Gone

he said the words, he was running back, into the day care, pushing past Mary shielding a child in her arms, past her out to the plaza, wielding the gun as a club now, running and screaming his head off like a lunatic, swinging the gun butt to a sickening crunch on a coyote’s skull.
    Edilio was there and kids were shooting and Edilio was shouting, “No, no, no,” and then blood was in Quinn’s eyes and blood was in his brain and blood was everywhere and he lost his mind, lost his mind swinging and screaming and hitting, hitting, hitting.

    Mary clutched Isabella to her and huddled with John, and the kids cried hearing the madness outside, the screams and snarls and guns.
    “Jesus, save us, Jesus, save us,” someone was repeating in a racked, sobbing voice, and Mary knew in some distant way that it was her.

    Drake heard the coyote howl in the night and knew in his black heart what it meant.
    Enough of licking his wounds.
    The battle was joined.
    “Time,” he said. “Time to show them all.”
    He kicked his own front door open and marched toward the plaza, shouting, shouting, wishing he could bay at the moon like the coyotes.
    He heard guns firing and pulled his pistol from his belt and uncoiled his whip hand and snapped it, loving the crack it made.
    Ahead, two figures were moving away from him, also heading for the sound of battle, two figures. One seemed impossibly small. But no, it was the other that was impossibly big. Sumo big. A shuffling, slumping, thick-limbed creature.
    The two mismatched ones moved into a pool of light cast by a streetlamp. Drake recognized the smaller one.
    “Howard, you traitor,” Drake shouted.
    Howard stopped. The beast beside him kept walking.
    “You don’t want any of this, Drake,” Howard warned.
    Drake whipped him across the chest, tore Howard’s shirt open, left a trail of blood that was black in the harsh light.
    “You better be on your way to help take down Sam,” Drake warned.
    The rough beast stopped. It turned slowly and came back.
    “What is that?” Drake demanded sharply.
    “You,” the beast muttered.
    “Orc?” Drake cried, half thrilled, half terrified.
    “It’s your fault I did it,” Orc said dully.
    “Get out of my way,” Drake ordered. “There’s a fight. Come with me or die right now.”
    “He just wants some beer, Drake,” Howard said placatingly, clutching the wound in his chest, hunched over in pain,but still trying to manipulate, still trying to be clever.
    “God’s judgment on me,” Orc slurred.
    “You stupid lump,” Drake said, and whirled his whip hand and brought it down full force on Orc’s shoulder.
    “AAHHH!” Orc bellowed in pain.
    “Get moving, you moron,” Drake ordered.
    Orc got moving. But not toward the plaza.
    “You want a piece of Whip Hand, freak?” Drake demanded. “I’ll cut you up.”

    Astrid felt a crushing weight on her lower back and legs. She was facedown, lying on top of Little Pete. She was stunned, but had enough presence of mind to understand that she was stunned.
    She took a deep breath.
    She whispered, “Petey.” She heard the sound through her bones. Her ears were ringing, muffling sound.
    Little Pete wasn’t moving.
    She tried to draw her legs up, but they wouldn’t move.
    “Petey, Petey,” she cried.
    She wiped something out of her eyes, dust, dirt, sweat, and blinked to focus on her brother. She had shielded most of his body from the falling wall, but a chunk of plaster the size of a backpack lay on his head.
    She bit back a sob. She pressed two fingers against his neck and felt a pulse. She could feel his shallow breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, beneath her.
    “Help,” she croaked, unsure if she was shouting or whispering, unable to hear for the ringing.
    “Someone help us. Someone help us.”
    “Save my brother.”
    “Save him,” she pleaded, and the plea became a prayer. “Save Sam. Save us all.”
    She began to recite from memory a prayer she’d heard once long ago. Her voice was faraway, someone else’s voice.
    “St. Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the devil.” She could feel more than hear her own sobbing, a racking shudder that twisted the words in her throat.
    As if in mocking answer to her plea for mercy, a shower of glass and plaster fragments fell around her.
    “May God rebuke him, we humbly pray. And do you, O prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God…”
    Little Pete stirred