Текст книги "Ganymede"

Автор книги: Cherie Priest

Соавторы: Cherie Priest
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

On the one hand, he managed an operation that peddled poison to willing takers. On the other, he’d done an admirable job of holding the underground together while leaving the doornails in peace. Therefore, complaining was kept to a superstitious minimum, as if Yaozu might change his mind or vanish, only to be replaced with someone worse if too much ill were spoken of him.

“Strange persons such as ourselves,” Cly recalled out loud.

He resolved to await the list with an open mind and an open pocket, and he approached the great vault door.

From the outside, it looked like the portal of an enormous bank – which it had been, once upon a time. The spinning lock jutted like the spokes of a wheel, and though the combination to this lock had been long-since lost or forgotten, it had been rigged to open to a different key. Now, when a visitor wished to come inside, all he had to do was pull a lever hidden beneath the panel. Unless the door had been barricaded from within, it would open with a tug.

Cly lifted the panel and pulled the lever with its rubber grip and rusting hinge. With a creak and a low moan, the heavy door swung out, and Cly descended the uneven steps down into Briar’s living quarters in a basement beneath a basement, two cool, secure stories deep underground.

Three

Night at the Café du Monde was illuminated with strings of hanging lanterns anchored to gas lamps on pillars; candles in jars made the small tables bright enough for beignets and coffee blended with chicory root. These small bubbles of light pocked the darkness and gave the impression of privacy in public, a place where people might be seen, but they might not be observed. It was never quiet, always bustling with the kitchen fryers and workers calling back and forth, taking and filling orders. The café always hummed with the noise from the river off to one side, and the street on the other – ships’ horns and paddle wheels, horse carts and singing, drunken partiers, the patrols and bickering of soldiers, and the music of a dozen bands playing for their supper within half as many blocks.

Josephine Early was careful to keep the lace from her gloves away from the candles, and the napkin in her lap was covered in powdered sugar – but not a drip of coffee. She was joined by Marylin Quantrill and Ruthie Doniker, both of whom nibbled and sipped along with her. Together they chatted about virtually nothing, and at length, until the four slowly sobering Texians at the table beside them finally rallied and staggered back to their barracks.

Marylin raised the white mug to her lips, blew at the steamy mists of the still-warm beverage, and said, “We aren’t meeting much luck at the airyard, ma’am. Lots of fellows are interested in us, but only for the usual reasons.”

“And we aren’t finding useful foreigners, either.” Ruthie, darker and by some accounts prettier, sighed and discreetly adjusted her bodice. She was thin as a waterbird, and twice as graceful. “Nothing but Rebels and Texians. And a very pretty Spaniard, but he wasn’t a pilot. Perhaps a new customer, though?” She lifted her mug and an eyebrow at the same time, and hid her smile behind her coffee.

“A new one for you?” Josephine asked. “Be careful, love.”

“A new one for me, maybe. He is very beautiful, and the Spanish … they are almost as easy as the French in these things.”

Marylin asked, “What about you, ma’am? Have you found anyone to fly for us?”

Josephine wrapped both hands around her drink, even though the night was almost hot and the beverage’s steam might’ve been too much for a woman who wasn’t accustomed to it. “I sent off a telegram to a man who might help us, if he’s willing to make the journey.”

“For you? I cannot imagine a man would say no,” Ruthie insisted.

“Hainey said no.”

“But he had, how would you say? Extenuating circumstances.” Ruthie’s French was stronger than her English, but she practiced at every opportunity, working to expand her vocabulary. She said extenuatingwith the accents in all the wrong places. She was a voracious reader who had seen the word spelled, but never heard it spoken.

Josephine corrected the pronunciation with context, rather than rebuke. “This other pilot comes with extenuating circumstances of his own. He’s terribly far away, for one thing. And for another, I suspect he does not wish to see me.”

“Why?” Marylin frowned.

“We haven’t spoken in many years.” That was all she offered. “It doesn’t matter. We need a pilot, and he’s a good one. If he’ll come, we’ll be lucky to have him. But it’s only been a few days, and the telegram had quite a distance to travel. I had to send it through Mr. Hainey, and wait for the message to reach the Washington Territory.”

“Washington?” Marylin gasped. “That’s practically the other side of the world!”

“Practically, yes. Realistically, it’s only two or three thousand miles.”

Ruthie’s eyes narrowed with cunning, and a hint of mirth. “He must have a very impressive ship.”

“Pirates usually dohave good equipment, and last I knew of him, that was how he earned his living. And I know you don’t like pirates,” she cut off Marylin before the protest could be mounted, “but we can trust Cly if we have to.”

To return to their previous conversation, Marylin asked, “Is he perfect?”

Josephine considered the question. “No, he isn’t perfect. He’s just about the biggest man you’ll ever lay eyes on – if he hadn’t gone into raiding, he could’ve had a career in a circus, easy as you please. He could’ve been the world’s most amazing strong man.”

Ruthie noted, “A very big man would not be good. The craft we need him to pilot … it was not made with a giant in mind.”

“No, but he’ll fit. He was always good at working around his size, and unless he’s collected sufficient money to custom-build his own ship, I expect he’s still flying in cramped quarters today.”

Marylin pondered aloud, suddenly sounding more optimistic. “You said he’s from Washington, ma’am. He’s not a Rebel or a Texian, but not a Yankee either – so the airyard will let him come and go, and that’s something.”

“Furthermore, Cly never cared about the war, and he’s friends with Hainey, so he isn’t in a rush to kidnap runaway negroes home to the Rebs, not even for the money they offer these days.”

After another sip, Ruthie said, “Good to know he’s not thatkind of pirate.”

“I wouldn’t employ thatkind of pirate. It’s a goddamn ridiculous thing, too,” the madam complained, picking at the edge of a beignet. “Except for Alabama and Mississippi, there’s no difference between free coloreds and the rest anymore. It’s nothing but spiteful, Georgia putting up bounties and insisting on their return.”

“But, ma’am, wasn’t Hainey one of the Macon Madmen?”

“Oh, even if Hainey weren’t a bona fide crook, they’d want him back regardless. Nothing but spite,” she repeated. “I just can’t abide it. Anyway, Captain Cly isn’t that sort.”

“I hope he decides soon. It’d take him a week just to get here, if he’s that far away – and if his ship is half as good as we could hope. And how much longer until you-know-who wants his report?” Ruthie meant Major Daniel Alcock, who intended to make a final decision on the Ganymedeproject within the next weeks.

“End of the month. I could probably beg a few extra days through the start of May, but I’d rather not have to. It’d look desperate.”

Softly, Marylin asked, “Ma’am, are we desperate yet?”

Josephine bought herself a few seconds by taking a bite of beignet and savoring its fluffy sweetness. She washed it down with coffee and replied, “No. Not yet. But if Cly doesn’t respond within the week, I’ll have to assume he isn’t coming – and thenwe’ll be desperate.”

She opened her mouth to add something, but closed it again when she spied two men walking toward the café. They were speaking in low tones, their heads too close together for either of them to be up to any good, and they both wore the brown cotton “summer” uniform of the Republic of Texas.

“Ma’am?”

“Don’t look now,” she murmured. “I mean it– don’t look.”

“Who is it?” Ruthie wanted to know. She lifted her mug and pretended to drink – while she only whispered from behind it.

Josephine did the same. “I’ll be damned if it’s not Colonel Betters and Lieutenant Cardiff.”

Not only were they two of the highest-ranking Texians stationed in the city, but Lieutenant Cardiff was one of the investigators leading the search for the Ganymede. It was an open secret. Any Union spy or sympathizer knew about Cardiff and his wheedling into the affair of the “missing” craft. His name had become a watchword for the guerrillas in the bayou and out at the lake. They knew he was looking, and knew he was coming.

For the time being, all they could do was hide from him.

The look on Marylin’s face said she was exerting superhuman willpower to keep from turning around. “What are they doing?” she asked.

“Conspiring.”

Ruthie said, “They are going the wrong direction, yes? Barracks are back the other way.”

“Hush.” Josephine lowered her eyes and leaned forward to touch Ruthie’s arm. She laughed lightly, and the other ladies joined in for the sake of show. Still wearing her pretend smile, she said in an ordinary voice – in case anyone should overhear them after all—“Perhaps you two had better run home without me. I have some business to attend to before I settle in for the night.”

“Ma’am, are you sure?”

“Oh, yes. Besides, we left Hazel in charge. She does all right when things are slow, but she’ll want your help if business picks up.”

Marylin and Ruthie understood, but they didn’t like it. Marylin fretted with her coffee mug and whispered, “But, ma’am, they’re headed—” She could only guess, since she was forbidden to turn and see for herself. But they weren’t coming toward her, so they must be walking away, in the other direction. “—down to the river, I think.”

“Then that’s where I’m going, too. Chins up, ladies.” She slipped her hand down to her left thigh and patted a bulge that no one could see. “Little Russia and I will be just fine.”

She rose from her seat and placed her half-empty mug on the table, then folded her napkin and put it beside her plate. Nodding coolly at her companions, she set out in the wake of the two Texian officers, who had now passed beyond her sight … but Marylin was right. Josephine knew where they were going. There was nowhere else to go, not if they’d taken that turn she’d seen – down the steps and away from the city lights.

Down to the river.

Josephine always made a point to wear quiet shoes. Even if she sported the most fashionable boots in the whole city, she’d glue wool felt to the bottoms and replace it as needed. It was a small precaution, but never had it served her quite so well as when she stepped along the damp-swollen stairs and along planked walkways that flanked the river’s banks between the piers.

Her dress rustled as a matter of course, but it was the sort of sound that was easily lost in the Quarter, beside the water most especially. The noise of her skirts blended seamlessly into the soft rushing of the Old Man as he worked his way to the Gulf. Her passage was masked by the calls and wings of night birds, and the dipping paddles of rum-runners coming in for the night, unwilling to crank the diesel engines on their small, flat crafts. It was lost in the sound of low, loose waves lapping up against pilings and the broad sides of the larger boats that were moored along the way.

She followed the Texians’ footsteps and the grumbling trail of their conversation – too distant to be heard with any clarity – down along the rickety wharves and alongside warehouses that no one examined too closely – not even the Republicans, unless they had strict orders to do so. And even then, only in the daytime.

This was a dangerous place, dangerous to any given group of men – armed and strong and unencumbered by corsetry or ankle-length skirts. No one knew this better than Josephine, and no one liked it less.

As the city glow was eaten by distance, and the banks, and the taller buildings that cast devious shadows thicker than ink, the only light to be seen bounced off the river in splintered fragments and skinny ribbons. It sparkled along the currents, cast by the lights on mercantile ships and riverboats chugging through the night, or sometimes by a quickly shuttered lantern or a smattering of torches left lit but fading at the edges of civilization.

This gray space between the city and the river … it was dying, and it was not a place to be visited frivolously. But not for fear of the rum-runners, smugglers, and other assorted criminal fiends. Even the worst of that motley lot shuddered and moved carefully along this borderland.

No, the banks were avoided for fear of something else.

Josephine wasn’t sure how long she’d been on the Texians’ trail, or how far she’d walked in silence. She must be coming up on Rue Canal soon; it must be there up ahead, over the nebulous edge where the city was so impossibly far away and out of reach. Even the music from the saloons, lounges, and gentlemen’s clubs was muffled here, or snuffed out altogether. Stray notes drifted in pairs and clusters, their tunes lost to the thick, wet air and the increasing distance.

Gradually, by carefully conducted shuffles and short, brave sprints, Josephine came near enough to catch their words. She could not see their faces, and for that matter, she could not tell them apart. She watched them in glimpses, around the side of a stack of crates stuffed with straw and heaven knew what else.

She shivered despite the warmth, pressing her back against the crates as firmly as she dared, as if she could will herself closer than the crates would allow. The stays of her corsetry jabbed into her hips, and her bosoms were thrust uncomfortably high as she compressed herself as tightly as her clothing would allow.

At first the conversation was idle office gossip, complaints about a stenographer, and then it moved on to concerns about money, troops, and supplies. Finally they both paused, like men who had been avoiding a topic and were now forced to confront it.

“I don’t like it out here, especially since I don’t know what we’re doing – so why don’t you help me out and tell me what’s going on?”

“I’m sorry to lead you so far out into the boonies, sir, but I have my reasons. I can’t trust the barracks, or the office on the Square. We’re being watched, sir,” the speaker announced. Josephine’s heart nearly stopped.

It calmed again when she heard, “Of courseyou’re being watched – we’re all of us being watched, all the goddamn time. It comes with the territory.” This man – Colonel Allastair Betters, Josephine gathered – made an impatient noise and crossed his arms. “Listen, son. I realize the locals are none too forthcoming, but you’ve gotto scare up some results. General Dwyer knows it’s out there. Shit, we allknow it’s out there, in the water someplace. I don’t understand why you’re having so much trouble getting your hands on it!”

“Sir, do you have any idea how much waterthey’ve got around here? That’s why I’m bringing you down here, because look – look at this old wharf. You can see, can’t you? Somebody’s been here recently, and moving something real big. And I think I know what it was.”

“I can’t see any indication of anything except mud, dust, and a few fornicating turtles.”

Seconds later, a brilliant flare lit up the wharf – so bright that it felt like an explosion, but it was only the striking of a lamp. Josephine turned away, deeper into the shadow, and hoped that she vanished. She also thanked her lucky stars she was wearing a dark blue dress, which, except for its cream trim, may as well have been black, so long as she stayed out of the light.

“Jesus Christ, my eyes!”

“Sorry, sir. But it’s important that you see this. They’re doing something, on these pilings – on this dock. Look at the boards, sir. They’re scraped up all to hell, and freshly so. You can see, it looks like a huge team of men has been stomping all over the place.”

Josephine dared another peek around the corner and saw the two men huddled over a long drag-mark that did in fact look very recent. A few of the weaker slats had splintered and now jutted up, making for a truly treacherous landscape, and others were merely scuffed clean of the mildew, rot, and the discoloration of a century.

“All right, all right,” said Colonel Betters. “I do see about a thousand footprints. It looks like a bunch of men have been running around, back and forth. What makes you think it’s tied to one of the Hunleys?”

“Sir, I think we’ve had it all wrong. I think they’ve already got it on the move – that they’ve unscuttled it, fixed it, and they’re sending it down the river.”

This was news to Josephine, insomuch as it wasn’t true – but she didn’t mind the investigator being so very wrong. The farther off-track he could be drawn, the better.

The colonel said, “Hm. I don’t know about that. This is a mess, but is it a mess that says a military watercraft has been man-hauled around? We know the scuttled Hunley holds nine men. Would something that big and heavy fit up here? Wouldn’t this whole wharf just come folding right down? Hell, Cardiff, this thing’s so fragile, I’m half-afraid to stand here and bounce on my toes after a steak supper.”

“Sir, you’re right. And no, I don’t think this set of matchsticks would hold a Hunley … not all in one piece. I think they’ve disassembled it. They’re moving it in parts. They’re sneaking it off, bit by bit, onto barges. Dozens of flat-bottoms go by every day. We could never search every craft that comes through the delta. It just isn’t possible; we don’t have the people. And these bayou boys, they’ve got friends in Barataria. They could buy help, if they needed it.”

From her spot behind the crates, Josephine considered their incorrect theory.

It wasn’t a half-bad idea, and just this once she was glad that her brother’s crew had been so slow moving the craft. If it’d gone any quicker, they might’ve disassembled it – and then what? Then the Texians would be on to them. Still, it was cold comfort.

The Union had said outright that they wouldn’t spare extra money on a recovery mission until it could be demonstrated that the Ganymede actually worked. And worked without killing anyone inside it.

To date, such a demonstration had not been achievable, not on any serious scale. The controls were a mystery to every sailor the guerrillas had brought aboard, and the bayou engineers had only just discovered how to rig up makeshift ventilation pumps. No one had died on board since the ventilation had been installed, so progress was being made. It just wasn’t progress enough.

Not yet.

Deep down, Josephine knew it was possible to move the Ganymede,and move it safely. She believed it with all her heart – she’d seen the elegant schematics left over from the Confederate Hunley’s last, best efforts before he’d drowned in an earlier prototype. She’d held the secret rolled-up blueprints in her hands and read all about the machine’s destructive capacity, as laid out by its now-dead creator.

And she was confident to the point of obsession that if the Ganymedecould be given to the Federal government, and reproduced, and brought into the war … then even Texas would back away, and at last the Rebs could be choked into surrender.

Much earlier in the war, the Anaconda Plan – an attempt to blockade the supplies to the whole southeast – had failed. But then, it’d been tried only with ordinary warships. Imagine how much more effective it could have been – and might be again! – if the blockade were undertaken with craft that swam below the water’s surface. Just consider the possibilities of such extraordinary machines, hidden and powerful, able to destroy ships from the Gulf or the Atlantic without having ever been seen.

It could end the war. Maybe the simple threatof it could do so. How much more could the Rebels really stand, anyway? Any idiot could see they were living on the cusp of what was sustainable; any fool could pick up a newspaper and understand in seconds that this couldn’t go on much longer.

Of course, everyone had been saying so for years.

“Tell me, then. What does this mean? How do we respond, in case you’re right?”

“First, I think we should clear out the bayous. Make a huge push – just wipe those bastards out of the wetlands for good. We’ll round up a few, twist some thumbs, and find out what they’ve done with the ship. Maybe if we’re lucky, they haven’t finished moving it off yet.”

After a pause, the colonel asked, “The damn thing failed, and failed again. Do you think the Union really wants it?”

“Mr. Hunley was a genius, sir, and so were the fellows who took up his work after he died. If the blues think they can start up that machine, they’ll pay for it, and pay top dollar. If they aren’t funding the operation already.”

“We may as well assume they are. Those swamp rats, they don’t have the money or resources to make such a stink on their own. Out there in the sopping wet middle of noplace, there’s not even anything worth stealing. Someone’skeeping them in guns and ammo.”

“Sir, I—”

“Wait. Hush.”

“Sir, what—?”

“ Hush,I said.” He dropped his voice so low that Josephine could scarcely make out the words. “Do you hear that?”

The lieutenant whispered back. “Hear what, sir?… Oh. I think…”

“What is it?”

“Sir, I’m sure it’s nothing.”

Josephine Early wasn’t sure. She heard it, too, very faintly – it was coming from the far side of the men, from below the wharf, nearer the water. Crouching down, she reached for the Schofield under her skirt and retrieved it from the heavy-duty garter where it had been fastened. She removed her gloves and stuffed them into her pocket, then grasped the gun carefully, readying it, adjusting her grip.

“It sounds like … like someone having a hard time breathing.”

“Yes, sir, something like that. Where’s it coming from?”

“There … no. Over there. Or maybe over there.” He indicated several directions, none of them certain.

The woman behind the crates closed her eyes, in case it’d help her listen harder. She concentrated and breathed as shallowly as she could – until the pounding of her heart was nearly as loud as the distant wheezing. Her hips and lower belly ached against her foundation undergarments from maintaining such a cramped posture, and her head was beginning to throb.

“Cardiff, I don’t like this.”

“Me either, sir. Maybe we should be on our way.”

The colonel wasn’t quick to move, but he wasquick to reach into the gun holster he wore hanging off his shoulders. Josephine couldn’t see what he carried, probably a Colt service revolver – something loud and high caliber, being a Texian and a man of authority. Very likely, it was the kind of gun that could take somebody’s head off in a pinch.

Against all reason, she was glad to see he had it. He was going to need it, but not to defend himself against any hidden Union spies like herself, crouching behind crates. She was sickeningly confident of that much. She knew it from the rushing sound of broken breaths being dragged in and out through rotted throats. She knew because the sound was coming from everywhere and nowhere at once, drawing closer, coming toward the lantern light on the dead-end wharf.

The lieutenant drew a handgun as well, more nervously than the colonel. He instinctively retreated until his back was nearly pressed against the commanding officer’s – and he held the lantern high, throwing the light as far as he could, hoping to get a glimpse of whatever was approaching from the darkness.

Josephine didn’t want to see it, but she needed to.

This had all been a terrible idea – on everyone’s part, and at least the colonel ought to have known better. Maybe he hadknown better, but he was cocky with his guns and his rank; maybe the lieutenant had been the ignorant one, seeing the place during the day when the sun had chased off the worst of the shadows.

If only they’d left the light off. If only they’d kept their voices down.

Every muscle in Josephine’s body was tighter than a violin string. She watched around the corner, crouched on one knee, gun held up at the ready, almost next to her face as if she were praying. She considered running, back out the way they’d come – but no, they’d see her, or hear her. They’d open fire, not knowing she wasn’t the most dangerous thing on the wharf, and not knowing she only meant to escape.

Besides.

She jerked her head away from the corner and listened.

Coming down the walkway, up from the river in staggering, shambling steps that didn’t keep time like an ordinary walker.…

Josephine retreated away from the crate’s edge, shrinking herself to the fullest extent possible, down at the bottom edge where the angle was sharpest and the shadow was deepest.

It wouldn’t help. They didn’t have to see her to know she was there.

The ragged, sickly gasps grew nearer. Josephine tried to sort them out – to determine how many were coming. She detected three on the far side of the Texians, who were sweating with fear; she was sure of two more, from farther back on the wharf; and one more … no, two more coming up the back way, cutting off the only obvious means of retreat.

“Sir, we should go!”

“Put out that light, you idiot.”

“We won’t be able to see!”

“What’d you walk me into, Cardiff?” The colonel’s voice was rising, not from panic, Josephine didn’t think. She’d give him credit there – he was holding steady, feet planted and firearm level. Texians were repugnant, problematic, occupying, Confederate-allied bastards down to the very last man … but she couldn’t accuse them of being cowards.

“Sir, we should be quiet—”

“Turn it out!” he ordered. “I’ve heard about what goes on here, I’ve heard what people say.”

“People say a lot of things, sir.”

Lieutenant Cardiff struggled to hold his gun and turn down the lamp without dropping it, a prospect that flooded the watching woman with horror. What a thought, burning alive or being eaten alive – a choice no one should have to make.

His voice quivering, the lieutenant said, “So many people have made reports. Word from Austin says they’re sending a specialist – some Ranger with an interest in strange … things.”

Josephine began to calculate how far she was from the wharf, and if she could run past the men without them shooting her, and if she could swim in what she was wearing – if she made it over the side of the walkway and into the Mississippi where there were snakes, to be sure; and alligators, maybe; and bad men up to bad things, but none of it was as awful as what was coming.

“Sir, there are stories,” the lieutenant gulped. “But they’re only stories—goddamn locals, they think we ought to be afraid.”

“Goddamn locals aren’t always out to snow you, son. I don’t know about you, but I’m plentyafraid right now.”

Out of the darkness, up the walk that led to the wharf, something rose out from the murky night. It moved more slowly than a person should, and its posture suggested that something was broken, deep inside. When it stepped, it stepped unevenly, and with effort. Harder and faster the loud, harsh breathing came; for when it spied the Texians – or possibly Josephine, who was nearer to the thing and in its direct line of sight – its efforts rose. It let out a loud, hard cry, a noise that shredded the wharf and summoned more of its kind.

Faster it approached, one foot in front of the other, gracelessly, but with a purpose. Now it saw fresh meat and loped ever faster toward it – toward Josephine, who held out her gun but held her fire.

If she squeezed the trigger, the Texians would know she’d been there hiding, listening. If the hideous man-shaped thing reached her, it wouldn’t make a difference anyway – she’d be dead or worse by dawn. She held off as long as she could, waiting until the last moment … until the feeble moonlight sparked off the thing’s wet mouth and she could’ve almost counted its teeth.

One shot, two shots – both of them blasted like cannon fire in such a close space.

But not from Josephine’s gun.

The Texians had seen the incoming monster just in time, and it was their fire that took the thing down, and took it to pieces. Its head split in two, and the top half landed at Josephine’s feet. Its quivering torso went left, right, and toppled backwards to lie still upon the wharf’s edge.

She clapped a hand over her mouth and fought for composure.

Another one was coming. She wouldn’t be so fortunate twice in a row. She lifted the gun again and waited. The sloughing scrape of dead feet, the horrible rhythm of dead lungs.

More of them, incoming.

The first brute had only located and declared the prey. The rest would come in for the kill.

“Dear God!” the colonel barked. He opened fire again, two more shots that exploded and left the madam’s ears humming. The bullets landed with squishy thumps, the sound of arrows hitting melons, but Josephine didn’t dare take her eyes off the path from whence she’d come – not unless she wanted the creatures to come groaning up behind her. She braced her back against the crates and locked her elbows, holding the gun out and facing the wood plank path.

The colonel demanded, “What are they?” and now his voice was cracking, losing the battle-hardened calm that had served him well so far. “What are those things?”

“They aren’t real; they aren’t real. This isn’t real,” the lieutenant babbled.

A shot went wild and clipped the edge of the crate, casting splinters into Josephine’s hair and up against her face – where one left a brief, hot sting.

“It isn’t true!” Cardiff was shouting now, and firing again; she was almost certain the wilder shots were his. Another one, two, three blasts.

How many guns did the men have between them? How many shots?

Josephine cursed herself for not observing them better. She should’ve noticed, should’ve counted. Nothing to be done for it now.

“Pull yourself together, man!” the colonel ordered. Two more shots landed in something dense and wet. Then he tried a different tactic, addressing the incoming creatures directly. “Who are you? What do you want?” But it was a desperate, foolish thing, and the officer sensed it immediately.