The Steam-Powered Sniper in the City of Broken Bridges (The Raven Ladies Book 2) Read online

  This belief was stymied when she left the highway that would take her west to Vegas in favor of a two lane road that instead brought her near the Grand Canyon. She knew better, knew major landmarks were where she was most likely to run into trouble, but she couldn’t help herself. Years ago, before the invasion, she was meant to see the Grand Canyon on a school trip, but hadn’t ever gotten the chance. Against the nagging voice of her survival training, she turned off onto the detour to the national park.

  The sun was fully clear of the horizon by the time she pulled up to the edge of what remained of the Grand Canyon village. Time and conflict hadn’t been kind to the little outpost of tourism. In the early days of the war, she’d heard talk that a band of Apache separatists had held up in the canyon when the Slark were pushing east. Claudia had thought it all sounded too romantic of the Old West to be true, but what she actually found in the canyon closer to confirmed it. The more she explored, the more she found to support the story of guerilla fighters giving the aliens a fight around the canyon. War had indeed hit the national park and it looks like the Slark had paid dearly to achieve their passage. Several of the smaller crawlers littered the canyon floor along with one of the medium sized weapon platforms. She didn’t see any army vehicle tracks anywhere in the area, which was peculiar, but didn’t necessarily mean the revived Apache nation was responsible. It occurred to her after she’d hiked away from the canyon’s edge that she hadn’t taken a moment to marvel at the natural splendor of the Grand Canyon; after what she’d seen in the past six years, a giant hole in the ground really didn’t seem all that amazing.

  She was exhausted, the bike was laboring, and she needed food and water every bit as much as her mount. She pulled up alongside the lone remaining structure, what appeared to be a cinderblock power relay station. The metal door was broken off its hinges allowing her access to the cramped little room. Most of the equipment she expected to find inside had been removed at some point leaving a scraped up cement floor and desert dust blown into the corners. A few lizards skittered into cracks in the walls when she darkened the building’s lone doorway.

  With enough prodding and more than a little luck, she managed to squeeze the motorcycle through the doorway. She’d pinched her left hand between the handlebar and doorframe at one point and only a quick jerk of the limb back saved her from having her fingers crushed. She tore off her leather glove to inspect the scraped hand, clenching her fingers to be sure they all still worked. A realization came over her—she was on her own. She’d been “on her own” before on scouting missions, but always with the possibility of rescue and a support system to return to once she’d accomplished her tasks. If she made a mistake now even the Raven’s thin medical support would be out of reach.

  She propped the door back in place and slept through the hottest part of the day, awaking when the cinderblock building became uncomfortably warm. She was thirsty and something in the darkened room was dripping. She pulled her head from the balled up jacket she’d been using as a pillow. She traced the sound of dripping water to its source, finding water tapping its way out of the bike, finally having worn a hole in the sandy coating on the floor to drip against bare cement.

  “Merde!” Claudia cursed. She crawled quickly across the dusty floor and traced her hands along the cooled metal body of the bike, seeking out the leak. Finally, her hand slipped along the jagged edge of a puncture in one of the brass water tanks. Shrapnel from the grenade must have found its way through the half propane tank to put a dime-sized slice into the all-important water reserve. She still had one, but the re-condensing chamber, helpfully labeled as such, apparently poured the reclaimed water back into the tanks equally. She’d likely run dry in that tank at some point in the night and now lost half her remaining water through the hole as well.

  She tore off a scrap of cloth from her shirt and stuffed it into the hole. She scanned the tangle of tubes and metal chambers as if there might be some answer within them to explain how she was supposed to disconnect the wounded tank or prevent the re-condensing chamber to continue feeding that side. The combination of Slark technology, an 80-year-old Indian motorcycle, and the pilot’s own eccentricities made a maze of Rube Goldberg-esque complexity. She knew next to nothing about machinery and she imagined even the most gifted mechanic would require days of study to understand what the pilot had created.

  Claudia ran her damp hands up into the thick tangle of her black hair and let out a genuine groan of her foolish defeat so early into the trip. It took her a few minutes to rally herself to the problem at hand. She needed something to patch the hole. She needed water to replenish the tanks. And she generally needed supplies of every kind. Maybe she wasn’t smart enough to figure out the insanely complex vehicle she was riding, but she was a master forager and scout—she could feed herself and the bike indefinitely if the structure of the motorcycle could be assured. She steeled herself for the work of the day and put her hands to it.

  Five hours later, she’d found enough water from a strange little spring tributary and plastic jugs to carry it without having to hike all the way to the canyon’s floor. She happened across a fat old rattlesnake out for a hunt in the dusk, and popped its head off with an easy shot from her Walther. Rattlesnakes, as dangerous as their bite could be, were reasonably easy prey as they identified themselves with the telltale rattling and would use their insanely fast reflexes to try to bite at a bullet if they saw one coming, making headshots almost guaranteed. Food and water was easy, but she had no idea if the metal shavings and ancient bathroom caulking gun she’d found would actually plug the hole in the bike’s brass tank.

  She cleaned the snake and set it to cook over the low embers of a dying fire. The desert sky exploded in crimson and pink as the sun began to set, painting the rust colored rocks of the Arizona desert with a beautiful palette. She stopped in her work to enjoy the little moment of peace and beauty. In the quiet moment, she wondered how things turned out in Tombstone. If anyone had a way out, it would be Veronica. If anyone was too mean to die, it was Fiona. She gave little thought to the resumption of the war and how the pilot’s assault on the refineries might go. If the aerial assault failed, the Ravens would find another way. The resourcefulness and determination of her former clan was undeniable.

  She shook off the nagging thoughts that Veronica and Fiona might well be dead. She had to see to herself, her mount, and her solitary mission. She set to repair the bike once the snake was roasting happily over the coals. Squeezing the handle on the caulking gun was a monumental task requiring both hands; finally, with an angry sweat rising on her brow, she managed to pour the tiniest rivulet of white caulking material into the crack. She quickly added as many of the metal shavings as would stick. The second attempt went slightly better. Her third and final effort closed the gap and she hoped put an end to the concern as the caulking gun wasn’t going to give up anymore of the pungent sealant and she was completely out of metal shavings. She smoothed the plug as best she could with a chunk of wood and prayed it would hold.

  She read the dirty and peeling label on the caulk canister. It was silicone based with a set time of 30 minutes and a completely dry time of 24 hours. Not really knowing what any of that meant, she decided to split the difference and wait a few hours before trying to pour water into the repaired tank.

  She sat by the low glow of the dying fire, eating her gamey rattlesnake dinner as the sun finally set and the chill of the desert night found its way to her. She’d eaten reptile before and kind of liked it with a bit of salt and pepper, especially fried in oil. Others said rattlesnake tasted like chicken, but she assumed it was just the comment of an unsophisticated palette. Rattlesnake tasted like reptile, which was its own distinct flavor; moreover, carnivorous reptiles like rattlesnakes had a very different flavor than insectivorous lizards. She started to wonder what turtle would taste like with a nice white wine sauce.

  She hadn’t realized what she was doing until earlier that afternoon, but once it struc
k her, it was all she could think about. She was heading north. North to Canada. Whatever that might end up meaning. It was a romantic notion and about as good as any direction to head, although she had no idea if it would lead her back to her father. She wanted to believe Canada of all places would weather the Slark storm best, but she couldn’t make it stick. The whole concept of a matriarchal society ruled by a Russian mafia queen rising out of the ashes of the invasion to become the new North American super power wouldn’t have even been on Claudia’s long list of possibilities, but there the Ravens were, rebuilding society like they were always meant to.

  She was 14 when the invasion struck, on a school choir trip to Las Vegas to compete in an international competition. Her father had seen her off to the airport, watching her pass through the security checkpoint with his steely eyes, waving only once before she finally passed out of his vision. Her teenage self had been so glad to be free of his rigidity and rules. Her minor rebellions seemed so trivial and petty in light of the past six years. She wished she’d given him the kiss on the cheek he’d asked for when they parted company for what might well turn out to be the last time. Airports were crowded places and her friends were watching, she’d explained. He’d said he understood.

  One night out of the Ravens and she was already crumbling to depression. She’d had the morose streak in her and she knew it. Time to think for her was time to count her regrets—she wasn’t as strong as she’d thought and she might well be twice as foolish. She wrapped the remains of the snake in the cleaner of the two shirts she’d brought and stuffed it into the nearly empty backpack she’d brought. She wondered if her ill-conceived flight of fancy would kill her before she became too depressed to turn back. In the weakness of the moment, she had to admit the Ravens weren’t a bad home for her. They’d completed the training her father began, taught her to be a sniper, taught her about explosives, made a proper soldier of her and gave her a purpose and the protection of community, and all they’d asked for in return was a lifetime of service. No, she decided, that probably wasn’t a fair deal after all.

  The caulk was dry enough and she even had a little water left over when she’d filled both tanks. As she poured water into the wounded vessel, her heart leapt into her throat as she stared through the gloom to see if the lumpy white seal would hold. As the last of the jug dripped into the tank, she let out a heavenly sigh of relief. The ugly little plug was holding.

  She roared out into the night made green by her night vision goggles, turning back to the road labeled 89 to continue north.

  †

  The second morning was still well on the horizon when the freak storm hit her. The black sky broke out in blacker clouds and then proceeded to drop fat, heavy rain on her. Her speed cut, steam rose off the bike’s workings when the moisture hit it, and she quickly became soaked to the bone. She had no idea where she was as most of the road signs on that stretch had long since fallen. More than that, she’d changed directions a few times in the darkness and now she thought she might be on a highway again. Without the North Star to navigate by, she couldn’t even be completely certain she was still heading north.

  Thunder roared above the sound of the motorcycle’s engine and lightning pained the sky in wicked flashes. The first few strobes of lightning illuminated the Painted Desert and the empty highway where only a few derelict vehicles still stood along the sides in random intervals. As she was finally considering stopping to try to take refuge in one of the old cars, a flash of lightning illuminated something truly bizarre up ahead. Colossal rocks, pushed up at an odd angle like a stack of coins fallen to one side, cut directly across the highway with the narrow lane of asphalt carving a tiny path between them. The strange rocks weren’t large enough to call a mountain, but were clearly larger than any hill. Claudia pushed on toward the strange rock formation. Each time the lightning flashed as she came closer the more and more the rocks looked like the spine of a great reptile or monster. She passed between the strange reef rock formations and came out on a gentle curve where a rest area indicated she’d reached the southern mouth of Black Dragon Canyon. She pulled off the side of the road and made for the visitor information center. The two bathrooms were connected in the middle by a roof that had long since fallen in.

  She tucked her motorcycle under the triangle portion created when the awning fell in nearest the women’s restroom, and ran for cover into what remained of the brick building that formerly housed the women’s bathroom. Most of the ceiling was gone, allowing the rain to pour inside, pooling in places but mostly running straight down the drain in the middle of the floor. Claudia huddled beneath the last corner of roof near the bank of sinks. It took her several minutes of cursing her weakness and fear of something as trivial as rain before she managed to talk herself into taking advantage of the storm to refill some of the plastic jugs she’d brought. She was cold, wet, and starving before she finally got the jugs set up to fill in the pouring rain. Pure exhaustion settled over her, knocking the fight from her until she fell asleep with her head down on her knees, not sure if she was waiting for the storm to pass or simply kill her.

  Almost as quickly as she’d fallen asleep, she was rattled awake by an apocalyptic rumbling. She couldn’t be sure how long she’d slept. The rain was easing although the night was still too dark to see even the faintest outline of the crumbling room around her. A lightning flash illuminated the building through the many holes in the roof. Across from her, not ten feet away, standing nearest the stalls, was a large man. Instantly she was on her feet, her pistol jumping to her hand. She pointed the little Walther at the man, unsure if the gun was too wet to even fire.

  “I picked up your trail at the Grand Canyon,” the man said, shouting to be heard over the storm and the approaching rumble. Of course he had. She should’ve known better than to leave a trail near a landmark. Marauders picked points of interest to set up their traps for the very reason that unsuspecting people would go out of their way to see the things denied them before the world went to hell.

  “What do you want?” Claudia shouted in reply although she knew the answer.

  “You’re a long way from home with that accent,” the man said. “I’ve heard a man with that same accent before.”

  “Where?!” Claudia couldn’t be certain, but she thought she saw the man reach into his jacket to remove what she imagined was a knife. She prayed for another flash of lightning to tell her what the large man had in his hand.

  “In the City of Broken Bridges,” the man said, taking a step toward her.

  The rumbling had grown so loud, so close, and so constant that she couldn’t be completely certain she’d heard him right. Wherever the rumbling was coming from, the echo off the canyon walls was distorting and intensifying it until it became an all encompassing roar from all directions. The night sky lit up with a flash of white and she finally got a look at the large hunting knife the man had in his hand. Every fiber of her being told her to shoot the man, but she couldn’t, not until she knew what he meant about the city and the accent.

  “What does that mean?!” Claudia shouted her question though the rumbling had long since drowned out her ability to even hear her own voice with any clarity.

  She couldn’t tell if the man heard her or made an answer, although after a moment’s hesitation, he took a step toward her. The brief flash of light over the man’s face showed the hunger she’d expected of someone whose prey had grown scarce over the last few years. She didn’t know where her trump card was and wasn’t interested in playing it anyway. Whatever information the man might still hold would have to be lost with his life. She pulled the trigger. The brief pop didn’t tell her if she’d hit. The rumbling finally caught up to them and tore away the half of the building the man was standing in. For a brief, confused moment, Claudia thought the tiny pistol had somehow blown away the entire half of the room. Immediately after, she recognized the work of a mudslide. She pressed her back to the wall behind her as the fast moving river of water a
nd debris continued to erode the floor in front of her. The man was gone, along with any answers he might have had, and if Claudia didn’t think of something she would join him miles away and beneath an ocean of debris when the mudslide finally found its ending.

  Nothing around her gave her any hope. The wall behind her felt unstable already, far too unstable to climb, the floor was inching back toward her toes, and the stream of black mud was so littered with boulders and enormous debris that she knew death was assured if she fell in. She pressed her back against the wall as hard as she could, her eyes never leaving the deadly river ahead of her. The last of the tiles right in front of her boots crumbled away an instant before she fell back through the weakened wall. She curled into a ball as bricks and other debris fell down around her. She felt a few hit home, likely raising bruises on her arms and shoulders, but luckily not her head. When she was certain the wall was finished raining bricks on her, she pulled her head from beneath the wooden slats that had actually done most of the work of shielding her. The rest area was nearly gone and not just on the side she was on. Another flow of mud was coursing its way along on the men’s room side as well having long since worn away the building there. In fact, if one of the reef style rocks from the outcropping hadn’t fallen across the highway, and very recently by the look of it, the middle ground where she and her bike stood would have washed away as well.