Old Bishop grunts and jerks, making the entire X-frame rattle. His right foot comes free. He plants his feet on the stone floor and twists his body, pulling hard on his right wrist. I see red-gray blood trickling down from where the shackle cuts into his withered flesh just before that shackle gives way.
My Bishop finds the jewel-button: his restraints pop open. His face sheened with sweat, he leaps off his coffin-table and slaps the jewel above my head, releasing me.
“Free the others,” he says, then launches himself toward his progenitor.
Old Bishop braces and heaves—the entire X-frame rips free from the stone floor. He bends at the waist and twists sharply: the heavy X slams into the oncoming younger boy, sending him tumbling.
I slide off the table and squat down at the foot of my coffin. O’Malley is gone, I don’t see him. The room is filling up with swirling musket smoke.
As my Bishop gets to his feet, his progenitor tears off the last. The two men rush at each other, slam together at full speed, punching and kicking.
A Springer is at my side, pulling me away from the fight. Its skin is a lush purple, but it is not Barkah. I don’t recognize this one. Three yellow eyes plead with me to move.
By the curved red wall, a Grownup I don’t recognize blasts a Springer with white light; even as that one cries out and is torn to pieces, two more Springers leap high and kick out, knocking the Grownup to the hard stone floor. I recognize one of them: Lahfah. Ceiling lights flash off his hatchet as he brings it up and whips it down, again and again, arcs of red-gray blood splashing across the floor and walls.
Musket smoke swirls, stings my eyes, burns my throat.
Three Springer guns roar almost at the same time, bangbangbang—on the platform two pedestals shatter, erupting in flames that wash over Dr. Smith. Her withered body ignites like a bonfire, flames shooting up to the curved ceiling.
Matilda isn’t on the platform….where is she?
The ceiling sparks…the fire catches, it spreads—the ceiling is not stone, but something else. This entire room is about to become a furnace.
The battle rages around me, Grownups fighting for their lives, Springers taking revenge for generations of slaughter.
I stumble to Gaston’s coffin-table. He’s still trapped, and coughing so violently he’s splattering spit on his mouth and chin. I press the jewel above his head—he’s off in an instant, dashing to the wall where Spingate is chained.
I free Borjigin. He rolls off his coffin-table, hits the ground hard. He pushes himself up, starts toward the sound of Coyotl’s screams.
I grab Borjigin, stop him, shout in his face.
“That’s not Coyotl. Your Coyotl is dead! Help me with Spingate!”
Wet-eyed Borjigin stares back at me for only a second. In that brief moment, I see despair in his soul. He wipes his eyes with his sleeve hard enough to turn the skin instantly red, then he nods.
“Stay low,” I say, and push him toward Gaston and Spingate.
The smoke was annoying before—now it’s dangerous, a thin cloud that roils across the ceiling in noxious curls. The Springer next to me coughs hard, wide cheeks puffing out.
Gaston and Spingate are pulling hard on the ring that holds her shackles to the wall, but the ring is anchored in stone and does not budge. Borjigin and I join them—even with all four of us, it makes no difference.
The Springer pulls his hatchet from his belt. He uses the butt end of the blade like a hammer, attacking the stone around the ring.
“Harder,” Gaston screams at him. “Hit that godsdamned bastard!”
The stone behind the ring splits. Gaston re-grips the ring, plants one foot against the wall, screams and leans away, using every muscle he has.
The ring rips free. Spingate grabs it, holds it—her wrists are still bound by the shackles attached to it, but now she can run. Gaston’s eyes dart everywhere, looking for a way out.
The pedestal platform is fully ablaze, tall flames angling off the ceiling. Sweat pours from my skin.
Through the smoke, I see a Springer by the bin racks, waving madly at me—it’s Barkah.
I push Gaston and Spingate toward him. “Go to that Springer, now. He will help you.”
Gaston makes no heroic comment about how he’ll stay and fight, because this fight doesn’t matter to him—all he cares about is getting Spingate out, getting their baby out. Coughing hard, he wraps his arm around her waist, guides her toward the racks.
I shove Borjigin after them. He’s not a fighter—all he can do is get in the way.
Smoke is everywhere. I can’t see friend or foe. Where is Bishop? And where is Matilda? I’m going to kill her, I’m going to end this.
I crouch down low. My new Springer friend crouches next to me, its eyes narrowed against the burning smoke. Blinking madly, it rises up slightly to look around—and is engulfed by white light.