For the curious. Go to Google Maps and search for "improve asylum, boston" for the locations in which the second scene in this chapter is based. I've never been there – disclaimer, etc, etc. – but it has a handy Google Street View walkabout in the actual location and the look fit with what I was looking for. Enjoy!


Chapter 29

March 12, 2024, Early Evening

She was a little thing, probably four or five. Wrapped in an overlarge green jacket that dusted the snow around her feet, she kicked at the frozen ground and hugged a small backpack close to her as she prowled the fenced area. Every now and then, other kids stopped to say something or poke fun at her, but she would square off with them – short legs dug into the hard-packed snow, chin thrust out – and they would laugh it off and leave her be. But still she would stand there, her expression smug and victorious, little thumbs digging into the straps of her bag.

Someone had tied back her dark red hair into two messy pigtails and she frequently tugged at one of them as if by habit.

Tommy watched from beneath the shadow of a large, bare maple tree, a squat line of brick row houses to his back. Fog had settled around the shoulders of the old school building that adjoined the playground, partially obscuring the rooftop from view, and several sleepy soldiers casually patrolled the low brick wall and half railing that formed the perimeter of the orphanage's outdoor area. The air was bitter cold. It had stopped snowing that morning, but snow lay in thick drifts across the ground and the gray sky above threatened more to come. Tommy turned up his collar and pulled at the sides of his threadbare stocking cap before plunging his hands back into his pockets.

A metal door swung open and a thickset soldier with short hair and a square face stepped out onto the playground. Most of the kids paid the soldier no mind, but Tommy noticed the little red-headed girl look up, her eyes narrowing. It was towards her that the soldier began shuffling, his gait easy and relaxed. As he neared her, he stopped and crouched, waving her towards him. The girl's lips curled into a tiny frown, at once suspicious and hopeful, and she edged towards him. The soldier said something that Tommy could not hear and the little girl rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips, immediately dropping her cautious shuffle and marching square up to the man, as if he had dared her to be so bold.

When she was near enough, the soldier reached into his jacket and pulled forth a small black object, which he offered her. Tommy could not make out the object from this distance, but he knew what it was. An old Sony Cassette Walkman, headphones wrapped around it. At first the girl glared suspiciously at the object and said something to the soldier, her eyes narrowing. But he only smiled and shrugged, making as if to pocket it again. With a snort loud enough for Tommy to hear, the girl lightly smacked the soldier's arm and snatched the Walkman from his outstretched hand. He chuckled and clapped a gloved hand on her shoulder, then rose and returned towards the door through which he had come.

The girl stood there eyeing the Walkman for a second, slowly unraveling the headphones, but then she swiftly shoved the player and its ungainly cords into her jacket pocket and scuttled away to the far side of the playground, where a frozen dumpster gave her some privacy to inspect her newfound prize.

Tommy smiled.

"Is it done?"

Marlene appeared beside him, a scarf wrapped around her ears and mouth. She moved with her shoulders hunched forward and her voice dragged, tired and cold.

Tommy nodded, eyeing her as she slowly came to lean against the same tree he had positioned himself beside. "Yeah, it's done."

"Good."

Like Tommy, Marlene's eyes drifted to the distant playground, where they came to rest on the little red-headed girl.

"Who is she?" Tommy asked.

At first, Marlene said nothing. Her gaze was distant and distracted, as if she were not truly looking at the girl. But after several seconds, she shook her head. "Just a kid."

"Mmhmm," Tommy grunted. "And you bribe guards to sneak in a Walkman to every random kid in Boston?"

"No." She did not elaborate, nor did her weary tone invite further inquiry.

Tommy changed the subject. "So Bas is set on tonight?"

It was a pinched sigh that now escaped Marlene, a frustrated sound as her lips pressed together and she crossed her arms, turning away from the orphanage. "Yes," she said sharply. "He's determined."

"Damnit. He's movin' too fast, you know that."

"I know."

Tommy shook his head. "We need more time. We got a good quarter to a third of Boston's detail sympathizin' with what we're tryin' to do. If Bas goes through with this, you back every one of those soldiers in a corner. He's gonna force their hand."

"That's what he wants to do, Tommy," Marlene said quietly, the same angry edge in her voice. "Force them to show just how ugly they can be. Shock people into action."

"Jesus Christ."

"But he's wrong on this one. We haven't weakened them enough. We haven't dealt them enough damage for a move like this, but he smells blood."

"And he's goin' for the kill," Tommy replied, angrily shaking his head. "He ain't even givin' us a chance to do it right."

At that, Marlene looked sidelong at Tommy, her expression sharpening. "He's doing it right. He's just doing it too fast."

"Maybe. But I been there, remember? I've seen a zone torn apart by mobs, seen panicked soldiers lay into rioters with machine guns. It ain't the way to go."

"It worked for Pittsburg and Cleveland."

"Uh huh, and where are they now?"

Marlene grew quiet, throwing a knowing glance at Tommy, her brow arching angrily at the corner he had caught her in. "It will be different here. Popular uprisings worked in Pittsburg and Cleveland. Popular governance did not. We will do better."

Tommy wondered if the words sounded as hollow to Marlene as they did to him.

She threw a backward glance at the playground behind her. The little girl was arguing with a boy twice her height, and as they watched, she threw her hands into the boy's stomach to shove him backwards. A hint of a satisfied smile pinched one corner of Marlene's mouth, then she turned and began stalking away.

Lips pressing together, Tommy cast a final glance towards the playground as well before following Marlene without a word.


Night

The air was damp with wet clothing, clinging to the walls of the dark underground assembly room, rising in sweaty drifts from coats still beaded with ice and boots still caked with snow. More than a hundred had gathered, their breath fogging in front of them as they mingled, some of them quiet and nervous, others boisterous and bold.

It reminded Tommy of Baltimore's old fighting pits, a dark space filled with flickering fire light and the hubbub of too many people, smelling of oil lamps and wet wool and sweat. Black paint peeled from the low ceiling and fat wooden pillars, and crushed glass crunched underfoot. This place had once been a comedy club, an underground retreat replete with grungy black floors and disco balls, dozens of light fixtures hanging from the rafters. Now, broken beer bottles littered the corners of the room and the plush folding chairs that had once hosted audiences lay wrenched and abused. At one end of the former club, The Asylum was spray-painted in jagged white letters, above a wicked red smiley face with slanted eyes.

Tommy could feel water creeping down the side of his face as snow melted from the bottom of his stocking cap. At least with this many people, the cold was replaced by a clammy sort of warmth. Eyes scanning the crowd, he gently pushed through the throngs of those gathered, keeping a wary hand on the strap of the rifle he had slung over one shoulder.

"Hey, Tommy," Joe greeted with a yawn. He stood near an open doorway that led into an entry hall and bar, his eyes heavy and expression slow. There was an edge in his voice, the same unease that Tommy felt, but beneath was a deep weariness that manifested in the shadows under the kid's eyes and the cool gray pallor that had settled in his cheeks.

Tommy came to stand beside Joe, jaw tightening. The Boston Fireflies were spread too thin for what Bastille planned for tonight.

"Keepin' sharp, Joe?" Tommy said, crossing his arms.

"You betcha, boss."

Tommy frowned, ignoring the half-truth. "Seen Max?"

"Said he was going to check on Carol's people in the alley."

Nodding, Tommy straightened and gave Joe's shoulder a light squeeze. "Alright. Think I'll have a look too. Eyes open, Joe. Bas should be here any time."

"Got it."

He pushed away from the wall and slipped a thumb under the strap of his rifle, once again diving into the gathering crowd. The faces around him all had the same haggard look – cheeks hollow, eyes sunk, skin pale and brittle. Boston was a hard place at the best of times and this winter had been particularly brutal, bringing with it long snows and deep ration shortages. Every few days, at dawn, military trucks rumbled through the streets, pausing so soldiers could drag stiff bundles of clothes from alleyways and behind dumpsters, anywhere the dead had quietly given into the cold and starvation.

Tommy paused. Amidst the milling crowd, a face caught his eye, familiar but quite out of place.

Tess.

She had a thick woolen cap pulled over her hair, but her long, angular face and sharp expression were unmistakable, even if she looked as gaunt and worn as everyone else. She was scanning the assembly, nose and chin held slightly up as she stared out over the heads of those around her. Then, as she tugged up the collar of the black jacket she wore, her eyes locked on Tommy's.

She smirked.

Jaw suddenly tightening, Tommy pushed through the people in front of him, more roughly than he had intended but without pausing to apologize. Instead, he crossed the room, expression souring as he neared Tess.

"What are you doin' here?" he muttered suspiciously, once he stood before her.

"What," she returned dryly, rolling her eyes. "Can't a girl sign up to suicide without everyone getting all suspicious?"

"Huh?"

"Suicide. Rebel cause. This bullshit. God, never mind." Tess's expression quickly lost its sarcasm as she grew impatient and looked past Tommy, eyes once again scanning the crowd. "Nothing to do with you, Tommy. Be a good boy and run along."

Tommy's lips pressed together and he glared at her, his original question still hanging in the air.

"I'm looking for someone," Tess finally said, her jaw working angrily. "Happy?"

"Who?"

"Rodger."

Tommy blinked in surprise and opened his mouth to respond, but someone suddenly clipped his shoulder from behind and he stumbled forward a step. It was Troy, as usual cutting a swath through the crowd without much heed to whomever he knocked about as he did so.

"Found 'im," the old smuggler growled at Tess, scowling. "Joel's with 'im." It had been nearly four months since Tommy had last seen Troy, in the dark bowels of the mall, but Troy seemed unsurprised and virtually indifferent. He glanced at Tommy, frowned, and muttered, "Hey." Nothing more.

"Finally," Tess snorted, before Tommy could say anything. "Come on then, let's drag his ass out of here."

She began to push past Tommy, but he caught her arm, fully expecting the dangerous glare she suddenly shot him. "What're you doin'?" Tommy said. "What's he here for?"

"He's here because he's a useless old drunk," Tess quietly snapped, "and he's got it in his head that the Fireflies and their miraculous 'light'" – she used air quotes – "are actually going to save this fucking place. I am dragging his ass out of here, like the sentimental idiot I am. Come along if you want. Brother dearest would be crushed if you don't stop and say hi."

She wrenched her arm out of Tommy's grasp and shoved him aside. He felt his temper flare, face growing hot, but Troy reached out and thumped two fingers against Tommy's chest, shaking his head as if to say it was hardly worth heating up over. And it wasn't, Tommy realized, as he bit his tongue. Without a word, Troy stepped out ahead of Tess and began wading through the crowd, cutting a path in which Tess, and eventually Tommy, followed.

They crossed the room, ducking through the door where Joe kept watch and entering the low-ceiled entry area, where a narrow set of black stairs led down from the street above. Throngs of people were milling here as well, pressed up against a former bar with broken beer taps and crowded around a high reception desk. Troy led them to the far side, where two sets of doors, once leading to male and female restrooms, were boarded over with rotting slabs of wood.

They found Rodger and Joel in the corner, where Rodger was seated haphazardly on a short stool missing part of its third leg. Joel towered over him, one hand on the wall, leaning down as if speaking to him.

Yet as Troy and Tess stepped through the crowd and into view, Rodger suddenly looked up and his face twisted, eyes scrunching with the overdramatic anger of someone who has been drinking.

"Aw Jesus Christ," Rodger muttered. "Can't you people just fuck off for once?"

Tommy could not remember the last time he had seen Rodger. Had it been years? Whenever it was, the one-time janitor was much changed since then. His hairline had receded and what hair remained had gone a greasy gray, as had the stubble that replaced the goatee Rodger had once sported. His eyes had once been sharp and mocking, but now they were watery and shot through with red, sunk deep into a face that had gone hollow and gray with age, alcohol, and grief.

Joel looked up. His demeanor changed as he caught sight of Tommy, instantly tensing.

"Hey," Tommy said, nodding at Joel despite his brother's guarded expression. He wanted to speak to Joel, though this was hardly the time.

"Tommy," Joel greeted in return, also nodding.

"Leave me the fuck alone, Tess," Rodger interrupted, ignoring the rest of them as he glared balefully up at Tess. "Said you didn't give a damn if I drank myself to death. Why go all fuckin' mother hen on me now?" His words slurred slightly as he spoke.

"Get up," Tess said without replying. "You're leaving."

"Told Joel the same thing, girl. Fuck off."

Angry impatience flashed across Tess's face and she leaned forward to grab a handful of Rodger's threadbare sweater, hauling him unsteadily to his feet. "And I said get the hell up, so get the hell up."

"Go fuck yourself."

He made an ungainly kick towards Tess's shin in an attempt to propel himself away from her, but Troy reached out and clapped a hand around his shoulder, forcing Rodger to twist awkwardly away and slam his side into the wall behind him. Tess was on him in a second, again grabbing a handful of Rodger's sweater with one hand and reaching to hook her other under one of his arms. Tommy leapt forward, seizing her wrist before she could get both hands on Rodger, but even as he did so, he felt Joel's arm wrap around his neck and chest, pulling him back away from the fray.

"Joel, stop!" Tommy growled, releasing Tess and grabbing at his brother's arm instead. "What the hell do you care anyway? Let him be!"

"Leave off it, Tommy!" Joel grunted sharply. "This ain't your business."

Rodger had started yelling, thrashing about as Tess and Troy tried to back him into the corner and lay hands on him. "I gotta right to be here! Stop it! Lemme be!"

Suddenly Tess gasped and jumped back and Troy's hands instantly went into the air. Rodger had been backed into the corner and stood with one leg awkwardly posed against the stool he had been sitting on, which had spilled on its side. He held a pistol in one hand, the barrel pointed at Tess's gut.

"For God's sake, Rodger," Tess said impatiently, her surprise quickly giving way to anger. "Put the fucking gun away. You don't belong here."

Troy grunted. "You reek of booze, Rodg. You ain't shootin nobody. And you ain't thinkin' right, else you'd be sleepin' this off somewhere."

Even with the milling crowd and the hum of conversation, their little scuffle in the corner had drawn attention. Those nearest them were gazing warily at Rodger, shuffling slowly backwards.

"I said to leave me the hell alone," Rodger growled, steadying himself with a hand against the wall. "I ain't sayin' it again."

"Put it up, Rodger," Joel muttered, hands also spread wide. "You're already makin' yourself an idiot for bein' here."

Tommy felt a hand on his shoulder.

He turned, heart dropping, as Bastille stepped up beside him, surveying the standoff between Rodger and Tess. The old man looked as he ever did – a carefully cultivated image, Tommy had come to realize – square white beard, greasy ball cap, old vest, checkered shirt. Everything about him suggested he was a tough old bastard, save for the rusty forearm crutch that jittered as he moved. He was watching Tess with thin lips, the teardrop wrinkles beneath his eyes pinching angrily as he scowled.

The Firefly leader's sudden presence seemed to freeze the scene before them. Rodger abruptly began blinking, mouth falling open. Tess's eyes darted towards Bastille and the impatience in her expression gave way to defiance. Both Troy and Joel glanced at each other, then towards the exit, hands still held aloft.

"I see your opinion of our organization remains unchanged," Bastille rumbled, glaring at Joel. As usual, his voice grated, low and unrelenting.

Joel looked surprised that the old man remembered him, but in next moment, he clamped his mouth shut and clenched his jaw. "Why should it be?" he muttered, nodding at Tommy. "You've nearly got him killed enough times."

"Your brother's survival is not my purpose," Bastille replied coldly. "Retaking my city is my purpose. Your brother survives because he has the wherewithal to do so, but his purpose is the same as mine. His priorities are the same as mine."

"Fancy words, old man," Tess suddenly said, expression darkening.

He turned to face her. The crowd had grown very quiet now, due no doubt to Bastille's presence, but also due in no small part to the half dozen armed Fireflies who trailed him. Tommy could see Marlene slowly pushing her way forward from the rear.

Bastille's eyes narrowed. "Only to those who don't look past tomorrow, smuggler. Yes, I know who you are. I know everyone I do business with." He thrust his chin in Rodger's direction. "You want to continue this little spat of yours? Fine. I'm no peacemaker. But you'll get the hell out of here first. And if your friend wishes to stay, he stays."

Tess looked furious. Not uncontrolled, for she was rarely uncontrolled, but Tommy recognized the fury in the tight set of her jaw and the thin pinch of her brow. Slowly, he stepped closer to Bastille, squaring his shoulder against the old man's, and behind him, he heard rustling cloth as the other Fireflies did the same.

No one else moved, not even Tess, who was hardly the sort to back down in the face of such a challenge. Rodger continued standing with his back to the corner, gun in hand, and Troy looked as pissed off as ever. Unexpectedly, it was Joel who broke the tension.

"Ain't worth this, Tess. Rodger wants to get himself killed, let him."

Tommy glanced at his brother. As usual, Joel's emotions were plain to see. He was not afraid – indeed, his lip almost curled, as if quite ready to take on what he viewed, no doubt, as a group of amateur rebels – but his eyes were narrowed and watchful, disinclined to attract this sort of attention.

"C'mon, Tess," Tommy muttered.

The angular lines of her face had been thrown into stark profile by the anger in her expression, but those lines slowly diminished and the tension across her brow faded as fury was traded for disdain, and scowl was traded for smirk.

She glanced at Rodger. Whatever ulterior motives she may have had coming here to drag Rodger out – and Tommy did not doubt she had them – he also suspected that there was some part of her that genuinely did not want an old acquaintance taking up with such a crowd. She had always harbored a harsh sort of loyalty to those she worked with, even to Tommy, before he had left. But no matter. Tess had never allowed sentiment to cloud her judgment.

She snorted. "Have it your way, old man."

That seemed to settle the matter for Bastille. He gave a sharp nod and brushed past Tess without another word, his crutch jittering in its metal socket as the tension in the room instantly dissipated. Onlookers who had been staring quickly turned their backs to the group, all too anxious to pretend none of the unpleasantry had happened. Tommy remained where he was, but he acknowledged Marlene with a nod as she passed him, following Bastille but shooting a meaningful glance at Tess and Troy and Joel.

"This was stupid," Joel muttered, once the last of the Fireflies had filed past them into the adjoining assembly room.

Rodger grimaced. "Yeah, it was," he replied, still glowering at them as he relaxed and shoved his gun into his rear waistband.

"Shut up." Troy had remained largely silent through the exchange with Bastille, but the look he now sent his former comrade silenced Rodger in an instant. Then, when Joel shook his head and stepped towards the stairway leading to the street above, Troy caught his arm. "Hey," he said, leaning in. "What about Rodg?"

Joel glanced back. "What about him? He wants to stay, Troy. Waste your time on him if you want. I got better things to do."

For once Troy's ordinarily apathetic expression became animated. His brows drew together and he swiveled to look at Tess, lips parting.

"No," Tess muttered, irritation still plain. "Joel's right. I said we'd try and we did. Idiot doesn't want to come and I don't intend to stay."

"You're gonna have to now," Tommy said quietly, abruptly drawing their attention. He had not moved once the other Fireflies were past, but the four smugglers had seemed to forget he was there.

Tess's expression twitched. "What do you mean?"

"No one comes or goes once Bas arrives. For security."

Joel snorted, suddenly crossing his arms. "This a joke?"

"No."

Tommy did not bother to make his tone angry or defiant. Whether Joel and the others liked it or not did not really matter. They would back down for the same reason Tess had backed down from Bastille, because they knew it was an argument they would not win. Fireflies would firearms stood at every doorway.

Unlike Tess, Joel did not press the point. He gave a disgusted shake of his head and turned away, waving Tess and Troy back towards the wall.

"Stow it," Tommy said, as all three began to mutter. "Bas won't speak for long. Just sit down for a few goddamn minutes."

The room began to quiet. Breath still rising to the ceiling in damp tendrils, people started to shuffle out of the entry area where Tommy stood and into the adjoining room, where The Asylum had once hosted improve shows. Tommy followed the crowd, leaving Joel and the rest of them and positioning himself instead next to one of the two doorways into the main assembly room, where he could survey all those gathered. The comedy club's main stage had once been at the center of the room, with rows of chairs rising on all four sides of it, but now all attention was focused on one end of the low-ceiled space, where Bastille and a squad of Fireflies had gathered. Tommy glimpsed Marlene at the other end of the room, standing beside a metal door that led into the alley beyond.

Someone had hung several battery-powered lanterns from the ceiling near where Bastille stood, bathing that end of the room in a pale white light that seemed strangely at odds with the flickering, oily yellow light thrown off by the candles and kerosene lamps that dotted the rest of the space. Bastille was speaking with several Fireflies nearest him, but as Tommy watched, the old man nodded and turned, suddenly lifting a hand.

Instantly, the room hushed.

"Hello."

As usual, Bastille's tone was clipped and terse, his voice a growling rumble, but when he lifted it, he seemed to fill the entire room. "Thank you for coming tonight. I'll keep this short. I know you all are taking a risk coming here."

He stood tall and straight, despite leaning on his crutch. Yet there was something in his expression, in the way that the teardrop wrinkles beneath his eyes pinched together, that suggested both impatience and excitement. It was not nerves; Bastille had no difficulty speaking his mind. But he rarely left the tunnels beneath Boston anymore. Tommy guessed it had been some time since the Firefly leader had had to reel in his natural impatience and actually sit down and speak with a group of strangers.

Bastille continued. "I know that every one of you are here because you've lost someone. I'm not talking about the infection. You've lost someone to the military. To our oppressors, who think that their walls and their guns and their fancy blue uniforms give them the right to treat the rest of us like less than animals." He paused.

"It does not."

The crowd was nodding in that way that a group of people will, when they have come to have their beliefs confirmed. Collective affirmation. Easy nods and muttering that gained in volume as others joined in.

Tommy felt someone beside him and turned, brows abruptly drawing together as a nearby kerosene lamp flickered across Joel's face.

"Most of you know me as Bastille," Bastille was saying, on the other side of the room. "Many of you—"

"You know half the people in this room are armed," Joel suddenly muttered, eyes locked on Bastille, but leaning to the side so that only Tommy could hear.

Tommy crossed his arms, looking away from his brother. "Half the people in this room are Fireflies.

"Rodger isn't."

"No," Tommy agreed. He pinched back a sigh. "Most folks here have already lost everything. Ain't takin' one more thing from 'em."

"Seems a risk for your man there."

"It is. It was his decision."

Joel glanced sidelong at Tommy, then gave a silent snort. "Figures."

Bastille was speaking now about hope and the future, describing a quarantine zone where people would not always live in fear of tomorrow. They were old words, oft heard in the radio broadcasts that the Fireflies regularly transmitted to anyone willing to risk listening. It was Marlene's voice, however, that usually spoke with the passion and fire that listeners were familiar with. Even to Tommy, Bastille's impatient tone sounded boilerplate, like the necessary and overused prelude to something more important.

"What's this for anyway?" Joel muttered, again only loud enough for Tommy to hear. "Must be somethin' important if you got the big man out of his cave."

Tommy shook his head. "Gotta lay into everything, huh?" he said. Joel only shrugged and Tommy looked back towards Bastille. "It's…the next step. Fireflies have been makin' gains the last few months."

"So we hear."

"Yeah well. We ain't just attackin' patrols forever."

"Mmhmm."

They lapsed into silence again and, as Tommy returned his attention to Bastille, he was grateful to see that the Firefly leader's demeanor had changed. His face had become more enlivened, his movements more defiant. He was launching into the real reason for being here.

"The Feds are scared," he was growling at the crowd. "They're all but running. But…" His expression darkened. "They are not running. And that's because of you."

He stabbed a finger at the room, then spread his hands. "Despite every advantage that the Fireflies have pressed in Boston, the military remains unshakeable in one thing: its belief that the population of our city will not rise up. Food riots are temporary, riots over a dead child are temporary – fueled by anger, not by hope. And while the military continues to believe that Boston has abandoned hope, while its unshakeable belief in the apathy of this zone remains unchallenged, then every victory that the Fireflies claim will be meaningless."

The room was growing more animated, soaking in Bastille's building fervor as their muttering turned to whoops and hollers of agreement. Fists pounded the air.

Tommy glanced back at his brother. Joel was watching Bastille, but his expression was unreadable. The oily yellow lamplight that flickered across Joel's face revealed nothing new, only the usual mix of apathy and wariness. He shifted and looked back to Tommy, as if having sensed he was being watched.

"What?" he grunted.

Tommy frowned, lips pressing together. "Can you stick around after? When Bas is finished? I got somethin' I wanna talk about."

"What about?"

"Just…somethin' I don't wanna say here."

Joel's eyes narrowed and he mirrored Tommy's frown. But after a second, he gave a small nod. "I'll be here."

Tommy's chest tightened at the uncomfortable thought of what he wished to speak to Joel about, but he only nodded in return and fixed his focus forward again.

The crowd had begun to grow loud and Bastille was now having to lift his voice to be heard. "Now is the time," he was saying, stomping his crutch on the stage beneath him. "Every one of you has a responsibility. I don't need you to join the Fireflies. I need you in the streets. I need your friends in the streets. I need your family in the streets. I need every mother, father, child. Every rabble-rouser and homebody and brawler and drunk. Everyone. They cannot kill us all. They cannot—"

Gunshots tore through the room.

So abrupt and unexpected was the noise that the crowd hardly moved at first, many still punching the air as if worked into enough of a frenzy that they somehow stupidly believed the brief burst of semi-automatic gunfire was purely celebratory.

Then the screaming began.

Suddenly the entire room was in motion. Black and gray coats heaving like rats fleeing fire. Tommy and Joel were thrust back against the doorway in which they stood as panicked onlookers began shoving and running back into the entry-area in an effort to reach the main stairway leading to the street above.

Tommy did not bother swinging his rifle off his shoulder – it would be a hindrance in such close quarters – and instead pulled a heavy black pistol from an inside pocket of his coat. As the crowd pushed and churned against them, the two brothers allowed themselves to be carried just past the doorway, where the swing of the door itself afforded them a tiny alcove to avoid the stampede.

"Uzis!" Tommy shouted to Joel, though he could barely hear himself above the roar of people. Tommy's head had snapped to the back of the room as soon as the first gunshots had filled the tight space, and he had glimpsed muzzle flashes, shorter and fatter than an assault rifle would have produced. The sound was different too – more tinny, high-pitched, less the throaty roar of M-16s. Small submachine gun then, easily concealable.

Joel nodded. "C'mon!"

He began to push Tommy ahead of him, but Tommy held up an arm. "You go!" he yelled back. "I gotta stay and help—"

Without warning, more gunfire belted through the old comedy club. But it was different this time, deeper and meaner, and coming from the wrong direction – from the stairway exit towards which people were streaming.

The screaming redoubled.

"They're on the stairs!"

"Get off! Turn around, for fuck's sake!"

"They're comin' in! They're comin' in!"

It was pandemonium. Half the crowd was surging towards the exit, the other half was desperately trying to flee it. Candles were being knocked from brackets and snuffed underfoot. An oil lamp smashed to the ground, flames suddenly licking up a woman's leg as the people around her scattered. And down the stairs thundered blue uniforms in full body armor, flashlights strapped to the barrels of their black assault rifles.

"Go, go, go!" Joel suddenly cried, as the unmistakable sound of bullets striking flesh began to thump around them.

The two of them ducked back through the open doorway into the assembly room again, half shoving their way through the teaming ranks of people, half carried along by the crowd itself. Somewhere along the way, Tommy had fished out his flashlight, which he held now alongside the barrel of his pistol. A space before them abruptly opened and Tommy's flashlight landed on a man in a long coat and cap, fingerless gloves wrapped around the handle of a small black Uzi.

Before the man could even lift the submachine gun, Tommy opened fire, striking the man in the fleshy part of his left leg. A second later, Joel too squeezed off a shot, opening a bloody hole just above the collar of the man's long coat. Whoever he was, he flopped backwards, dead before he struck the floor.

"Joel!"

Still buffeted by the crowd, Joel and Tommy both swiveled towards a voice that sounded small and distant, but when they turned, they found Tess standing practically beside them. She was bleeding from a busted lip.

"Where's Troy?" Joel shouted at her.

"Took off after Rodger! Asshole was shooting at the Feds coming down the stairs last I saw!"

"Jesus Christ," Tommy muttered to himself. He had only half been paying attention to what Tess was saying. His eyes were trained on the second exit from The Asylum, a battered metal door leading up to an alley behind the building. He could hear almost nothing, the sound of gunfire from all quarters having deafened him to any real ability to distinguish direction. But those nearest the alley door were pushing back from it, fighting against the churn of people thrusting them forward. Tommy caught glimpses of the scene beyond the door – Fireflies with rifles and pistols raised, muzzle flashes lighting their faces.

The military was attacking both access points to the underground comedy club, trapping those within.

"Follow me!" Tommy suddenly yelled at Joel and Tess. "There's a third exit through the kitchen! It's hidden, just supposed to be for gettin' Bastille out!"

To their credit, neither Joel nor Tess made any snide comments about how they would not even be here had Tommy not forced them to stay. They only nodded their assent, each checking the pistols they carried.

Tommy plunged forward, elbowing people aside, mentally cycling through a thousand thoughts at once. The front entrance was compromised, troops already down the stairs and opening fire without discrimination, if the roar of gunfire from other room was any indication. The Fireflies in the alley, however, were still clearly putting up a fight. That exit potentially remained feasible, still held by Marlene and the others who had been assigned to watch it. But if Bastille and his honor guard had already fled, then the third exit should already be open; the crowd should naturally have poured after them in a desperate attempt to escape. But it wasn't.

Bastille.

The Firefly leader had not been Tommy's responsibility. Foxtrot Squad had been assigned crowd control. It had been Bravo Squad up on the stage around Bastille, armed and angry looking. Bravo's responsibility to get Bastille out.

Tommy's heart sank as he reached the area where Bastille had been standing, beyond which were the double swinging doors that led to the former club's kitchen. Bodies sprawled across the black floor. Faces Tommy recognized from Bravo, blood soaking their chests and pooling on the ground. Several were moving, groaning as they tried to pull themselves over their comrades, coughing through lips splattered scarlet red. Whoever the men with the Uzis were – and Tommy suspected there had been more than the one – they had done their bloody work fast and well.

"C'mon, Tommy!" Joel yelled, grabbing Tommy's arm after he had ground to a halt by the bodies of his fellow Fireflies.

"Hold on!" Tommy threw off Joel's hand and leapt over the body of a dead Firefly, flashlight sweeping across the stage. The gunfire in the adjoining entry room was growing louder, closer, and Tommy glanced back to see both Joel and Tess with pistols held aloft, warily watching the doorways.

"Bas!" Tommy crouched beside a body he recognized as Becky Mullins, leader of Bravo Squad, and rolled her on her side, revealing the row of bloody exit wounds that had blown out her back. Beneath her, Bastille's eyes flickered open and he groaned. His white beard was stained a wet red and Becky's life had bled out all across his front. A quick glance over the old man and Tommy could see two actual gunshots, one just beneath Bastille's left shoulder and the other above his right knee.

"To…Tommy…" Bastille groaned, bloody fingers reaching upward.

"Joel!" Tommy suddenly shouted. "Joel! Help me!"

A second flashlight beam swiveled towards them and a moment later Joel was crouched over Tommy, but his expression was angry. "Are you goddamn serious? He's dead, Tommy. Now c'mon!"

"No! Fuckin' help me, Joel!" Tommy glared up at his brother. "He's alive! The Feds fuckin' find him and they'll know what a goddamn blow they've made. They can't find him, Joel. Please!"

Before Joel could answer, however, Tess opened fire behind them. There were uniforms in the doorway, flashlights sweeping the dark assembly room. Instantly, both Joel and Tommy lifted their own pistols, Joel rising to his feet while Tommy aimed with one hand from where he still crouched on the ground beside Bastille.

Tess dropped one of the soldiers to the ground with a shot that blew out the soldier's knee, where the body armor did not reach. Joel and Tommy peppered the second uniform with half a dozen quick shots that shattered the soldier's face mask. Two more remained, but they both suddenly stumbled forward, their heads jerking as if they had been struck from behind.

Rodger and Troy appeared at their backs. At such close quarters, and with the soldiers' movements hampered by their bulky armor and the fact that they had their backs to their assailants, Rodger and Troy made quick work of the two remaining uniforms. Rodger shoved a pistol into the side of one of them, just beneath the arm where the plates of body armor did not meet, and squeezed off several rounds. Troy kicked at the back of the others' knees, toppling the unfortunate soldier forward, where Troy grabbed the man's face mask, rammed the long barrel of his handgun under the base of the man's skull, and pulled the trigger.

"I should be a fuckin' Firefly," Troy grumbled loudly, tossing the soldier to the ground. "Do a better goddamn job than you people."

Tommy ignored them. He leapt to his feet and jumped over Bastille, grabbing the collar of the Firefly leader's flannel shirt and hauling backwards to pull him free of the pile of bodies.

"Joel!" he grunted as he pulled. "Please!"

Shaking his head, Joel cursed and stepped over bodies, reaching down to help take hold of Bastille's prostrate form.

"Jesus, Joel—" Tess started to say, but he cut her off with a snap.

"Shut up! Cover us, for god's sake."

Like the fluid crew they had once been, all arguments abated and the five of them moved with speed. Tess and Troy and Rodger all leveled guns at the open doorway, while Tommy and Joel heaved Bastille by his collar, dragging him across the bodies of the fallen. The group edged towards the kitchen doors as quickly as Tommy and Joel could move, boots sliding on a floor slick with blood.

"Here they come!" Tess suddenly bellowed as more beams of light began stabbing through the open doorway from the entry room.

Rodger turned and shoved Troy without warning, pushing the big man towards the kitchen. "Go!" he yelled, voice surprisingly clear despite the amount he had no doubt had to drink. "I'll cover you!"

For the second time that night, Troy's usually apathetic expression twisted with alarm and he opened his mouth to argue. Rodger aimed his pistol squarely at the ground just in front of Troy's feet and pulled the trigger. A chunk of black wooden floorboard flew into the air.

"Get goin'!"

"Jesus, you crazy fuckin' bastard," Troy growled. But he did not argue, instead grabbing Tess's arm and pushing her in front of him. Tommy and Joel quickly followed, dragging Bastille behind them.

Glass shattered in the window of one of the swinging doors to the kitchen just as Tess pushed it open, and Tommy felt more bullets slamming into the walls and floor around him as the soldiers Tess had warned them about opened fire. He thought he heard Rodger return fire just as the kitchen doors whooshed closed behind them.

The kitchen was small, but felt oddly hushed once the doors swung shut, though they could still clearly hear the screams and gunfire out in the audience room and entry area. Two rows of work benches greeted them, a tiny space just large enough to prepare appetizers and finger-food for the comedy club's long ago customers. At the far end of the kitchen, a tall wine cooler stood against the wall, its glass front long since smashed open and robbed of its contents.

"There!" Tommy said, pointing. "Behind that cooler. The wall's blown out behind it."

Tess and Troy jogged towards it as Tommy and Joel hobbled after them, a wet trail of blood smearing across the kitchen tiles from Bastille's wounds. At the cooler, Troy threw his shoulder against the side of the dusty unit, shoving it sideways into one corner and revealing a gaping hole of brick and mortar and insulation.

They dove through the opening. Beyond, old cardboard boxes and white containers littered a gray basement. Dozens of plastic blister packs, emptied of their pills, were strewn across the floor, as if the place had once been a pharmacy.

"Stairs to the alley on the other side," Tommy grunted, sweating despite the cold. "It's a different alley than the one The Asylum leads out to."

"Place is going to be crawling with Feds," Tess muttered as they made their way quickly through the basement.

Joel huffed, beginning to sweat as much as Tommy. "Tunnel 4 is a block away. We get there, we can at least huddle up somewhere outside the wall for the night."

Tess nodded.

The stairs leading up out of the basement were metal and scattered with snow. The door at the top of them had long ago been left open and it whined now on angry hinges in the wind. It was snowing again, blowing in through the open door with light gusts that sent it swirling to the basement below. Above them, they could see the night sky, gray and overcast and cold.

Tess and Troy continued to lead the way, mounting the stairs and taking them two at a time. Once at the top, Tess remained by the door while Troy disappeared outside. At the bottom of the stairs, Joel and Tommy puffed and cursed, their breath fogging thick in front of them as they pulled Bastille's prostrate form up step by step.

"Hang in there, Bas," Tommy grunted, fingers growing icy cold as he gripped the metal railing leading up.

Just as they reached the top, Troy stuck his head back through the doorway. "We got a problem," he muttered.

They emerged into the alleyway. It was white from top to bottom, snow untouched save where Troy had walked. Three sides of the alley were the walls of adjoining buildings, but the fourth, which should have been open, was blocked by a collapsed fire escape. It had a lighter dusting of snow over it, as if it had only recently peeled away from the building above, surrendering to the weight of Boston's most recent snow storm.

"We'll scale it," Tommy huffed, briefly letting go of Bastille's collar and straightening to catch his breath. "C'mon, we can—"

"Tommy—" Joel began to interrupt.

"No, look. We can do it. I can do it, if you'll just fuckin' help. We'll lift Bas up and over that railing there, hand him down to Troy on the other side—"

"Tommy—"

"For Christ's sake, Joel—"

"Tommy!"

Tommy stopped. His brother was not looking at him, but at Bastille. Tommy's eyes snapped back to the Firefly leader and, in an instant, the breath went out of him.

Two new bloody holes had been opened across the old man's chest, likely as their group had fled towards the kitchen. Bastille's shirt and vest were soaked and dark, rapidly being covered with a thin veneer of snow. The teardrop wrinkles beneath his closed eyes looked as brittle as parchment, in a face now pale and quickly growing cold.

"Jesus," Tommy breathed, weakly pulling his stocking cap off his head. He felt as if the last of his strength had been sapped, just in time for someone to punch him in the gut.

A brick wall rose up behind him, though he could not recall having stumbled backwards. One hand pressed against the brickwork, ignoring the cold clay, resisting the urge to slide to his knees.

Instead, his shock gave way. He found himself blinking, frowning, then felt his cheeks grow warm despite the cold. A hot flush crept up his spine and into his neck and he suddenly clenched his teeth and lunged forward, driving a boot into Bastille's side.

"Goddamnit, old man! What was the fuckin' point!"

Joel jerked him back before he could kick Bastille's body a second time. "Stop," Joel rumbled, grabbing Tommy by the shoulders. "Tommy, stop. Listen. We gotta move."

Focusing, Tommy forced himself to swallow his anger and the inexplicable sense of betrayal he felt. He could hear voices, sharp and barking, from the doorway down into the basement they had left behind.

"We gotta move," Joel repeated. "They're followin' us. We gotta go."

"I can't leave the body," Tommy muttered half-heartedly, though he clenched his teeth as if resigning himself.

Without hesitating, Joel pulled back the edge of his coat and fished out a lighter from one of the inside pockets. Tommy recognized it, despite a multitude of scratches having long since cleaned it of all but a few patches of army green paint. It was a relic of their days among the ranks of Baltimore's gravediggers, now once again to be put to its original, gruesome purpose.

Joel flipped the lighter open and snapped it several times before a small flame burst to life. Moving quickly, he knelt beside Bastille and held the flame to the collar of the old man's vest, to the edge of his pants, to the bottom of his bloody beard. With the biting wind licking through the alley, the flames caught quickly and began to spread despite the snow, filling the air with a sickly, waxy stench.

The voices in the basement grew louder. Tess and Troy were already scrambling up over the collapsed fire escape. Tommy helped his brother back to his feet and gave Joel a single grateful nod before the two of them began climbing the twisted metal wreckage.

Below them, the body of the Fireflies' last founding member crackled and burned, melting the snow around it.


Thanks for reading and reviewing! Up next time, Tommy, Joel, Tess and Troy are forced to temporarily flee the zone to evade their pursuers. Stay tuned!

Update on Dirt as of 5/20/2016: Bet you thought by now that I must have abandoned Dirt, right? Because it's been, like, forever since the last update, right? Right. Well, calm thyselves because Dirt is not abandoned. It is only, unfortunately, that I have had to make a deliberate decision to put it on hold. But it WILL be finished.

As many of you may have gathered from some of my author's notes or my profile, I've been in law school for several many years now. This was my last semester and in fact I just graduated last Saturday. Now...bar exam studying ensues. This is an all-consuming task, and since I also work full time, I had to get an early start before law school was even finished.

I don't freak out about tests, not even ones that last for two full days, but my professor does kindly keep reminding us how frequently working students fail the bar. Which would suck. Royally.

So I made a conscious decision to put Dirt on hold. I am absolutely not abandoning it - half of the next chapter has been written since late January. I certainly feel it is ridiculous to put Dirt on hold with just two chapters remaining, but I also do not, 1) want to fail the bar exam, or 2) make a half-assed rush to the end of this story while my mind is elsewhere.

Thanks in particular to Against Fate, for prodding me for signs of life not once, but twice, and prompting me to put out this update, as I should have done months ago.

Dirt will be finished in August 2016, after I have completed the bar exam. Trust me, I'm not writing a 200k story to crap out on it with two chapters to go. :)