“You look like hammered shit,” Tinker exclaimed in his broad Aussie accent as the Angel limped on cramping legs toward him. The heat of the day still wafted up from the pavement in unrelenting waves.

“Water?” she croaked through parched lips. The ace unsnapped a canteen from the web-belt slung across his narrow hips, and flipped it to her. The Angel caught it, twisted its cap open, and put it to her mouth. The water was hot and metallic-tasting, but at least it was wet. She drunk off about half the canteen and then held it back.

Tinker shook his head. “You need it more than me. ’Sides, we got more back in the SUVs.” He frowned. “A little more, anyways.”

“Thanks.” The Angel took another gulp, swished it around her mouth, and spit it on the concrete. The water sizzled and after a very few moments was gone. She looked around the relative tranquility. “Where is everyone?”

“Gone,” Tinker said. “There’s just me ’n’ Bugsy and that worthless Lama bloke, and now you.”

“The army?” the Angel asked.

Tinker pulled a face. “They scarpered like ’roos when reports came back that the probing column Lohengrin took in got scragged. A few stayed on with me and Bugsy. Maybe figured it was safer. I tried to tinker together some listening equipment when the radios went out.” He shrugged massive shoulders. “Didn’t work. Getting some intermittent contact with Babel since we withdrew, but I dunno.” He scowled back into the city center. “Looks like the crap is following us.”

The Angel nodded. “Where’s Bugsy?”

Tinker jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “In the back of the SUV. Probably still curled up in a ball.”

The Angel questioned him with a look.

“Been a cot case pretty much since you took off.”

“Did you get anything out of him?”

“Been jibbering like a hoon about this creepy shit he’s seein’ out there, stuff worse than the worst slasher movie you can ever imagine.”

“I can believe that,” the Angel muttered.

“Still small, too,” the Tinker added quietly.

“Where is he?”

“Come on.” Tinker headed over to the cars. “I got some tinnies in an ice chest. Guess you could use one.”

“Tinnies?”

“Cans of beer.”

“Guess I could,” the Angel said.

Much to her relief, her gear seemed intact in back of the SUV where a still-diminished Bugsy was sleeping in the backseat. He was wrapped up in a fetal position and he looked like a little boy. She wanted to reach out and smooth his tousled hair, even though she still remembered what an annoying twit he was.

She pulled her duffel bag out a little awkwardly with her left hand as Tinker approached with a beer can he’d taken from a cooler in the front seat. She reached for it automatically with her right hand, winced, then took it with her left.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Dislocated right shoulder,” she said. “I think. And a wound in my side I’ve got to dress.”