Callisto

The Snake and the Dragon (pt. 2)

He surveyed the burning buildings and wailing ghosts below him.

His eyes, normally accustomed to picking out movement against the darkest darkness, were straining against each shimmering figure, walking around following their little routines like empty automatons. He was trying to pick out natural movement. Something out of place. Tribal markings...there was one on her arm, he remembered. A stark white snake against her blackened skin. Look for that, and you'll find her.

The fire from the last missile still filled his eyes as it impacted the alley between the clothes store and café. He watched the windows smash open, the tables engulfed by flame, as both structures gradually bent before him and broke apart, crushing the nonchalant shadow walkers jostling around underneath them.

Still, the rats hadn't emerged.

"Payload stock?" he barked.

"Three more in the tank, Sir," the Pilot responded; smoke from the rising inferno the street had been reduced to filling his flight helmet. "Ach, the window's scuffed to hell," he continued as he checked the busted pane to his right – the one that had taken the brunt of the girl's flashfire.

"Then get rid of it," he snapped.

He checked the rounds in the sniper's chamber—more than enough for a Tribal.

He indicated another intact alley to their east. And his eyes narrowed as he saw the open door of a butcher's shop down there.

There was light coming from inside.

"Seven meters. East," he commanded, and the Pilot swung the chopper round at his order to glide over the Dead City easily, hovering between the two crumbling buildings flanking the vacant street.

He looked through the telescopic sight, funneling reality down the rifle barrel. He trained the reticule on the open door.

"Firing!" the Pilot bellowed, and then, without warning, the chopper lurched.

"FUCK!"

The sudden exclamation snapped him out of his private trance, and he was about to respond when he saw the arrow lodged in the Pilot's shoulder, a leap of vermilion spurting from the fresh wound.

He didn't waste time with the struggling Pilot. He turned just in time to see the girl on the roof beside them, jumping down and landing on a garbage pail below, deep in the alleyway.

"Little bitch!" the Pilot spat, and was instantly silenced when he saw his commander take up a new firing position.

He was grinning.

"You'll live," he said. "Give me eyes on her and prime the next payload. Keep us above the roofs."

Clever, he thought as he steadied the rifle and focused on the back of her hair beads trailing in the dark. Go on, little snake, crawl as fast as you can.

...

She was rage, contained.

But she'd missed her mark. The dark one behind the dragon's eyes still kept his head.

She ran serpentine through the alley, keeping to the shadows, hearing the distinctive wail of the Deathspitter as it sang through the air and chewed away concrete stone and pieces of wall beside her. She sought to round the corner. The dragon would have to readjust. That was its weakness. Maneuverability.

She knew she had but three arrows left in her quiver. It could be enough – if she could position herself atop another tower, she could get her chance. She only needed one.

She sprinted for the end of the alley as another of the dragon's vicious projectiles erupted behind her. Its fireball engulfed the alley and sent her rolling into the middle of the street.