Page 96 of Gamma

“They are making for an entrance into the castle from the hill,” comes Anselm’s voice. “They are coming from a tunnel in the ridge. Deerdancer, you take the entrance, I’ll take the exit.”

“Understood.”

BOOOM!Anselm’s massive Barrett.

We’re still moving—the doorway here is equally enormous, as if built for giants. There was a door, in ages past, but it’s long since crumbled to dust.

BOOOM!

CRACK!

It’s a rolling of thunder and cracking of lightning, then, as Anselm and Dyani wreak havoc on the reinforcements above.

Through the doorway, then. Our flashlights illuminate in narrow, small spears a gigantic space. Columns fifty feet high, missing chunks here and there. Flagstones underfoot. I kick something—an arrowhead, with a chunk of wood still attached. My beam swipes across a skull; cobwebs cover it.

This feels like Khazad-dûm, fromLord of the Rings.

A long, long hall. No sound but our footsteps.

Through another doorway, and here the way splits, left and right, up a steep, curving flight of stairs. We split, and climb. I look over my shoulder and catch a glimpse of Dad, carrying a carbine like the rest of us, crouched and moving with slinky grace, as if he’s done this before too.

Then they’re around the bend and out of sight, and I have to focus on the way ahead.

My heartbeat feels loud in my ears, pounding. Now, with nerves rather than exertion.

Duke unhooks something from his pack and hands it back to me without looking—a canteen. I take a sip, rinse my mouth and swallow, take another, hand it back.

I can think more clearly, now, somehow.

The staircase gives way to a long narrow hallway. To the right, slits, and a view of the valley and the approach we just came from. Several dead bodies are slumped together here—their foreheads are holed, the back of their heads gone—the sniper shots heard at the beginning of the assault. There are SAWs, here, huge machine guns on bipods. They would have torn us to pieces, if not for Anselm and Dyani.

A wide opening on our left. Duke angles for it, flashlight sweeping low.

Chaos explodes all at once—gunfire erupts, Duke grunts in pain and throws himself to the side, firing as he does so. I hit the floor on my knee, shooting at the opening, meaning to suppress. Something moves beside me, and then Murph is there, in front of me. I hear something hit, hard, three times—thwackthackthack, and he staggers backward. His rifle speaks in bursts; he braces one leg backward, as if lifting up under a great weight.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I hear myself saying. “No.”

He drops to a knee, and I grab him, haul him parallel to the doorway. He weighs a thousand pounds and I’m weak as a kitten, it feels like. He staggers with me, and then someone else is helping. I don’t know his name.

“I got him,” the man says—the southern boy:Ahhh gowt ‘ih-uh-mm.“Y’all right, Murph?”

“I’m good, Dutchie,” Murph gasps. “Vest stopped it. Just…fuck. Can’t breathe. Need a minute.”

Dutchie, the southern boy, eyes me—he’s a shape in the darkness, whites of his eyes, teeth, body odor. “Git with the others. G’on. Ol’ Murpy-boy’ll right as rain in no time.”

I jog away, realizing with a drop of my gut that Murph saw the threat and stepped in front of me. The bullets were at chest height for him—they would have smashed through my head.

This isn’t like the fortress at all.

Duke is at an intersection. “Murph?” he asks, not looking at me.

“Took three to the vest,” I say. “Says it stopped them, and he needs to catch his breath. Dutchie is with him.”

A nod.

“Is…was he lying, Duke? Is he hurt?”

Duke shakes his head. “Murph doesn’t lie, not ever. He probably has cracked ribs. He’s not going to die.” Duke glances at me quickly. “Focus.”