Cherie Priest - Fiddlehead

Next, he ran for Lincoln’s room.

Past the front door, and past Grant, who was using the door for cover—standing now, rather than sitting behind the window sills—and aiming with a measured, frightening accuracy. Wasting no bullets. Giving as good as he was getting, and he was getting it pretty good.

Gideon jumped as a vase on a table behind him shattered.

He dived back into the hall, leaving the president to his defensive measures, and kept scrambling over to the library, where Lincoln had had just about enough of this. The old man wheeled out into the hall, his chair humming warmly, its wheels grinding against the expensive rugs like they meant business. The revolver in his hand underscored the threat nicely.

Gideon heard a crash from upstairs—or was it downstairs? Or behind him? There were too many explosions, too many things breaking at once for him to sort them all out.

Lincoln shouted, “Gideon!,” and raised his handgun.

In return, Gideon cried, “Mr. Lincoln!,” and raised his own.

They fired simultaneously, Gideon’s shot taking down a man at the end of the hall—a man on the verge of running for the elderly leader. Lincoln’s shot singed Gideon’s ear like a firebrand, and as Gideon toppled to the side, ducking any further fire that might come, he saw a man reeling backwards behind him, stunned and bleeding.

Lincoln fired again, and the man went down.

“Sir!” Gideon ran to Lincoln’s side. “We have to get you out of here.”

“Where will we go? They’re outside, aren’t they? No—we defend this place. If I’m to have a last stand, let it be here!”

“No! No talk of last stands!” Gideon shouted at him, then dropped his voice. “We will live through this. All of us . And we will stop the war, and we will save the world.” He grabbed the mechanical chair and tried to force Lincoln back into the library … but another man appeared in the hall, and Gideon swore like the sailor he’d never been. One of the big crashes must’ve been a breach in the study. Those sons of bitches. There was a hole in the fort, goddammit.

“Get this bastard out of the way!” Lincoln roared. Gideon was startled to hear his voice so strong, as he was so often softer spoken. But now he shouted, gesturing down at the man he’d shot. “Move him! Let me through!”

“Yes, sir.” Gideon shook his head, but he bent down and grabbed the corpse under its arms. He dragged it to the foyer and tossed it in, freeing the hallway for Lincoln to pass, then barreled forward before he realized there was another armed man in front of him. Lincoln guided the chair away from the newcomer as Gideon opened fire. The man jerked aside, seeking cover, but finding none. He fell to the scientist’s next round.

Upstairs Polly screamed, and it was like an ice pick to Gideon’s soul.

“Help her!” Lincoln called without looking back. “Help the women upstairs, for the love of God!”

Upstairs, indeed—for, yes, it’d been his idea to put the women up there, and now Polly was screaming. He found the steps by the lingering firelight and tripped up them—he’d climbed them a thousand times, but the light was so dim and he was so hurried. Someone was still shooting up there, and his money was on Mary. He banged his knee on the top step, but that was fine, he needed to stay low anyway; so he used it as an excuse to fall down to all fours, then proceed in a low, awkward crouch toward Polly. Where was she? West wing, yes. He followed the sound of her voice until he could see her silhouetted in the hall light.

She wasn’t alone. A man held her … from behind? From her side? It was hard to say—she was fighting him like the devil, wrestling this way and that, until both their shapes were one great knot of shadow. Gideon wasn’t sure who was who, so he certainly couldn’t shoot.

He shoved his gun into his coat pocket.

He ran forward and seized the pair of them, wrenching them apart and taking the man by his shirt, then flinging him against a wall where he smashed a great crack in the plaster. The man lunged back, but he launched straight into Gideon’s fist, which caught him square in the stomach. He doubled over, catching the scientist’s knee in his face as he did so. As he staggered backwards, he found no retreat except the wall. As he reached up seeking to steady himself, the man found an oil lamp, turned down to nothing but still full of fuel. He grabbed at it, slipping when the glass shattered, but eventually got hold and pulled himself back to his feet. He must’ve been bleeding from the glass, but Gideon couldn’t see it. He saw nothing except for the fellow trying to step backwards, and a brighter shade behind him—someone wearing lighter clothing. Someone who swung an enormous stick and caught the intruder on the back of the head.

“Polly!”

“Got it from the broom closet,” she panted and pointed. The man had fallen to his knees, on the ground in the oil and glass, so she hit him again. He went down and stayed down, sprawled out between the scientist and the maid.

“Give me your hand,” Gideon commanded. She did, but she held on to the broom as she jumped over the unconscious figure on the floor. “Where’s the attic? There must be a door in the ceiling; where is it?”

“Here,” she said, leading him along the hallway, picking a spot, then changing her mind and going back a little farther. “I’m sorry, sir, it’s over here. It’s so hard to see, I can barely tell at all.”

He held up his hand, feeling around for the rope pull that would bring the door down. It fluttered against his fingers. He missed it, tried again, missed once more. Finally, he caught it and gave it a yank, and a set of rolling stairs rumbled down. He caught them with his shoulder so he could lower them more quietly than was their wont. “Get up there,” he ordered her. “This is getting out of hand. Just go. I’ll get Mary.”

“But, Gideon—”

“Do as I say!”

He left her, not knowing whether she’d obey or not, but knowing that Mary was not shooting anymore; she was shouting instead. He found her in the back bedroom, leaning out the window and shoving hard, then cackling like a witch as someone beyond hollered and fell heavily.

“Mrs. Lincoln!”

“Ladders!” she responded. “The bastards got themselves some ladders!”

“Didn’t think they’d manage that so fast,” he said under his breath, then went to her side. “You’re out of ammunition?”

She nodded, and the silver in her hair caught what little light came from the sky. “Fresh out. But they’re running out of men, ” she said optimistically.

He drew her back from the window. “You have to get up to the attic now,” he said. “Polly’s already there; she’ll pull the stairs up behind you.”

“What about Abe?”

“He’s down there with Grant and Wellers. They’re watching him. The mercenaries are inside the house, now.”

“They’re inside my house ?” she shrieked.

“Keep your voice down, ma’am—and yes, they’re inside. I want you to go up to the attic and wait for us. We’ll let you know when it’s safe.”

“When it’s safe ?”

“Yes, when it’s—”

“This is my house! I’m not going anywhere! Give me another gun!”

“Oh for the love of … no, Mrs. Lincoln.”

Downstairs it was heating up, getting louder. He heard footsteps coming up the stairs, running. He couldn’t tell who they belonged to. He told her, “Stay here!” but she followed right behind him.

For a moment, he seriously considered tying her up and sticking her in a closet, if only to get her out of his way.

No. There wasn’t time.