Multiple bloody handprints, in fact. "There's another," Dutchy pointed higher. "And another."
"It has ta be Jack," Mush exclaimed. "It has ta!"
Apart from the lowest, most unmistakable one, the bright red marks started above head height on the pillar, becoming more indistinct as they ascended. They ended ominously in a large patch of dark smoke at the top of the adjacent arch.
Specs dropped to one knee at the base of the pillar. As with the sheet of metal outside on the lawn, there was a clear, unburned area to the side of all the pillars that someone could conceivably have sheltered behind. The dragon obviously had not entered this part of the lobby itself; for one, there was not enough room, and for two, the marks of recent fire came from one direction only, the rotunda.
"I don't think he got burned climbing up to the top there," Specs said. He was carefully studying the floor. "If he did, he woulda fell hard, and there ain't anything here to show it."
Indeed, there were only a few small drops of blood, some of them smeared, on the chipped, polished marble of the floor.
"Sometimes people fall an' they don't bleed much," Garrs said. He'd spoken matter-of-factly, but with evident reluctance.
Race crossed his arms. "Well he ain't here now, whether he fell or not, and that dragon didn't get him here neither. And if he ain't here, then he's taken hisself off somewhere else." The lobby offered no other hiding spots; the rotunda was the next obvious place. "Let's go."
Warily, they stepped out into the huge circular open space. To their dismay, direct sunlight was streaming down on them, fresh air drifting in. The small cupola that had crowned the building had more or less been snapped off long ago, exposing the dome three stories above them that was now newly-smashed partly open. The rosette-patterned glass oculus that had been at the apex was completely gone, reduced to shards scattered about the floor.
It was almost impossible to imagine the massive weight and muscle it would have taken to break through even the small portion of the dome that had been damaged. The stone and copper roof might as well have been plaster. Unfiltered sunshine cast new patterns of light and shadow on the spiraling marble floor tiles and on the elegant winding double staircase. It was eerie, walking through the aftermath of such a violent event in complete silence.
Looking up at the jagged gap, though, one thing was clear. "The dragon didn't get in," Skittery said, with a note of satisfaction. "Ain't no way it can fit through that."
No other opening in the rotunda would have been large enough, either. For once, the dragons' bulk had been a blessing. Nevertheless, it had gotten in far enough to still ravage the room with fire. Turning to look behind them, the boys could see the where the pillars near the entranceway had been blasted with flame from this direction. The white stone was darkened and cracked from where it had been intensely heated and then cooled. The fire had probably been repeated, sustained...terrifying.
What must it have been like for Jack, trapped on the other side just several feet away?
Skirting the fallen chunks of ceiling, the boys surveyed the floor grimly. A huge swath of fire-damage arced across the floor, catching part of the curving stairs and their filigreed banister along the way. There were, thank god, no telltale piles of ash at either end.
"Jack sure gave 'im a run for his money," Race said.
"Yeah," Blink said, "but which way'd he run?"
One side of the burned arc dead-ended nearly at a wall. The other curved towards the east wing.
Specs scrubbed a hand across his face. "The dragon coulda burned any of these first," he said, in the way only he could; not discouragingly, but as a puzzle to be figured out. "We don't knows which ones. This floor here, the pillar, that tore-out window..."
"Hell," Skittery said, "for all we knows, Jack went out that window, not in, and the dragon shot at him when he did."
That side of City Hall, with the ruined window, was the side closest to their tunnel. If Jack had made it out that way, he would have headed for home long before now. If he had made it out. Mush shivered a little, and Blink squeezed his shoulder.
"I'm bettin' whatever he did, he didn't go out the front door, anyway," Race said, with a confidence he didn't entirely feel. "The dragon woulda probably tried to shoot him quick if he did, and we didn't see nothin' burned near there when we came in." As bets went it was a pretty sound one, but he knew as well as any of them that there were a million unforeseen factors at play, and they'd never know for sure.
Blink nodded. "I says we search inside first, quick as we can. There's only so many rooms in here. The sooner we gets done in here, the sooner we can get to searchin' outside."
No one even brought up the idea of splitting up to make the search go faster. Not only was there no way to stay in contact if they separated, but the mere thought of losing sight of any more of their numbers right now didn't sit well with any of them.
They proceeded into the first floor of the east wing, the only direction which had even been hinted at by the evidence of the attack in the rotunda. It was a long, endless row of rooms and inner rooms. They systematically tried one after another, zig-zagging back and forth across the hall; calling out for Jack as loudly as they dared, half-hoping, half-nervous about hearing any reply. Any response might be their missing leader, or it might be an enemy.
But they heard nothing.
It was in the fourth room they tried that Skittery, who had entered first with the shotgun, gave a muffled yelp and dashed forward. As the others crowded in behind him, Race felt his heart lift and then drop again at the sight before them. The molded ceiling in here had partly collapsed, beams and other pieces of timber and stone scattered liberally over the carpeted floor.
Beneath the largest piece of fallen beam lay Jack, shirtless, pale skin standing out against the darker wood that pinned him in place. His eyes were closed. He looked lifeless.
Race dropped to his knees next to him, hissing "Jack!" even as he bent down, hovering one hand over Jack's nose and mouth to check for breath. There was no response. Race muttered, "Come on, come on," until, finally, he felt the ever-so-faint pressure of air against his palm.
He looked up at the circle of anxious faces above him, feeling a mixture of disbelief at how lucky they'd gotten and a touch of pride that they, a ragged bunch of boys armed only with makeshift weapons and determination, had managed to figure out Jack's location after all.
"He's breathin'," he told them, and watched the relief flooding their features. "Just barely. But he's breathin'."