“Wait!” Jess tried to turn back. “The others—”
Indira shoved him forward. “They must fend for themselves, and God defend them now. Move!”
“She’s right,” Thomas said. “We’ll never reach them in time.”
I’m fast, Jess wanted to argue, but what would he do if he made it? Was he fast enough to unlock all the doors, too? Morgan had his picks, but she might not know how to use them under pressure . . .
He still tried to turn back, but Thomas put a huge hand on the back of his neck and moved him on, down the stairs, and there was nothing he could do.
By the time Jess found leverage to break the hold, they were down the stairs, and above, three strong men lifted a massive hinged door and bolted it in place. That, at least, was smart; a door that opened upward might end up buried by debris. This way, at least they could dig their way out, after, if necessary.
They’re alone out there. Locked up.
Jess turned on Thomas. He would have shouted at him, but he saw the other young man’s face. The tears in his eyes. It silenced him.
“We couldn’t have made it there in time,” Thomas said. “I’m sorry.”
Jess no longer wanted to yell, but he couldn’t bring himself to agree, either. He just turned away.
Inside, the place was lit by flickering candles and oil lamps and was crowded with long wooden benches that wouldn’t have been out of place in a pub. Rows of Philadelphia citizens sat in silence, eyes turned up at the blank ceiling.
“Sit,” Indira said, and pushed him down with a firm hand on his shoulder. She crowded in next to him on the bench, with Thomas on the other side and her two men blocking the stairs, though it didn’t seem likely anyone would try to rush for the exit. “Quiet.”
Jess took in the sharp smell of sweat and the rapid, ragged sound of breathing. Everyone stared upward.
Then the world above shuddered with impact, like a giant’s foot crushing down.
Dust sifted from the ceiling, and Jess ducked and coughed out the taste of it. A murmur went through those sitting near him—an old gray-haired European man clutching a carved wooden pipe, a slender native woman with beads braided in patterns in her long black hair, two small African children who held each other’s hands. Frightened but desperately silent.
The people in the bunker clung to their benches as another Library bomb fell, as the cellar ceiling trembled, as Philadelphia ignited above them. Jess thought of the mismatched scraps of timber and brick, stone and metal, that made up homes and stores. What wasn’t burning would be shaken apart. And yet, as he looked around, he didn’t see despair.
He saw determination.
Tomorrow, maybe even within the hour, they’d be scavenging the wreckage and building anew. Jess didn’t like the Burners. Didn’t agree with them in many critical ways. But he knew courage when he saw it. It would have been so much easier if he could see them as just enemies, instead of . . . people.
It took only a few minutes, and then the shuddering barrage stopped. Jess smelled the Greek fire . . . it was impossible not to recognize the sharp, sweetish reek of it. It was warm in the bunker but not, he thought, hot enough for the fire to be raging right above them. They waited. A child fussed and was quieted, but no one spoke.
They all relaxed when they heard a sudden, loud thumping on the overhead cellar door.
“All clear,” Indira said, and as if they’d all been released from some spell, people around them stood and took in deep breaths. No one seemed relieved. Three muscular guards unbolted the door and eased it back on a latch, to allow the public to exit in slow, shuffling steps.
Jess followed, and came out into hell. Philadelphia was a confusion of broken ruins, flames, smoke, and screams.
Part of the city hall had been hit and was a luminously green inferno; a team of people pulling a long wagon thundered past; then two clambered up to work a hand crank as the others unrolled a long hose and trained it on the blaze. The foam that vomited out smothered the flames as water couldn’t; Greek fire was notorious for that, an oily compound that splashed and clung and ignited on its own, and nothing but thick powders or foams could starve it. Once those flames were doused, it was obvious that they’d lost at least a quarter of the building—though not the end where Jess had been meeting with Beck. If the Library had been aiming to kill the Burner leader, they’d missed their shot.
More buildings on the street vomited black smoke—half a dozen ruined, and farther on, what seemed a residential block had half the houses lit by that haunted green. Some were just black, smoldering cinders and boards scattered in the street. People moved quickly, with a purpose, but he also saw the human damage—a woman weeping in the gutter, clutching a child. A man with a burned face staggering away into the smoke. A soldier hauling a body from rubble.
Until that moment, he’d pushed it away, but Jess felt panic hit him as he turned to look toward the prison, because one part of it was a mass of smoking, green-flickering debris.
“Thomas!” he shouted, and pelted away across the soft grass, under the hissing sway of trees. One was burning, and he had to dodge around an orange, ashy rain of flaming leaves. Smoke welled up to smudge the sky. He heard Thomas running behind him, and the shouts of Indira and her fellow guards, but he didn’t wait. A few rescuers had already gathered at the prison, and a tall, brawny man with a wheelbarrow was shoveling thick powder into the flames to quell them.
The door into the prison had been blocked by a fall of thick, cracked concrete and stones. Jess reached for one and hauled it aside, even as his mind mapped out the prison on the other side for him. That’s the far corner, the cell Santi and Wolfe share. Across from Khalila and Glain.
He didn’t hear any shouting inside, and that made his guts curdle in dread. Greek fire smoke was toxic. Morgan had pointed out the poor ventilation inside.
They had to get the door open. Quickly. Jess didn’t think to ask for help; he just fell to it, grabbing fallen stones.
Thomas joined him at the door, and together they hefted a staggeringly large chunk of concrete and rolled it out of the way. Jess’s muscles burned with effort, and the sharp edges of stone slashed red gashes in his fingers, and when he breathed in he smelled that horrible reek of Greek fire. The smoke made him cough until he was spitting up black bile.
He and Thomas cleared the rest of the blockage, hauling the last away with desperate strength, and Indira shoved between them and fitted keys into the door’s lock. It turned with a shriek of protesting metal, and Thomas shoved the door in with a scrape and shudder.
Jess plunged into a thick cloud of rank, drifting smoke. He coughed at the chemical stench as he shouted, “Morgan!” It was the first name that came to him. “Morgan!”
He almost ran into a cell door, which stood completely open and gaping.
“Here!” a voice called, and coughed. Metal banged on metal. “We’re here!”
He almost tripped over them in the gloom. All of them were together—Khalila, Glain, Santi, Wolfe, Dario, Morgan—wedged together in the corner farthest from the smoke and flames, low to the ground to suck in the cleanest air. Jess grabbed Khalila and Morgan and hauled them up to their feet. “Go, the door’s open!” he said. Glain stood and pulled Dario up with her. “Go!”
Jess reached down to pull Santi up, and Wolfe stopped him. The Scholar’s face had gone ghostly pale, and his outstretched hand shook with urgency.
He was holding Santi against his chest in a protective, supportive embrace.
Jess crouched down. He pulled in his breath sharply when he saw the blackened edges on the captain’s sleeve and the raw, red skin beneath, and looked at Wolfe, whose face in that moment was utterly unguarded . . . but only for an instant, before the bitter mask slipped back in place.
“Carefully,” Wolfe said. “For the love of Heron, careful.”
Jess took hold of Santi’s unburned arm, and Wolfe supported the captain with both his arms around Santi’s waist as they rose together. Jess moved carefully in on the burned side without touching what had to be incredibly painful injuries. Santi’s breath came in short, ragged pants, and his face was the color of pale amber. Still conscious, and sick with it.