She can’t attack and defend herself at the same time, Marcus realized. He grabbed the second grenade and started running, an instant before a long whip of flame slammed down where he’d been standing. There was the hiss of charring meat, and weak screams from the wounded nearby. Marcus pounded up toward the corner of the Silver Eagle building, keeping one eye on the old woman. When she’d gathered herself for another strike, he hurled the grenade, a wild throw that her tentacles nonetheless snapped out of the air.

Up ahead, Marcus heard a shout and the clatter of something on wheels. Moments later, Andy and her team came into view, dragging what looked like a handcart with a pair of tubes and a handle mounted on top.

It had been Cora who located the firefighting engine, moldering in some forgotten warehouse. It was a simple thing, really—just two canvas hoses, and a long-handled pump between them with space for four men to work it. Marcus suspected it dated back to the construction of Newtown—the Rationalists had loved engines and machines of all kinds—which made it more than eighty years old. But it worked, or at least it worked once they’d cleaned and oiled it and chiseled off some of the rust.

Some of Andy’s team were doubtless taken aback by the rearing, roaring fire demon, but they’d practiced too many times to let it shake them. One of the young women jumped off the little cart and grabbed the end of a hose, running north to the foot of the Grand Span. The riverbank was only a few feet below, and she threw the weighted nozzle as far as she could. It went into the water with a splash, the hose going taut as the current dragged it downstream.

Two teenage boys took the other hose out of its tight coil, dumped it on the dirt, and got the nozzle ready. The rest of the crew, with Andy looking on, got on the pump and started working it furiously back and forth.