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Brood of a New Age

97.

"Sister. Let me help you," Coldfire said.

Grace turned and looked at her coolly. She had to force herself to take the hardness out of her gaze but at least she didn't have to smile thanks to the mask. Coldfire hadn't done her any harm. She even wanted to support her. Had even called her "sister." What four weeks ago would have made Grace jump in circles like a hatchling with joy - now it only triggered a strange pulling feeling in her stomach area. At the moment, everyone just ticked her off. Usually, when something (or everything) bugged her, she could retreat and pray. But here she didn't have that escape. She couldn't find the time to pray. Not until she pulled at least Dante out of the rubble - no matter what his condition.

"Thank you, Coldfire. But I can't be around other people right now. I can only keep my body and mind functioning if I dig for myself. I'm strong, I don't overexert myself, don't worry."

"In such hours, no one should be alone," said the golden robot woman whose shine was dimmed by dust and dirt by now.

"Please Coldfire, ... respect my wish. I'll call as soon as I find someone. Your skills are needed everywhere."

Coldfire raised her eyes. Grace was currently crouched pretty much at the edge of the action where large chunks of concrete lay like a collapsed house of cards over smaller debris. This spot was on the river side, barely illuminated by the bright spotlights, which was why the other squads were still making a beeline for it. In the meantime, a strange but apparently well-functioning dynamic had crept in. The search parties of three or four humans were always accompanied by a gargoyle. Their keen sense of smell and hearing helped them find living burials if they could attract attention, and they complemented the humans in their power suits. Coldfire and Coldstone wandered back and forth between the squads, scanning the areas where they worked to locate bodies that could not draw attention to themselves but were at least alive and therefore gave off a heat signature. If they were dead ... it was more difficult. The biggest problem was that the modified gargoyles could detect heat signatures, but they had trouble when there were multiple layers of concrete and rebar on top of each other. The many different materials, and the heat of the summer air and the many light sources, which made even the concrete shimmer warmly, was an obstacle. They could not see deeper than a meter or two. Coldfire let out a remarkably lively, surrendering sigh.

"I respect your wishes. But there's no shame in asking for help. Not just God but someone who is actually here."

"I'll call when I find someone," Grace said between clenched teeth, glad when Coldfire was gone again. After tearing up the rebar that had pinned the boulder to the ground, she again lifted a cement block that even Goliath, Coldstone, or Coldfire probably would have had trouble with and tossed it aside. Then she sank back to her knees and dug. Occasionally, humans had offered her shovels, tools, a jackhammer, or even large gloves. She realized how sweet, how special that was. Nevertheless, she had scared people away with her tone and more often with her growl that now no one approached her. She had only accepted the headlamp and had tied it around her upper arm with the size-adjustable straps. In this she saw a sense. But anything else would have only hindered her. She needed the sweat running down her body, leaving black smears along with the dirt. She needed the pulling pain in her back, in her hands and arms. She needed that.

She knew that she was being stubborn and childish. Towards everyone and especially towards Luca. She would later flagellate herself for it (depending on the outcome of the night even literally). But she couldn't be the nice, understanding, pleasant and jovial female when this panic was bubbling up inside her and she had to fight every minute not to fall into that very panic. She had to stay in her autopilot mode otherwise she would break and maybe become dangerous for herself and others. A rampaging gargoyle in this place- full of people, full of cameras filming everything from the sidelines- would not be good.

A particularly large piece of concrete floor (or ceiling- depending on how you looked at it) forced her to lie on her back and push her strong legs against it that it moved and rumbled down the small slope towards the river. As a result, quite a bit of debris broke away which left Grace half buried and cursing, which no one noticed because she had driven everyone away. She dug herself out and remained crouched in the rubble for a few moments, wondering if this was the worst night of her life. It didn't take her long to come to a definite yes. But it was long enough for her to hear the scratching. She instantly pricked up her ears and moved her head to explore if the sound was coming from the hum of helpers or machines or even just the city around her. But no. It sounded too different for that. It sounded new. And close. It sounded like it was UNDER the rubble.

Grace jumped up on her hind legs and began scooping with her paws. She didn't even think to call Coldfire or anyone else. Two pieces of ceiling propped together formed a crooked, very fragile-looking roof. Still - since the scratching was coming from beyond it, Grace crawled under that roof and dug into the rubble there. It was dark but she saw scree breaking away and heard someone coughing. Then she saw a gray hand reach through a thirty-inch hole - and then a gray beak.

"DANTE!" she screeched ... Before she saw it wasn't Dante. Dante wasn't wearing an eye patch. If she had grabbed his hand, no red skin would have shown under the dust. If Brooklyn saw her massive disappointment despite the dust mask, he didn't let on.

"Hello Grace, good to see you," croaked the Second of the Clan, managing a smile.

"Hello Brooklyn," she said tonelessly.

"Is ... is my brother with you?" she asked, and the fading of his smile dashed her hopes before his answer.

"I have someone else here instead. Can you help me make the hole bigger? So we can push him through?" Grace nodded mechanically, grabbing chunks and tossing them backward into the open air where Brooklyn's hands awkwardly pushed away debris. Then, when the hole was big enough for them, Grace pushed them through to shift a piece of concrete from that side along with Brooklyn. Which caused the two multi-ton roof planes that had first given Grace access to Brooklyn and his "luggage" to collapse and more debris to crumble over them.

"No!" cried Brooklyn and Grace simultaneously. But had to scoot backward in the small space to avoid being slain. They shielded their faces with their arms and wings, feeling chunks rain down on them and dust taint the already stuffy air. Then, slowly, the tremors and the "earthslide" around them subsided. Gradually, the dust settled and, thanks to the light around Grace's upper arm, they saw that their saving exit had been buried.

"The night just keeps getting better and better," Brooklyn muttered, and Grace would have liked to whack him with a newspaper.

.

.

Travis, Broadway and Nashville lifted their eyes to the ceiling from which dust was trickling. They had heard repeated noises in the last few minutes. Scratching, hammering, scraping, shrill and stuttering at the same time, like an excavator shovel scraping concrete. They agreed that on the one hand this was a good sign because they knew that people were trying to dig through what must have been quite a large mountain of rubble above them. On the other hand, it could destabilize the ceiling above them and they could be slain before helpers even knew they were here.

When the tremors had subsided again and the general tension about imminent death had eased somewhat, Travis looked back at Nashville.

"So how does the story continue?" he asked.

The gargoyle child - still pinned to the floor, with the human child still in his arms as if it were not uncomfortable after all this time - opened his eyes again. By now he looked very tired and pale - though the pallor could have come from dust. His light blue coloration was almost ashen. He cleared his throat strained and thought for a moment.

"So - my father had freed the slaves, was going to dump the crew trapped below deck and the slavers when they were near shore on the jolly boats."

"Yeah - we've been there. What's next, Nash?" asked Broadway as eager to continue as Travis. Nashville smiled and procrastinated a little longer on the next sentences. No one but Graziella had ever wanted to hear his version of the stories (much less the stories he hadn't consciously witnessed himself because he hadn't yet hatched but had only been told himself). His father had never told much to most of the clan anyway. But honestly - knowing about the past could hardly be that dangerous. After all, it had already happened. After the story from antiquity how the Roman magus performed the spell of humility thanks to the influence of Brooklyn (the TIMEDANCER!) and the story from the Middle Ages with Robin Hood, he had now arrived in the sixteenth century. Or ... was it already the seventeenth? - His head must have taken a blow in the building crash because it was getting harder and harder to organize his thoughts. But the slave story was definitely before Blackbeard. He would tell that story afterwards because Blackbeard had been one of the most wonderfully nefarious pirates in history. And humans were so cute and thought he had been human - Phaaa!

"Unfortunately, my dad didn't anticipate the former slaves' thirst for revenge," Nashville continued. "They had every reason to be angry, but when you have all the people who piloted a big boat walking the plank while the commanding Timedancer is petrified, you don't have to wonder if-"

A groan made Nashville stop in his story.

Travis looked to the side. He had sat down more comfortably by now (as comfortably as he could in a death trap), but hadn't moved Fran because he was worried she might be injured at the spine or otherwise besides the head. But since she was now turning and moaning with her face contorted in pain as if after a boozy night, it was probably proof that she, like Travis, had gotten off lightly. Thanks to Broadway- Travis remembered and thought about how he could get that particular point into the coverage should he ever get out of here.

Fran coughed as everyone in here did from time to time, rubbing her eyes and getting the dirt out of there.

"It's all good, Fran," said Travis, who guessed she was about to take it badly not only being buried under tons of rubble but being buried under tons of rubble with two gargoyles. Neither of them would come near her because Nashville would not let his wing go in any further (and even less let go of the little girl he seemed to be quite fond of because he kept raising his head or moving just to make her position a little more comfortable from his point of view or to see if she was losing blood through the wound in her thigh.

"Mister Marshall?" she said, slowly straightening up. Travis had lowered the flashlight enough that the gargoyles weren't as easy to see. He had to break it to her slowly. Very, very slowly.

His 'Quarrymen colleague groped around on the floor, apparently still a bit disoriented, letting her hand slide over splinters and chunks of brick and the handle of her partially buried hammer until she had her mask in her hands - and then probably didn't know why she'd wanted to take it in her hands. Then she looked at Travis.

"Are we dead?" she asked softly.

Travis tried an uplifting smile and rubbed her upper arm.

Except for the bleeding laceration on her head, which dyed part of her hair and face a grayish red, she seemed fine.

"But no, Fran. We're alive. We're barely hurt but we're buried."

"Buried!" she said shrilly, looking around briefly in the darkness, in which she really didn't seem to see anything monstrous and the monsters were also keeping really quiet as if they had a lifetime of experience not calling attention to themselves (which they probably really had). Fran looked at him again with huge eyes. And continued to look at him as if she expected either him to immediately change something about the facts or to admit that he had just made a tasteless joke.

Travis took a breath and fought another coughing fit.

"Fran, if you freak out now, it won't help us. We're buried.- But listen carefully. Out there- outside the collapsed building- people are working to get us out. Right now, and the whole time, you can hear digging and they're moving debris. It won't be long now. When they get close enough, we can holler or knock, but for now, it's no use. So just stay calm."

Unfortunately, there was a weak and obviously unintentional cough at that moment at the other end of their cave and Fran backed away, cringing, until her back hit one of the rubble walls.

"What was that? There's someone here!" she shrieked.

"Yes. There are others here. We wouldn't have survived without them," Travis said, suspecting his efforts were about to go out the window.

"It's all right, Miss uhh Fran. You'll be fine," Nashville said from the darkness, his voice sounding soft and forgiving. Like someone comforting a whiny little child when there was lightning and thunder outside. The Quarrywoman didn't take her eyes from where the boy's voice had come from, and instead grabbed in Travis' direction without looking. Her voice didn't sound a bit calmer.

"Travis, what's a kid doing here? Travis, give - give me the flashlight."

"Nothing's going to happen to you. I want you to stay calm. Nobody's going to hurt you," Travis repeated the same short phrases. He had long suspected that for Fran, short and simple sentences were better. He handed her the flashlight and she shone it toward Nashville and directly on his face. He squinted his eyes because of the bright beam and bared his teeth. Which was not ideal because his beak was very close to the angelic child he was cradling.

Fran opened her mouth and screamed so shrilly that everyone present groaned.

"Jesus Christ, Fran!" cried Travis.

"Can someone please put their fingers in my ears? That's worse than Gargoyle War Roar," Broadway said, which also brought a flash of light to his face and forced him to turn his head away. Fran only screeched louder, the flashlight beam darting back and forth between the two gargoyles so fast that Travis was sure his camera glasses (if they were recording at all) could never catch it. Fran shrieked until she was out of breath, then gasped for air for another shriek, but didn't get to it because the dust she herself had newly created got into her lungs.

She shook under coughing spasms. But as soon as she got over it, she screamed again!

Travis had had enough. No matter if the glasses picked it up and thus recorded a proof of assault, he lashed out and gave the woman a slap in the face that it slapped loud in their artificial chamber. "Fran! You are completely hysterical! Come to your senses!" he ordered gruffly. And indeed he was able to take the pocket lamp from her and she remained calm.

She opened her mouth and closed it again because of Travis' schoolmasterly hard look. Then she whispered.

"There are gargoyles in here."

Travis rolled his eyes while Broadway and Nashville chuckled softly. Every time Travis thought Fran couldn't say anything more stupid, she managed it anyway.

"Yeah, Fran. Gargoyles. They won't hurt us."

"But they are Gargoyles, Travis."

"Yes. And they won't hurt us," he said, trying to remember his report from the residential facility for mentally impaired children. He didn't mean to offend the children but guessed he must be operating at about that level with Fran.

Fran looked at him with shock-widened eyes ... but only to look into his eyes herself as if she were searching for something.

"Did they ... wash your brain?" she whispered.

"What?" asked the human and the two gargoyles simultaneously.

"They do. All the time. That's why there's so little footage of them and so few people report their true atrocities. They suck your blood and rob you of your memories. Is that what they did to you? If you're afraid to say it because they're still in your head, blink three times."

"Ma'am, I think you've been watching too much X-Files and Buffy," Broadway said dryly, and Travis didn't have to shine the light on him - he heard how perplexed and repulsed Broadway was by so much nonsense.

"If we could wash brains, we'd be in significantly less trouble," Nash croaked from the darkness.

"And drinking people's blood doesn't sound very practical. I prefer a good beef bourguignon or at least two or three dozen donuts."

"See Fran. Totally nice guys-you can-."

When the reporter turned around, he saw that Fran had pulled her hammer out from under the rubble. She had her legs drawn up and had the hammer on her knees as if she were trying to get a hold of it. At least she was still sitting on the ground. Travis hoped she wouldn't do anything stupid. If she attacked Broadway with it, he might feel tempted to release his grip on the ceiling - out of pure instinct. But currently, Fran didn't seem to want to go after any of the gargoyles. Instead, she prayed in a low voice.

"Man, these religious fellows are springing up like mushrooms," Broadway muttered wearily, and Travis had to cautiously agree with him, even if he was interested in why it sounded like Broadway knew such "religious fellows" personally.

"Well, Castaway has been telling people and especially his followers for months that you are demons from hell. That attracts such characters and reinforces their already prevailing opinions."

"Right, Travis. Hard to tell indoctrinated people otherwise. They wouldn't buy it anyway ... Even if you saved their butts. I guess it's easier to believe that something that's foreign is also automatically evil than to try to look at someone without bias," Broadway said rather resignedly, looking so forlorn in the light of Travis' flashlight that it could break your heart. But Nashville lightened the mood with his boyish quiet laugh. Travis looked from Broadway to him.

"At least she's entertaining," he said in an obvious and very endearing attempt to cheer up his uncle. "She tried to melt me with holy water. And afterwards she wondered why I wasn't really melting," he said with a grin, and Broadway stared at him for a moment. Before he opened his mouth and laughed uproariously. And this display of his body quivering under his laughter and his numerous bright fangs tempted Fran to leap up and raise the hammer, which was shooting electronic sparks with the push of a button. Behind him Marshall heard Broadway hiss and above them concrete cracked and steel squealed and as it trickled dust and small chunks again Travis jumped up and confronted the lunatic he had been forced to share the sky sled with.

"Fran, give me that fucking thing!" He snatched the hammer out of her hands, which thankfully didn't shock him and which she allowed without struggling. Instead she stumbled awkwardly until she fell groaning on her butt.

"But we have to-!" she began.

Travis pointed the hammer in her direction before turning it off.

"I don't have to do anything. And you don't have to do anything. They're not dangerous! They never were. That's Nashville - you remember. The little gargoyle you attacked with your holy water and whose execution we almost witnessed. He's... only ten."

"Plus-minus," Nash muttered, adding a little sulkily that he wasn't little, but had at least a normal size for his age.

"And this-," Travis pointed behind him "-is Broadway. The one that saved you and me AND is saving us every second because he's probably the only one keeping the concrete ceiling above us from collapsing. So now you can pack up your goddamn and by the way completely brainless prejudices and just shut up and be thankful that you're alive. Stop making a bloody fool out of yourself."

Fran was shocked at his words, kept silent and looked at Broadway with wide eyes. And Broadway stared back with a rather impish expression.

"Your endless speechless gratitude is enough for me, Fran," he muttered, making Nashville and Travis laugh.

Thanks for reading Q.T.