Chapter 80
Ezra
Angela’s soldiers will have to run out of bullets eventually. This isn’t some episode of The Walking Dead.
Yells from far away carry to where we take cover.
“They’re here! Leeanne’s group is here!”
Collectively, we breathe a sigh of relief.
Together, we combine our powers and strength to push ahead.
Atlas vanishes, then reappears seconds later to tackle a soldier onto the tracks.
I stay glued to Conin’s side with a handgun that has a single round left.
I need to use it wisely and I need to trust in those around me to keep me safe.
We’re few and limited, but together we’re a force to be reckoned with.
And with Leeanne’s return, the Angelics might just have a shot at winning this battle.
I’m terrified.
But I’m not alone.
I never was.
Leeanne phases through a slew of gunfire aimed in her direction.
She sprints toward a woman clad in the Barclay attire and passes through their body uninterrupted before coming into possession of the weapon the soldier was holding.
She tries her luck several more times, handing each firearm to a member of her squad before moving on to the next unfortunate soul to cross her path.
Atlas scuffles with a man who grabs hold of his frame to boot him off.
The weapon scatters in the process, but the man isn’t finished with Atlas, who struggles to his feet.
He’s kicked repeatedly on the visor, over and over.
Atlas’s head lifts, then thuds against the gravel, while the Barclay soldier aims to shatter glass.
Conin and I aren’t quick enough. We pick up our pace, a bloodcurdling cry slips from Conin, and I cock the barrel, set to aim.
Yet it’s Gavin who beats us to him. The soldier’s boots freeze in place, icy shards climbing until they reach the padded shins.
The man’s head comes next. It’s encompassed in a bulb of pure ice, which snaps apart from the rest of the body.
Both figure and head crash into a dead heap.
Gavin assists Atlas to a standing position, but Atlas is wobbly on his feet.
We reach him a second later. I keep him upright while Conin thanks Gavin, who then returns to battle.
We’re in the eye of the storm with little to protect ourselves.
I sling an arm around Atlas’s shoulder, and in my peripheries, the flash of a familiar face makes the entirety of my being freeze.
Thax is on the outskirts of the ensuing pandemonium, a deer in headlights.
I can’t help but look at him, feel my will and composure freeze.
We can’t see each other’s eyes, but I know without a doubt we’re looking at each other.
“Ezra, who is that?” Atlas says.
My mouth won’t function.
“That’s his brother,” Conin whispers.
I failed to mention Thax was here, but I gather nothing from Conin’s expression, which is stony-faced and slack behind the visor.
I will myself to get moving before we’re killed where we stand, but I grind to another halt as Ambrosia careens in front of us to telekinetically toss Thax into the heart of the train station.
He breaks through walls and plaster, glass and embers.
I don’t take any time to consider what I do next.
I bolt for the raging inferno and the building it consumes.
Not a single thought flickers in my head despite one single word: closure.
Whatever that might be. Whoever lies in the rubble: brother or foe.
This is the end. Maybe we can salvage something before it comes crumbling down over our heads.
“Thomas!” I shout.
My partners shriek my name.
There’s no stopping me.
The flames climb and lick the infrastructure of this tiny station. I fall into place right in front of the hole Thomas’s body created when he went crashing through. I enter and the building groans in greeting. Sparks rain from overhead—the roof starts to cave in. And I yell his name.
“Ezra!” Thomas shouts back.
“Where are you?”
His voice is hoarse, labored. It physically pains me to hear.
“O-over h-here!”
It’s faint, but he’s ahead. I push through the smoke, the billowing clouds of tarred obsidian, the pervasive fumes that work to inch into my suit.
Thomas writhes on the ground. On top of him are wooden beams. He’s coated in drywall and plaster.
The sound of my name crescendos, but I ignore their pleas, focusing on the man who made my life a living hell.
I’m no savior. I’m doing this for me.
“Help,” he strains. “Please.”
I hook both arms underneath a beam, squat, and then attempt to lift its heavy mass.
It hardly budges. Thomas shudders beneath it and elicits an elongated groan.
I crouch again, attempting to create enough space for him to escape.
When the beam lifts ever so slightly, Thomas catches on, pushing with all the strength he can muster.
Conin and Atlas are growing louder. I think I can hear their impending footsteps above the chaos.
Thomas pushes and pushes, I pull and pull, and the beam gives way enough for him to slip through.
He crawls from the space, panting and gathering the air forced from him.
He’s on his hands and knees, gasping for breath, but the fire invades his nostrils.
He hacks and splutters. I gaze down at him in what probably resembles pity.
Now confronted with Thomas, I have no idea what to say .
. . what to do. Instead, I stand there as the train station holds on for dear life.
“Don’t think this changes anything,” Thomas says. I wonder if I heard him correctly or if my mind’s machinations are leaning into the familiar.
I’m gravely disappointed.
“Thomas—”
“I hate you.”
“Let’s get out of here!”
“I said I hate you!” he bellows.
“Yeah?”
I’m not surprised. I’m not surprised in the fucking slightest.
My partners are somewhere behind me.
“Ezra!” they call. “Ezra!”
I laugh. I can’t stop it. I’m hysterical, eyes only for Thomas, who cranes his neck to take me in. He’s nothing but loathing and detestation. His face is contorted with seething cruelty. All it does is make me laugh.
“Fuck you,” he coughs.
“I should’ve let you die,” I hiss.
He’s done nothing but make me hate myself.
He’s done nothing but hurt and scar and make me wish I was dead so I wouldn’t have to face this painful existence.
For a moment there . . . for a small, minuscule moment, I thought the rift between us could be repairable.
When I search his face, I find the scorning, hateful likeness of Lukeman Gray.
I see a family in shambles, beyond salvation.
A life that could’ve been, but will never be.
And the world that drove us apart.
That hurt us both and left us for dead.
He and I are both products of what our failing society created.
Amalgamations, less than human.
Brothers with no semblance of family.
With no parents to love them.
Thax bulls into me, driving me to the littered ground.
His hand locates the emblem centered on the suit’s chest plates that detract the entirety of it from my body.
He presses down. The only protection I have dissipates.
I’m vulnerable to the elements. Thax takes deadly, squeezing fingers to my neck and crushes.
He presses on skin and muscles—tighter and tighter.
As I gasp for air, I inhale an abundance of fumes and ash.
“You’re a disgrace,” Lukeman says through Thax’s mouth.
“I wish I never had you as a son,” comes the impoverished likeness of Rochelle Gray.
“We never loved you,” my boyfriends say. Thax’s lips close. I don’t care how he came to know their voices, I just want him to stop.
“Let him go!” yells Conin, automatic weapon slated to kill.
I barely make him out in the blurred corners of my vision.
Thax’s grip loosens. His frame trembles.
“Let him go or I will kill you!”
The world fades to black, but I feel his hands detract.
“Leave or I shoot,” Conin says. “Get the hell out of here!”
The thundering of boots tapers off.
I heave and cough, hack up copious amounts of blood.
There’s a sensation of being lifted in the air, armor rebuilding into place, a visor sheathing my head. Atlas fights off a soldier and wins, but barely.
Everything darkens.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out.
Unconsciousness claims me.