J. Mitchell: The Severed Tower

“ This is the plan?” Mira asked skeptically.

“If Zoey can get it running, yeah,” Holt replied. “Might outrun those walkers.”

“This thing couldn’t outrun a beached whale!” Mira yelled.

“Do you have a better idea?” he asked.

Mira frowned at him. She didn’t.

“You’re driving.” Holt headed for the truck’s rear.

Mira moved for the door, jumped inside. “And what are you going to do?”

“Whatever I can.” Holt jumped into the rear with Max. More of the trumpet sounds outside, coming closer. “Zoey, do it!”

Zoey looked at Mira from the dirty passenger seat. Mira nodded back. “Hurry, honey. If you can.”

Zoey smiled. She closed her eyes and concentrated. “I can.”

Nothing happened at first. The little girl just sat motionless on the torn seat, breathing in and out. Then something flickered around her hands, faint at first, then it grew. A layer of wavering, golden… energy . There was no other word for it. It moved and throbbed, almost in slow motion, like frozen fire, spreading from Zoey’s hands, up her arms and toward her shoulders.

Mira stared in shock, feeling her pulse quicken.

Holt had mentioned this, the light, but it was all new to Mira. She’d missed Zoey doing her thing at Midnight City. She had been lost at the time, and the little girl had saved her. Another of her powers, the most important one. Zoey could stop the Tone. Block it somehow, make you immune to it. It was still mind-boggling to think about.

Mira watched the energy slowly envelop the girl, knowing they were running out of time. If Zoey couldn’t get this thing going, they were as good as—

Mira jumped as the truck suddenly shook. Golden energy bubbled up from underneath the hood, as the engine, impossibly, came back to life and rumbled loudly. The dashboard sparked once, twice—and then the old analog gauges all floated into place. Static hissed from the aging radio.

Mira looked at the controls, stunned. She remembered riding on her father’s lap as a kid, steering the family wagon in a parking lot. It had been all the driving experience she’d gotten before the Assembly came. She hoped it was enough.

Mira yanked the driveshaft down and stepped on the gas. The truck jumped forward… then jolted to a stop.

“Parking brake!” Holt yelled behind her.

“Where is it?” Mira frantically studied the interior of the truck.

“Where the parking brake usually is!”

“It’s been awhile for me, okay!? ”

The garage shuddered as the entire rear wall was ripped away by one of the alien machines. It trumpeted angrily, a horrible mix of electronic tones and static.

“Mira!” Holt shouted, pushing back as far as he could. Max barked wildly.

Mira found the brake, a hand lever on the floor, and shoved it down. The old truck lurched forward violently, roaring out of the garage.

The Hunter behind them let out a sharp, surprised sound and jumped after them.

As the truck bolted forward, it plowed through the garage’s door frame—which was enough to bring the entire thing down like a house of cards. Mira watched in the dusty mirrors as the tripod was buried underneath a massive pile of wood and refuse. Another one down, but there were plenty more.

Nearby, new walkers gave chase, their three spiked legs pushing them forward with dizzying speed.

Next to Mira, Zoey sat, eyes closed, the golden energy pulsing all around her.

The truck shook badly as it caught a curb, slammed back down, and skidded onto the road. Ahead of them, coming fast, was an obstacle course of old cars and other debris… and the Hunters were still closing.

Mira gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned white.

* * *

HOLT HELD ON AS the battered truck lurched forward. All around him the street began to whiz by. A street full of hazards.

The vehicle reeled left suddenly, barely avoiding an old burned-out car. Then it yanked back to the right, around a pile of debris. Holt went rolling, crashed into the side of the bed and grabbed Max as he flew past, barely keeping him inside.

“What the hell are you doing!? ” he yelled, holding on.

“Would you rather I hit everything in front of us?” Mira yelled back. “Because that would be easier!”

Distorted trumpets sounded from behind them as the two Hunters chased after them. Holt ducked as they opened fire, yellow plasma bolts spitting from their cannons. Mira screamed as the rear windshield exploded.

Holt looked around the truck bed. It was full of junk, pieces of trash, about a dozen old cans of paint… and two large crumbling, wooden crates. He gave them an experimental push. They were full of something heavy and metallic. It would have to do.

“Try to keep us moving straight!” Holt shouted as he moved for the tailgate.

He grabbed it, but it was rusted shut. He’d have to kick it open if he—

Holt lunged backward as a gleaming silver spear point punched straight through the tailgate, almost impaling him.

Eyes wide, he looked up and saw a metallic cable running from the harpoon back to one of the Hunters. When he’d spotted the green-and-orange walkers, he’d thought they looked different. Now there was no doubt. They’d upgraded, and Holt had no desire to find out what other new tricks they had.

The walker drew back the cable with a powerful yank, and ripped the tailgate completely off. It slammed onto the street and skittered backward on the asphalt in a shower of sparks.

The tripod jettisoned the cable, leaped over the tailgate and kept running.

“Thanks for the help,” Holt said. He reached in his pocket, and when his hand closed around what was there, he felt the same sense of comfort he always did.

The Chance Generator was an old abacus, an ancient counting device, but it was so much more: a major artifact from the Strange Lands, with the ability to increase the luck of anyone who used it. It had saved their asses in Midnight City, and it was saving their asses right now.

Holt pushed more beads up to the top, and a sphere of red flashed around him. Every time he pushed more of them up, the effect intensified. Which meant he had to be careful. He’d already used it a few times, and the artifact only had so much power per day. If it ran out of juice before they escaped, they’d be in a lot of trouble.

He got behind the crates, shoving them toward the edge of the truck bed. They were falling apart, but somehow stayed together just long enough to tip off the back. They exploded on the street and sprayed their contents everywhere, most of it scrap metal—springs, nails, bolts, aluminum shavings, broken tools, exploding all over the road.

The walkers ran right into it.

For one brief moment, they lost their footing on the metal bits and pieces, their legs splaying wildly. That was all it took. They tipped over and crashed into an old water truck, plowing right through it in a shower of metal, dust, and black liquid. They didn’t get up.

“Yeah!” Holt yelled in triumph—but it was short lived.

More tripods vaulted down from nearby buildings, charging after them on the street.

Plasma bolts sliced the air and slammed into the truck, tearing the rear end to shreds. The vehicle listed dangerously as Mira tried to stay in control. “Holt!”

It was a short, unsuccessful battle.

They skidded left, twisting and grinding toward a pile of old cars, and crashed straight into them. Mira screamed. Holt grabbed Max as the impact tossed them forward along the bed and into the back of the cabin.

Holt hit hard. The world went fuzzy. Somehow he found the edge of the truck bed, pulled himself up and out of the wreckage, and slumped down on the ground.