“That,” he spat with grim satisfaction, “was for killing Cal before I had the chance.” He slashed again, leaving another gash across Travers’ face, marking him with a bold bleeding X. “And that was for my ranch—the ranch you couldn’t burn down yourself, you fucking coward.”
He went to step forward, to deliver a killing blow, but he found that something was tugging at his side. He reached a hand down to free himself. All the wind seemed to leave Houndstooth’s lungs as his fingers found the hilt of the tiny knife that protruded from his side. Just like Hero, he thought.
Travers took Houndstooth’s moment of distraction as an opportunity. He hit the hilt of the knife with the heel of his hand, shoving it farther into Houndstooth’s side. As Houndstooth roared in pain, Travers scrambled for the detonator. Houndstooth tried to reach for him—tried to stop him—slipped in Travers’ blood, and fell hard.
Travers had the detonator.
He raised it over his head, and pressed the button.
Houndstooth half expected to die right then and there. He half expected the entire Harriet to blow up. What he didn’t expect, not even for a moment, was for the detonator to fail, because Hero had made the detonator, and Hero was the smartest person Houndstooth had ever met.
And he had been right. The bombs didn’t fail.
A rumble like thunder sounded in the distance. Houndstooth looked out of the ranger’s outpost, and saw a cloud rising through the pink morning light in the distance. He yanked the blade out of his side—it was a short one, too short to have done serious damage, but it hurt like hell. He threw the knife over the side of the tower as Travers laughed. When he looked, Travers was clutching his face, holding the flap of his lip in place with one bloody hand.
“You’ve done it,” Houndstooth whispered. “You crazy bastard, you’ve done it.”
“I’ve done it, and there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop those hippos from filling the Mississippi.”
Houndstooth looked over the edge of the ranger’s tower and into the rippling water. His heart stopped for a moment.
“Travers, open the Gate.”
Travers remained on the floor, laughing hysterically.
“Open the Gate, damn you, open it!” Houndstooth made for the large lever that would start the Gate opening, but Travers grabbed his leg.
“Don’t bother,” Travers gasped through his laughter. “I’ve disabled it. Cut the cable. It won’t open. The hippos can only go North, now.”
“Look outside, Travers,” Houndstooth urged the bleeding, cackling man. “Look at the water.”
Travers rolled to one side. He was close enough to the edge of the platform to look over. His laughter stopped abruptly.
“Do you see that?” Houndstooth asked, pointing down at the debris that was rapidly collecting against the Gate, battering Archie and the hippos. “That’s the front of the wave. You blew the dam, Travers. All the water that was behind that dam is headed our way, and it’s going to carry everything with it.”
Travers grinned, pulling himself to his feet. He needed both hands to do it; when he dropped his hand from his face, his skin fell open in a ghastly gash. “Well,” he said, “good thing I’m up here, isn’t it? The waters won’t be rising above thirty feet. Looks like all those ferals will be trapped against the Gate, hmm? And I’m sure they’ll be hungry.” He placed a hand firmly on Houndstooth’s back. “Enjoy the flood, Houndstooth.”
He pushed hard, and Houndstooth flipped over the railing, falling into the rising waters of the Harriet.
Chapter 14
ARCHIE WATCHED THE CLOUD of dust billow across the horizon as the dam blew. A wave emerged out of the spray falling detritus, a huge ripple that didn’t crest but instead grew as it approached. Even at a distance, it was big enough that she could see the shadows it pushed ahead: boats, buoys, ferals.
She watched as Travers shoved Houndstooth over the edge of the ranger’s outpost. She watched as he fell.
In the moment before Houndstooth hit the water, the wave hit the Gate. Archie, Rosa, Betsy, Abigail, and Ruby all rode the swell, slamming into the Gate as the wave broke against it. Betsy let out a pained roar before the water crested over her head.
Houndstooth slammed into the Gate next to Ruby. Archie suspected that this was no accident—the Cambridge Black had watched her hopper closely as he fell. A moment later, he was on Ruby’s back, looking dazed and sodden but whole. Archie breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of Houndstooth, safe.
Then she realized that none of them were safe at all.
Behind her, two of Travers’ goons screamed. Archie turned to see their mangled bodies, trapped between the Gate and a weather-beaten canoe. The current—fast, now, and relentless—kept the canoe pressed against them, and the water rose intermittently over their heads. They struggled in vain to free themselves.
Archie urged Rosa forward with only a moment of hesitation, but before she could reach the men, a shadow loomed overhead. She wheeled Rosa around and saw Houndstooth, already fleeing along the length of the Gate. Archie followed him, pressing Rosa forward, trying to get out of the path of the fast-approaching Sturgess Queen.
Travers’ other riverboats were tethered, docked, anchored hard; they would have flipped over and sunk under the wave. But the Sturgess Queen was designed to tool around the Harriet, providing gamblers with a constantly changing view of the scenery. The huge wave had swept it to the Gate, and it nearly filled the narrow passage. Archie looked over her shoulder and could see nothing but the planks of the boat as it rushed toward her.
Rosa slammed into the sentry tower with all the force of her three thousand pounds. Archie pressed herself against the hippo’s back as the boat barrelled toward her. In front of her, Houndstooth did the same, pressing one hand against the stone of the tower as if it could steady him.
And then the boat was passing them. Not missing them—the leg of Archie’s breeches tore open and she felt half of her skin go with the fabric—but not striking them. Not killing them.
The boat slammed into the Gate with a deafening crash.
The current was strong, and the Sturgess Queen was massive—but the Gate was bigger. The Gate was stronger. It groaned under the impact of the riverboat, but it held. The water at the base of the boat flushed pink with the pulp of the two men who had been crushed against the grate. The debris that the current pushed toward it gathered against the hull of the Sturgess Queen: sticks and leaves and a half-rotted rowboat. As Archie watched, a tiny, squirming hop poked its head out of the water, scrabbling against the side of the boat.