James Baldwin - Stained Glass

“Fucking… blyat, suka !” I lunged forward and grabbed the ladder leading to the top of the cab. I pulled myself up, hand over hand. At the top of the semi, I saw the three-car escort ahead of us. They were headed straight for an armada of motorcycles.

Harleys roared up and out from their ambush positions on the side of the road, flinging mud and gravel as they charged. The first line of them held steady, firing on the escort cars. Shotguns went off like cannons; the truck braked again, squealing to a halt. It knocked my feet out from under me. I hit the top of the cab with my chin, biting my tongue, and fumbled to find a grip on the edge of the windshield.

Normally, I would have slid and then been thrown. Fueled on magic, I clawed my way to the front of the cab, swung down, and emptied half the clip into the driver’s side window. Blood exploded against the inside of the windshield, and the truck veered to the side, but it didn’t stop. I scrambled back up as someone returned fire from inside, and held on as they took the wheel, slammed the accelerator, and threw the cab to the side to shake me off.

The cars ahead tried to ram into the oncoming motorcycles, but they were too fast: they split around the vehicles trying to hit them, firing into the windows and at tires. The occupants had the same H&Ks they’d used at Strange Kitty, and even as I watched, one rider and gunner pair went down, jerking spasmodically and tumbling off the out of control bike. The Harley fell and skidded to the edge of the road in a tangle of flesh and metal.

The nearest car erupted with a forest of insectoid legs, and a peal of screams that quickly cut. Spiders the size of dogs crawled out, followed by three small shapes that ran up onto the trunk and onto the semi’s hood, just as it rammed up into the back of the vehicle ahead with a metallic crunch.

Panting, I let go and slid back to the edge of the roof until I caught the ladder. I held on until I had a steady moment, then leaped for the top of the shipping container. The metabolic boost made me stronger, but no more graceful. I hit the edge of it as the semi wobbled from side to side, winding myself, and had to scramble inelegantly to the top with the Glock in hand. We’d slowed down – sixty miles per hour instead of eighty – but we were all still running a fighting battle down the road. I had to take out the tires.

Weaving, stumbling, I tried to walk and ended up crawling along the roof of the container. If I could get to the bottom edge of the cargo tray, then I could take out the other back tire and force it to drag its ass along the road. My heart was pumping hard enough that light flashed in my mouth with every heartbeat. I staggered up during a steady moment and ran for the end.

Something hit me just below the shoulder and began to thrash back and forth, levering a thin blade between my ribs. With a roar of pain, I groped back for it, pulled it out, and crushed it in my hand. It was a shrike, a bird, its skull stripped down to bone and shards of crystal. Its beak had become a razor glass weapon. I wrung its neck and threw it off the truck, coughing, and staggered to one knee as something else hit me low and then swarmed up my body like a tree. A squirrel the size of a terrier screeched and lunged for my throat, Yen spines bristling like porcupine quills. The missing Pathfinders.

I jammed the gun between it and me and emptied the clip into its chest and head. The bullets did nothing except drive it back. It rolled to its feet, tail flicking as more spines ejected from the new holes, and charged at me with mouth agape. I threw the empty gun and pulled the knife, slashing as it jumped. The former Pathfinder was more agile than physics should have allowed for: it twisted in midair and landed on my chest, claws ripping at my shirt. I stabbed it through the back multiple times before it began to weaken, and tore it free by the neck. I was still stabbing it when a second squirrel bit a large chunk out of my calf and collapsed me to the ground.

“Fucking squirrels!” The one on the knife was gasping in its death throes, black blood frothing from its mouth. I used it to backhand the other one still worrying my leg like a dog. I stabbed it two more times and flung it away, reaching down to grab the other one by the tail and haul it away from my leg.

And then, the spell cut. The small animal was suddenly a lot stronger, a lot faster, and it was on me in an instant. This one was missing its eyes and most of its fur, an animal made of broken crystal, huge teeth, and bubbling, tortured flesh. I rolled onto it, pinning it with my forearm and frantically stabbing it as it continued to kick, bite and claw.

The truck swayed and then spun to a stop, nearly tipping the container full of children off the tray and onto the road. The squirrel and I were flung off the side. I had two seconds of dizzy inertia before the crunch.

Years of combat training saved my life, but not my shoulder. I hit the ground rolling and tumbled ass over head before halting, the squirrel still impaled on my knife. I slammed its head on the ground until it stopped moving and picked myself up, trying to orientate on what was happening. There was a blockade of black cars ahead of us down the road, but no flashing lights or sirens. Confused, ears ringing, I staggered to my feet and found I couldn’t put any weight on one of them.

I saw a motorcycle pull up along the door: Jenner and Ron. She was perched on the back of the Harley like an acrobat, a bottle of something in her hand. I thought it was a Molotov until she threw it, unlit. A thin arc of liquid flew out behind it before it splashed. There was a roar of agony from the cab of the truck, and then the driver’s side door blew open. Mason leaped to the ground, a wave of warped muscle and dirty white fur, and bellowed to the night sky before fixing on me, now trying to limp away as fast as my one good foot could take me.

The escort cars were stopped, and one of them was on fire. All but two of the motorcycles were headed towards the roadblock, and I smelled a trap on instinct alone as I backed up from Mason, who was stalking me, eyeless sockets fixed on my position. I’d barely taken five steps before the front line of riders collapsed in a straight horizontal line. The lead riders were decapitated at the neck. The ones behind them either crashed into the one in front, or swerved into a skid to avoid the wire strung between trees on either side of the parkway.

Big Ron and Jenner pulled around up ahead and charged back from behind Mason. As they shot past us Mason reared up to slap as Jenner leapt off the back with a wordless cry, shifting in midair. She landed on Mason with her forearms spread, claws out, a wrap-around bear hug that began their bloody close quarters fight. The orange tiger slammed Mason into the truck and threw him to the ground, where they tangled into a snarling, spitting, slashing heap.

Men had unloaded from the black cars ahead of us, guns in their hands. With no regard for the few oncoming civilian cars trying to weave through the mess, they opened up on the remaining Twin Tigers like a firing squad.

We were dead. The cops were guaranteed to show up now, but they wouldn’t be here in time and they wouldn’t have enough initial firepower. I staggered behind the truck tire, crouching and shielding as stray rounds flew by and struck the truck, the shipping container, and the two tigers trying to rip each other to pieces. Ron had kept on going, turning the street corner up ahead and roaring off the way we’d came. He was going to look for Talya.

Two figures were running down the road towards us from that direction: Angkor and Zane. They were shouting, waving their arms. Hope flared back to life, and I got to my feet, drawing the Wardbreaker and a deep breath against the pain. I rounded the corner to rejoin the fray and got knocked upside the jaw with something hard and heavy that pitched me to the ground. The Wardbreaker skittered away from my hand.