There’s a doctor there who can help.”
“ Doctor?” the boy repeated. “What do you mean, a—”
Leonard pushed him roughly. “Just get in the fucking car, Trip.” Leonard turned to Jack. “Okay, now listen, Jackie.”
Leonard grasped his friend’s upper arm and guided him to the middle seat, pulled a soiled bandanna from his leather jacket, and gave it to Jack. “Wrap this around your wrist. Trip! For Christ’s sake, find something for his hand!” he shouted angrily, then perched on the seat beside Jack.
“Now listen, Jackie. You know Fayal. He’s going to take you to Lazyland, okay? He’s going to take you home. Emma’s there, she can help you. You’ll be okay, Jackie. You hear me?” He shook him gently. “You’re gonna be okay.”
“What about you?” Jack whispered. It hurt to talk. Jack’s tongue probed at his lips, the inside of his mouth, and found blisters, scorched skin. “Leonard? Where’re you going?”
Leonard’s hand remained on Jack’s shoulder. He turned to look back, to where buildings like molten gems blazed against a churning violet sky. Above them pulsed a mountain of light, so brilliant Leonard shielded his eyes.
The Pyramid was in flames. Very slowly, the structure’s apex bulged outward, like an ampoule giving way. With a deafening roar it burst into an enveloping cloud of black and scarlet.
“Holy shit,” breathed Fayal, ducking into the front seat.
“Right,” said Leonard. He reached out onto the sidewalk, pulled open one of his leather satchels. There was a videocam inside. He slid the strap over his head, clicked the camera on and off a few times, playing with the focus.
“Leonard?” Jack demanded. “Aren’t you coming with us?”
“Coming with you? What, to Lazyland?” With a grin Leonard turned the camera on Jack. Sirens wailed behind them; there was the clatter of gunfire. “No, Jackie.”
“But you have to, Leonard—you can’t stay here—”
Leonard whipped the camera from his face and began to laugh. “Are you kidding?” he yelled gleefully, sweeping his arm out to take in boiling sky, flames flickering across buildings, the rain of ash that had started to fall. “Leave? And miss all this? No can do, Jackie-boy! Not for anything on earth—”
He grabbed Jack’s hand. “Oh, Jackie—I have loved you, in my fashion. You know that, right?” Jack nodded. “Okay. So you go on back to Grandmother’s house, and I’ll hang out at this swinging party.”
Leonard stretched his legs out onto the sidewalk, chains jingling. As he turned to leave, Jack touched him on the arm.
“Leonard—” His blue eyes met Leonard’s manic gaze. “Will I—will I ever see you again?”
Leonard grinned. “Will you see me? Sure, Jackie—you’ll see me again, we’ll see everybody again, real soon.” He stood on the sidewalk, vidcam nestled within the folds of his leather jacket. Unexpectedly, he leaned down, his eyes filled with tears. He let one hand rest upon his friend’s cheek, and kissed Jack on the mouth. “I promise.”
Jack gazed up at him. For a fraction of a second he saw them both there, the man who had saved him and the boy he had loved a hundred years ago, standing in a rain of fiery ash.
But before he could say anything, Leonard danced back from the limo and closed the door. He tapped on the driver’s window and shouted, “Get him home, Fayal, got me? You take care of him, Trip! Do your fucking Christian duty, okay?”
In the front seat the blond boy nodded.
“Fucking idiot,” muttered Leonard Thrope.
Jack stared out his window as the limo’s engine thrummed to life. “See you in the funny papers, Jackie-boy!” Leonard yelled. With a whoop he drew the vidcam to his eye. From behind the limo’s darkened glass two white faces gazed at him, bright flecks trapped in the lens and almost indistinguishable from the fluttering ash falling everywhere. The cam’s motor hummed as the recorded image flickered on the tiny monitor, dusted with electronic snow.