The single fire tendril, shedding the flame corpse of the boy, reared up to smash the engine itself to flinders. A knife whipped out of the darkness and struck home, burying itself to the hilt in the Penitent Damned’s back, but she didn’t appear to notice. Marcus, with a shout, hurled another grenade, aiming for where the great tendril joined the bonfire. When it detonated, the flames scattered, raining down across Andy and her crew like a sudden squall from the depths of hell.

“Andy, hit her again!” Marcus hefted his last grenade as the tendril re-formed.

Andy ran to grab the head of the hose, now drooling water into the dirt, and the young women returned to the pump. Marcus was amazed at the fortitude of the refugees, not even professional soldiers, confronting something they couldn’t understand and willing to stand to their posts. The stream gained pressure again, raining down on the bonfire, the hiss of steam rising to a roar.

The tendril of flame licked out again, but not toward the firefighting engine. Instead it came directly at Marcus, determined to finish off this interference before dealing with the real threat. Reflexively, Marcus hurled his weapon, and the blazing whip intercepted it only a few feet away from him. He managed to squeeze his eyes shut before the world went white, and the roar of the bomb drowned out even the scream and crackle of the fire.

*   *   *

He never quite passed out, but several moments went by before he was entirely aware of himself again, lying in the glass and rubble in front of the Silver Eagle building. Even through closed eyelids, the bomb had left glowing afterimages, and he blinked them away and struggled to sit upright.

The bonfire was dying, shrinking and melting like an ice sculpture in the desert sun. Strands of fire curved inward, struggling to form the white-hot ball of flame, but they hissed into steam as soon as they met the powerful torrent of river water. Andy played the hose over the Penitent Damned, the fire below her, and the scorched earth that surrounding them, creating a muddy lake in the center of the crossroads. In a few moments, the once-towering inferno was reduced to a nimbus of flame surrounding the old woman, who sank, blackened and smoking, among the wrecked logs that had started the flames. Andy kept the water on her until the last flickers died.

Marcus tried to stand, failed, and sat back down heavily. He was surprised to find himself in a quite extraordinary amount of pain. Looking down, he saw a six-inch-wide chunk of tin plating—part of the shell of one of the grenades—embedded in the meat of his left thigh, blood soaking a widening black circle in his uniform trousers. He tested the shard with a finger, and the slightest pressure on it brought stars to the edges of his vision and involuntary tears to his eyes.