And the ground beneath me gave way, the sidewalk crashing in as I fell beneath the street.
Something snatched me out of midair, and I was moving, moving like someone had me on their back. I didn’t even feel like I’d lost consciousness, just that somehow the sidewalk and snow had dropped from beneath me, and then I was being hoofed through tunnels. An explosion went off where the light had been streaming through into the darkness of this sewer, and the pressure felt like a hard shove.
The person who carried me did not even stumble, sure-footed as he rounded a corner and kept moving at a hard run. “So,” came the voice of Harry Graves in the darkness, “that could have gone better, but not much. You did well.”
“Harry? I … just got my ass kicked,” I said to him, feeling oddly reassured that he had kept his word.
He’d found me, like he said. Just when I needed him most he’d … uh … jackhammered through the concrete beneath me, pulled me out as it fell, and then dynamited the tunnel entrance behind us to cut off my adversary’s ability to follow us.
Damn.
“Damn,” I said, because it just came out.
“I know, I know, I’m amazing,” Harry said, huffing lightly as he rounded another corner. “I’ll have you out of here in five.”
That was exactly what I’d been thinking. Safe on the back of Harry Graves, I felt myself lulled by his movement, my body traumatized beyond the ability to function. I let my neck loll, swayed as he ran, and just gave myself over to the darkness I’d been fighting since the man on fire had burned me, and off I went, into waiting sleep, my fight now finished.
34.
I sprang awake in a dark room, cognizant, dimly, of the fact that this was the second time I’d been beaten into near unconsciousness in the last day or so. The thought crept in as I found myself wondering, once more, where the hell I was.
“Hey,” a soft voice said, and a lamp snapped on. I stared into the face of Harry Graves, and my frenzied breathing, loud and gasping, started to subside.
“Harry,” I said, my near-panic at the memory of how I’d most recently gotten my ass beat starting to fade. I looked around; we seemed to be in a fully-furnished house, though one with extremely faded décor. “Where … are we?”
“Oh, I just looked around for an uninhabited house and checked ahead to make sure we wouldn’t get caught,” he said. “So long as we’re out of here by next week, we won’t run afoul of the owners.”
“You’re into burglary now?” I asked, looking around. There was a collage photo of a married couple on the wall in black and white, and the grandma-style throw pillows arrayed on the bed next to me and on the floor next to Harry’s chair, plainly discarded, told me a lot about this house’s occupants.
“I’ve always been into burglary,” he said, smiling. “It’s like an Airbnb that they didn’t sign up for. And I always try and leave the place better than I left it.”
I shook my head. “Between your breaking and entering, Eilish’s unrepentant shoplifting, and Cassidy’s cyberterrorism … I’ve fallen pretty far.” I plopped back into the plush pillow. It even smelled like I’d imagined a grandma pillow would smell.
“You want to talk about it?” he asked as I buried my face in the pillow.
“I got my ass kicked, Harry,” I said, opening an eye and staring into the white cloth, made yellow by the lamp glow. “What else is there to say besides the obvious?”
“What’s the obvious?”
I sat up and looked at him. “It’s so patronizing when you do that.”
He started to say something—I was pretty sure it was going to be another question that he already knew the answer to, but he stopped. “I told you … it’s kinda rude if I just finish your conversation for you. Then you don’t learn anything.”
“I don’t need to learn anything else right now,” I said, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. My clothing was scorched, blackened, really, but still nominally functional, like rags held together by frayed knots. Cover myself up in a blanket and I’d be more or less fine. “I think I’ve learned enough today, attending the school of hard knocks.”
“You almost beat him, you know.” He was looking at me … beseechingly? A hint of pleading present in his eyes and tone.
I reached behind me, trying to figure out what the lump at my back was that was annoying the crap out of me. I pulled out a carbon-scored Walther PPK and stared at it before putting it back in my waistband. It wasn’t damaged, at least not badly enough to have set off the ammo or melted the barrel, and given how crappy I was doing these days for defending myself, I might just need it before long.
It was the weapon I’d killed the most powerful person in the world with, after all. Albeit with an assist from Greg Vansen.
“Everybody knows, don’t they?” I asked, staring down at my empty hand. Yeah. I’d need the PPK, sooner or later, since I couldn’t throw flame, shoot light webs, fly away, assault minds, read thoughts, or turn into a dragon anymore.
“Yes,” Harry said, thankfully not bothering to play dumb and ask for clarification like, “Knows what?” Instead, he said, “The news caught the whole fight. Commentators assumed, of course … Everyone’s wondering how it happened. Cable airwaves are filled with the speculation, but to my knowledge, no one’s even close on the how.”
“How could they?” I asked, staring at my empty palm, pale white and powerless. “I’m still a villain to them. I’m sure they’re wondering how I got my comeuppance. Whoever breaks that story is going to get beaucoup ratings.”
Harry sat there in silence for a moment before answering. “There’s nothing I can say here that’s going to make an ounce of difference to you right now.”
“You got that right.”
“There’s a bar down the street,” he said instead, rising a little stiffly. “There’s a few, actually—we’re in St. Paul—but if you go to any of them but the one named Pete’s, you’re going to get recognized, and the cops will show up before you even get down one glass.”
“We wouldn’t want that, would we,” I said sardonically. “Because I doubt I could fight them off, and I damned sure can’t flight them off anymore.” I stood and started to brush past him.
He caught my arm, and I almost fought him, but he only held me for a second. “It’s not over,” he said, looking me right in the eye.
“It’s over,” I said. “I can’t beat him. I can’t beat the Terminator. I’m not what I once was.” He let my arm go. “I used to be the most powerful metahuman in the world, Harry. And look at me now.” My voice was hoarse, a whisper. “You said it just now, without me even asking—”
“Because I knew what you were going to ask before you even—”
“All I want to do is get a drink,” I said, looking up at him and feeling the burning self-pity. “I don’t care about the Terminator. I don’t care about the Predator anymore—”