The eight of them crouched single-file in the semi-darkness at the mouth of the shaft, noses and mouths buried in palms or the crooks of elbows, partly to block out the smell of scorched brick, partly to muffle the sounds of harsh breathing. Of the distinctive odor of spilled kerosene nothing remained; dragon-fire had burned it all away.
There was a disturbing amount of daylight filtering in through the grating at the top of the shaft. It had only been two hours since Race had last been up here; and now the pale morning sky, normally almost completely obscured by the upturned carriage, was clearly visible through the bars and the charred skeleton of the vehicle, even from his position midway down the line.
It was Skittery who now carried the Parker shotgun. He held it at the ready as he led the way cautiously up the shaft; Blink, immediately following, kept one hand on his own weapon and one hand on Skittery's back, ready to brace him against the recoil if he needed to fire. Mush was just behind him. All the boys were doing their best not to touch the still-hot masonry all around them. The blaze might have burned itself out some time ago, but the after-effects remained; at first, they hadn't even been able to climb above the first of the stacked crates below the shaft opening without flinching back from the intense radiated heat.
It was too damn bad that the shotgun was the only firearm for which they had ammunition left, and fewer than half a dozen shells at that. The rest of them were making do with close-combat weapons—far from ideal, but all they had. Race adjusted his grip on his own, a carpenter's scratch awl, five inches of solid cast steel topped by a round wooden handle. At only half a pound and given their current situation, its weight felt almost ridiculous in his hand, but a solid steel spike was a solid steel spike and infinitely better than the thin blade of his everyday penknife. He, like the rest of the boys, had tucked the latter into his belt as a back-up.
The rest of them were likewise armed with a mix of makeshift weapons: the heavy hunting knives that were usually reserved for guard duty, a claw hammer, a crowbar. Ahead, there was a brief, all but inaudible exchange of whispers as Specs took the Bowie knife from Dutchy and instead slid him a butcher's saw almost twice as long as his forearm. Just behind Race, Garrs carried a carpenter's hatchet, its nearly six-inch cutting edge turned carefully away. They also had with them a few coils of rope, a small roll of gauze, needle and thread soaked in antiseptic, just in case. Bumlets brought up the rear with the lamp and mirror.
Jesus christ, little bits of iron and steel against a giant winged beast. Didn't need a genius to know not to take those odds. But it was all they had.
They probably could have done with one or two more of Spot's boys, big and broad-shouldered, up here with them. But the newcomers were still worn out from whatever recent ordeal they'd gone through. And besides that, the newcomers were...new. Race didn't relish the idea of trying to keep track of them in a crisis.
Spot, Race couldn't help noticing, had not offered to send along the rest of his boys either.
The scrape of boots and metal against brick echoed through the narrow passageway. The sound of their mingled breathing bounced off the masonry, sounding unnaturally loud to his ears. His imagination, unbidden, supplied him with a picture of the sound spiraling all the way up to any predator waiting above; he just as quickly banished the thought.
Not that Spot had actually sent Garrs along, Race suspected. There had been some kind of muttered discussion between the two of them back in the tunnel, and then Spot had gone thin-lipped and silent for a long moment before giving Garrs a curt nod.
"He's comin' with yous," Spot said. "You could use another hand."
"You goin' too, Spot?" someone blurted.
Race clenched his teeth, feeling his shoulders hunch in irritation. What goddamned fool had shouted that out? Spot was in no condition to attempt a rescue mission, but put to a direct question like that, he was likely sooner to storm right out there rather than admit that he couldn't. There had been a momentary freezing of movement that transformed into a sea of expectant faces, all turned towards the leader of Brooklyn. Race took a breath, racking his brain for something to say to deflect the query, defuse the—
"I ain't going out," Spot said without raising his voice, and you could have knocked Race over with a feather. Spot hadn't raised his voice, yet his answer was as forceful as if he'd grabbed the unknown boy by the collar and barked it in his face. "I don't, these days."
He had said it softly, steadily, like a man breathing through pain. It made Race's chest clench just to think of it again.
The air and stone around them had marginally cooled as they ascended the ventilation shaft. Their progression halted, and Race knew they must have reached the top. Though he couldn't see him from this far back in the line, he could picture Skittery steeling himself for the first step out. There'd been several volunteers for the job, but Snoddy had gestured to him, and that had been that.
Everyone tightened their grips on their weapons, held their breaths. The click of the turning key, the snap of the padlock and the raising up of the barred grating must have been mere trickles of sound, but they seemed unusually loud in the still morning. Unlike Snoddy who would have eased himself out with the caution of a jungle cat, Skittery, Race knew, would be squeezing his eyes shut right about now, chanting one—two—three—under his breath—springing out into the open, shotgun at the ready—
Race could hear the scrabble of boots against masonry, the rattle of debris, metal—
"All clear!" came the fierce whisper from above, and they all moved forward, bursting up into the open air. Though he'd been prepared for it, the sight of the destroyed carriage still shocked him. Only a few parts were left, scattered pieces of axles and springs, the metal blackened and slumped by the dragon's unnaturally-hot fire. Of the sturdy wood panels that had made up the body, and the thick leather and rubber arched top of the vehicle, not a scrap remained. Surrounding them was a wide, ashy rough circle, all that was left of the grass that had grown nearby.
It didn't even crunch under their boots. It was just powder.
The sky was bright blue, with only a few white clouds. It ain't right, Race thought; ain't right for the morning sun to shine so brilliantly when Jack was out there somewhere, possibly badly hurt, possibly dead.
They broke out into a jog towards City Hall, casting wary glances around them, alert for any movement in the streets or any speck in the sky. Bumlets stayed behind at the mouth of the shaft, pulling the grate closed to await their return.
There was another gigantic swath of dark gray ash farther down the lawn, partway to City Hall. It was a long streak, which meant that the dragon had been trying to hit a moving target at the time. Probably. Which meant that Jack had still been alive when that burst of fire had happened. Probably.
Up ahead of them, at the end of the streak of ash, there was a huge, curved sheet of corrugated metal jammed-edge-first into the ground. It looked like it might have once been a large roof panel or an awning. The pattern of soot radiating outwards to the edges of the sheet showed that it had been struck nearly dead-center broadside.
"There ain't..." Skittery swallowed. "There ain't anything showin' up in it."
They all knew what he meant. Sometimes, if a victim were standing right in front of something when the blast of dragon-fire came, then there might be...traces. Not much, just a spatter of uneven ash atop the soot on the wall, or column, or whatever it might have been. They had come across it often enough to recognize the signs.
There didn't seem to be any now, at least.
Blink took the remaining steps forward to peer behind the metal sheet. He blew out a breath, waving them forward. "There's a spot back here that ain't burned."
Mush joined him. "Say, you think—"
"If anyone was quick enough to hide back here," Race said, "it'd be Jack."
That small crescent of living green grass was a good a bit of hope as any, but the sight of the newly-charred window frame on the side of City Hall's west wing gave them pause. Any hint of smoke or flame inevitably showed up starkly against the white marble of the exterior. This, they knew, had not been here yesterday.
"It's gotta be Jack who was here," Mush said, as they clustered anxiously below the window. "What else did the dragon have to shoot at?"
It was an encouraging thought. But the pile of torn-out rubble that had led upwards towards the base of the window was badly damaged by fire. Unlike the sheet of metal, corrugated though it had been, the irregular surface of the rubble would not easily show any unusual traces of ash. As the boys started to search the pile, Race felt his insides grow cold. Unless they found something definite here, a knife or belt buckle or something, a search would tell them nothing. If Jack had indeed met his end here, they might never know it. Dragons spewed forth fire so that they could consume the resulting ash. There would be no body to find.
It was just stone and glass and unidentifiable burnt debris, yielding no clues. One by one, the boys were stepping back, shaking their heads as they came up empty.
Specs was gazing thoughtfully up at the top of the pile. "Can't climb up that now, it ain't stable no more. Jack maybe got in that way, but we sure ain't going to."
Race jerked his head towards the building's nearest corner. "It's the front door for us then, gents."
They slipped around to the that side, hugging the plain lower walls of the edifice. The smaller ground-level windows had all been securely blocked off long ago; there was no getting in that way. They climbed the wide stately front steps, followed them sideways until they reached the bricked-up main entrance with its one small doorway at the farthest end.
There was no sound from within. Cautiously, they entered, Skittery leading the way with the shotgun.
Inside the large space of the once-grand lobby were more signs of recent damage. The smell of seared brick still hung in the air. Across the corridor, between the row of arches, they could see more fallen stonework than they'd remembered from before. The huge rotunda beyond, though they could only glimpse the bottom level of it from their current vantage point, seemed more brightly-lit than it should have been.
The boys exchanged glances. It was not a promising sign. They fanned out slightly, wincing at the echo of their footsteps, heading for the rotunda—
"Hey, look!" Dutchy hissed.
They spun to see what he was pointing at, farther down the row of arches. In the shadowed corridor, backlit by the sunlight in the rotunda, it took a moment for their eyes to adjust, but then they saw it.
Smoke and flame were not the only things that showed up starkly against the white marble. Fresh blood did, too.
There was a handprint.