The Year of the Locust, page 75
Partway through, with the canvas shell stripped from the frame, I looked up and saw a shadow appear on the wall. My hands flew across the frame, trying to release the parts more quickly.
A moment later he walked in. I was twenty-two seconds short.
CHAPTER 81
Twenty-two seconds shy of assembling the weapon—and probably four minutes too late in arriving—I saw that Kazinsky had already been transformed.
Across ten feet of toxic air—and unarmed—I looked at the enormously powerful frame, the prominent musculature, the hairless body and the skin so pale it was almost translucent that I had seen in New York. If I survived long enough to catch sight of his back, he would have a ridge of hardened skin running down his spine.
He stared back at me, momentarily astonished. “You,” he said.
“You told me in Iran you couldn’t wait to see the next surprise.” I was looking past him, playing for every second, gathering the half-broken-down frame of the backpack, trying to plan for when he attacked. “They just keep coming, don’t they?”
I tightened my grip on the different parts of the frame. Lose one of them and I would have to fight without a weapon. I would be a dead man.
His dark eyes, with their luminous streaks of gold, flashed as astonishment was supplanted by a wave of sheer fury. He hurled himself at me. “For my brother,” he snarled.
His hands reached for my neck. He was much younger than he had been in New York, stronger and more agile. One twist of my neck and he would snap the vertebrae, killing me instantly.
But I was at least ready for him and launched myself to the side. I felt his shoulder brush my elbow as his hands missed my throat by an inch or less. I hit the ground and combat rolled over and over, sliding under a heavy-duty trolley on large steel wheels.
Any well-trained soldier would have kept rolling, emerged from the other side and started to run. But I wouldn’t have had a chance against Kazinsky in a flat-out footrace.
Instead, I grabbed the underside of the trolley, wrenching my shoulder, to bring myself to a halt. I rolled back the way I had come and saw his feet leave the ground as he leapt over the trolley.
He landed and I was behind him now. I drove the trolley hard into his back as he looked ahead, trying to locate me in the gloom. It sent him sprawling to his knees. I hit him again, harder, forcing him even lower and running one of the steel wheels over his outstretched arm, crushing part of his elbow.
Now I ran—stuffing the parts of the rifle into my jacket and zipping it to keep them safe and my hands free. Ten paces and I was in the heart of the deserted plant, the blast furnaces spewing out sparks, the molten river aglow, the ash whirling through the overhead vents, and the steel door into the supervisor’s office gaping open. High above me the huge bucket was dangling from the crane.
I barely paid it any attention. In my head I had a sort of plan. I ran for the far wall, past the furnaces and the slag heaps, skirting the molten river, and grabbing a shovel from a large barrow as I passed.
On the concrete behind me, I heard Kazinsky’s feet pounding, ever closer, then I saw him reflected in a stainless-steel water hopper. Only a few feet back and gaining fast. Three steps and he would be able to—
Just as he lunged, I suddenly swerved, grabbed a ladder, and swung myself onto one of the lower overhead gantries. He couldn’t make the turn and cannoned past, cursing.
Charging along the rickety walkway, I saw him just below, keeping pace.
“Tired yet?” he shouted, laughing maniacally.
I ignored him and reached the wall, where I took a breath and swung the hardened steel blade of the shovel with all my strength at the heavy chain.
Breaking apart, the chain flew upward, spinning free with an almighty rattle, and with a clang, the huge glass vents in the roof slid shut.
Kazinsky stared at them; it might not prevent the release of the spore but it would certainly slow it. Roaring with anger, he leapt, grabbed an overhead pipe, and swung onto the walkway, coming straight at me.
I wheeled, scaled another ladder, scrambled onto a higher and even more unstable path, and jagged to the right, running for the supervisor’s office.
Behind its thick glass walls designed to muffle the sound of the machines, and with the steel door bolted behind me, I might buy just enough time to finish assembling the rifle. Armed, I could do it, I could take him…
Sprinting hard, Kazinsky followed me onto the upper walkway, and I felt the structure shudder and swing under our combined weight. I had to grab the handrails to steady myself, slowing me down. I wasn’t going to make the office.
Instead, I threw my weight to the right, swung over the side, dropped to the walkway below, landed on it for a moment, and then leapt again, onto the ground. A shower of embers from one of the furnaces sprayed me but I kept going through it. I looked behind—
Kazinsky had taken the drop in one leap and made up several crucial yards. I darted left and reached an old metal bridge across the broadest section of the molten river.
I was halfway across, expecting to feel his feet hit the decking behind me, but there was nothing. Still running, I looked back.
He was bent over, about to use his brute strength to try to rip the end of the bridge from its rusted moorings. If he did, I’d have no chance: the whole structure—with me on it—would plunge into the river of metal.
I heard the sound of splintering metal and ran harder as the bridge suddenly lurched downward, unmoored. I was only inches above the white-hot metal now and I launched myself forward, into the air.
There was another sound of tearing metal, and I reached my hands out as far as I could to grab an upright post at the far end of the bridge.
Hauling myself forward, I pulled my legs up tight behind me, just as the bridge collapsed into the molten metal. It started to melt and disappear into the lava.
I dragged myself to my feet, checked that all the parts of the rifle were still inside my jacket, and ran for the supervisor’s office once more. Looking back, I expected to see Kazinsky shadowing me from the other side of the river, but he wasn’t there.
I sped up and was ten yards from the office—increasingly confident I would make it inside and assemble the gun—when I saw him. Remarkably, he wasn’t running in hot pursuit. He was standing in front of a rack on the wall, calmly unclipping a remote that operated the overhead crane. With rocketing alarm, I looked up and saw that the huge bucket, filled to the brim with scrap metal, was almost directly overhead.
There was no cover. I glanced back and saw Kazinsky press a button on the remote.
From directly above there was a mechanical snap, and I made a wild, desperate dive—
The bucket plunged down, smashing through the gantries surrounding the supervisor’s office, tearing its glass walls apart and sending the steel door flying. Hitting the ground, it exploded in a hailstorm of deadly flying metal.
CHAPTER 82
It was a massive rock-crushing machine that saved me, probably the only thing in the entire building that was strong enough to withstand the onslaught of flying shrapnel at such short range.
I had dived to its side and had just enough time to roll between two of its short pneumatic legs when the bucket detonated on the floor.
But it was a Pyrrhic victory: a steel flange underneath the machine tore a long gash down my shoulder and a jagged corner of its oil sump opened up the left side of my face—before doing the same to the back of my head—as I rolled and crawled beneath it.
As I lay flat under the machine, miraculously the wave of shrapnel swept past me. I felt the blood soaking my hair and shirt but it didn’t matter—somehow I was still alive.
I listened: the exploding bucket must have killed the power to different sections of the plant, halting most of the machines and probably plunging large areas of the plant into darkness.
Rolling onto my stomach, I looked out at the piles of wreckage and metal covering the floor. Out of the gloom, a pair of boots suddenly appeared and started to move through it. Kazinsky had emerged from his own cover and was now searching for me—or my body.
Not finding either, I knew he would soon realize that the crawl space under the rock crusher offered the only chance of survival. Seconds after that, he would find me.
I silently elbow-crawled my way backward, moving away from him and out from the far side of the machine. It was only when I tried to stand up that I realized how badly injured I was.
My head and face were pounding, the gash down my shoulder made my left arm difficult to move, and I only realized then that I had cut my right calf very deeply and was losing blood fast.
I forced myself to ignore it and moved as quickly as I could toward the massive entrance doors, keeping to the shadows and trying not to make a sound. Halfway there I swung left and sprinted for the canteen.
The whole area was in complete darkness—perfect for my purposes—and I ran to the cooking area. The pilot flames on the gas burners were alight, and by their glow, I scrambled to the sinks, grabbed a dish towel, and knelt in a corner of the kitchen.
Concealed by the darkness and an island counter, I unzipped my torn and filthy jacket, pulled the parts of the frame out, and laid them on the floor. With my hands trembling a little from pain, exhaustion, God knows what else, I started to break them down exactly as I’d been shown.
Less worried about time now, I cleaned everything as best I could with the dish towel and reassembled the major parts of the short-barreled rifle. Lastly, I grabbed what had been the handle of the backpack, converted it into the firing mechanism, and fit it in place. The weapon, truly a marvel of engineering, was now miraculously complete.
I removed the two spears from inside one of the frame’s tubes and pulled the three bullets free from the necklace around my neck.
I had put the first slug into the magazine when I heard a footstep and froze.
The kitchen island was on small legs, and I peered underneath it. Kazinsky was silhouetted in the doorway, looking carefully around the room. He reached out and flicked a light switch—there was nothing.
He stood very still, listening, and I could hardly breathe, willing him to leave, but he stepped quietly inside and started to search.
Silently, he moved farther into the room, passing through pools of greater darkness, looking at everything, coming closer to me.
I moved slightly so that I could watch him around the side of the island. The darkness was my greatest ally.
“Are you in here?” he said softly. “I wonder.”
I wanted to load a spear and shoot but I couldn’t risk it—he’d hear me long before I had it slotted into the special brackets under the barrel and had a chance to aim and fire.
Keeping the long bulk of the island between us, I shifted my position, making sure he couldn’t see me. To keep track of him, I had to look under the island, so I lowered myself carefully and saw his feet moving closer.
Barely five feet away, separated only by the island, he stopped. He was listening, I figured. Then his hand dropped into view and I saw it touch the knob that controlled one of the gas burners.
He continued to stand, unmoving. Satisfied that his hand meant nothing, just a casual gesture, I kept watching, waiting for his feet to start to walk away…
Then his hand moved lightning fast, sweeping along the row of knobs, igniting all the gas burners, turning them up to full, throwing a warm glow across the entire room.
Its light revealed the dish cloth spread out on the floor and a small length of discarded frame. He immediately leapt onto the kitchen island to scan the room.
He was right above me. He looked down, saw me, and our eyes met for a moment. I lifted the rifle with its single bullet as he started to leap—
I aimed the best I could and pulled the trigger. In midair, the bullet hit him in the jaw, destroying part of it and knocking him aside. I rolled to my right, and in spite of his momentum, he missed me.
I scrambled to my feet and started to run for the door, dropping the two spears but managing to keep hold of the last pair of bullets.
I felt him right behind me, and maybe less than two steps later, his hand grabbed my shoulder and pulled me to the ground. If I hadn’t crushed his elbow earlier, I wouldn’t have had a chance—both his hands would have grasped my throat and killed me.
I squirmed, throwing my weight forward, ripping my jacket and loosening his grip. I pulled free but in the melee dropped the rifle.
Completely unarmed, I jagged to the right, circled away from the door, glanced back, and saw he was closing fast. In a few moments he would be on me. There would be no escape, not this—
Just ahead I saw the row of fire extinguishers standing under the first aid kit. I recalled a hidden villa on a tiny island, body swerving to avoid Kazinsky again, and plunged headlong toward them.
I grabbed one in each hand, dived to the ground, and rolled out of the way just as he hurled himself at me.
Missing me, he lay sprawled in the dirt. I rose to my feet and ran for the rows of blazing gas burners. I looked back, saw that he was up and sprinting toward me, but I reached the countertop and threw the first of the extinguishers.
It landed in the flames and I threw the second one. It hit a different set of burners, and as it started to ignite, I threw myself to the ground and took cover behind the island.
I saw Kazinsky slow—confused—staring at the fire extinguishers. He must have realized, he started to drop—
Too late. The first extinguisher exploded, shrapnel flew kinetically across the room, and a large chunk of metal hit him in the chest. It sent him reeling but he was still on his feet.
The second extinguisher blew up. Another wave of shrapnel hit him across the legs and thighs and sent him to his knees.
I stood up, ran a few yards, and scooped the two spears off the ground, along with the rifle, heading for the door.
I was still alive, thanks to the Magus, and now I had to load a spear and red-mist him. I looked back.
He may have been injured and breathing hard, but he was on his feet and heading in my direction.
CHAPTER 83
Moving as quickly as I could, I skirted one of the now-silenced rock crushers and found an area of deep darkness near the number four blast furnace. Enclosed on three sides by a sheer brick wall, the blast furnace, and the steel side of a rock crusher, it meant I couldn’t be taken by surprise.
Working by the light of the furnace, I knelt and cleaned the two spears with my shirt. I fitted the first of them into the brackets, checked the rifle’s firing mechanism was still in order, and put the second spear through my belt at the small of my back, ready to grab if I needed it.
I reached into my pocket for the two remaining bullets—and cursed. There was only one—its companion must have fallen out during the chase. I shrugged it off—one bullet and two spears would be enough. It had to be.
I inserted the remaining bullet in the magazine and then checked the entrance to the cafeteria. There was no sign of Kazinsky but I saw—partway toward it—a ruined gantry was dangling down. A work light, still operating, was hanging from it and providing some visibility for me to hit a target.
Above it, the crane was still moving according to its own broken system—but it wouldn’t affect the shot. I crouched, trying to assess the magic sixty-two, when Kazinsky emerged.
Wounded, but still a menacing, superstrong force, he stopped and looked at the ground. I glanced down at my wounded calf and realized: in the glow of the blast furnace and the hanging light, he would see a trail of blood spots.
It was good, very good, I told myself—he would follow it, walk directly under the light, and it would be finished.
Barely moving, shutting everything else out, I watched him approach, estimating the steps he would take until he was directly under the light. Nine, I figured.
I shifted my stance, crouched a little lower, and locked the sight onto the point just below his left earlobe where the carapace could be penetrated. He was still following the blood trail, searching to see where I was, steadily coming closer. Six steps.
I measured the distance with my eyes, made a tiny adjustment for a crosswind through the front doors, and started to regulate my breathing. Three steps.
I squinted through the sight and pulled the stock tight into my shoulder. One more step; I wasn’t going to miss—
There was the sharp retort of splintering wood from high above at exactly the same moment I pulled the trigger.
The crane had hit the wreckage of a gantry and sent it plunging down. It hit the ruined section supporting the light and everything tumbled toward the ground.
The spear, triggered by its electronic pulse, blasted free of its bracket and flew like a harpoon straight at Kazinsky. The aim and angle were perfect.
Except that the falling light and wrecked gantry intercepted the spear and its target, striking it a glancing blow and deflecting it off course, where it hit Kazinsky’s ear, tearing it clean off.
I stared in shock.
Bleeding hard from the wound, he barely paused, assessing the flight of the spear and looking directly at my hiding place. It wasn’t safe, not now—I was trapped between the three walls.
I had to move fast—there was no time to reload. I scrambled out, sprinted around the back of the blast furnace, and threw myself into a hollow of darkness. I grabbed the last spear from the small of my back. Just that and one bullet left. I slotted the spear into its bracket, checked the firing mechanism.
Kazinsky emerged out of the gloom, still searching for me. The fallen light was still working, casting a huge shadow of him on the wall, which I watched come ever closer.
I raised the rifle and aimed but I couldn’t get a clear shot.
I forced myself to wait, watching him approach—I had to be certain, it was this time or never. He stopped at the row of oil-stained gauges next to the blast furnace, searching the gloom and darkness for me.
