At some point during her rant, Michael decided that he wasn’t leaving. If he had to go through the horror of being shot, so be it. He’d wake up in his Coffin and come marching right back. This girl wasn’t going to kick him out without a fight.
“Fine,” he called. “We’ll just mosey right on out the door.”
Holding his hands up, he slowly made his way toward her. He knew he’d only get one chance at this, and he hoped his friends didn’t end up being the ones who got shot.
“Careful, there,” Ryker said. “Make one more move and you’ll be hurting good before Lifting back to the Wake. How’s that sound?”
Michael took another slow step toward the girl. She was only a few feet away now. “Look, I swear we didn’t mean any harm. We just have some questions.”
“I said careful!” She aimed both shotguns at his face. It should have relieved him that Bryson and Sarah were no longer in immediate danger, but he found himself wishing she’d go right ahead and aim the stupid things back at them.
Another step. Then another. Hands up, his eyes wide and innocent, steady pace with no sudden movements. So close now.
“Stop!” Ryker screamed.
Michael froze. “Okay. Okay.” He put his hands down and pretended he was going to turn away and head for the door again. “I’m sorry we—”
He spun and leaped into the air, swinging his arms up as he did. He swatted at the barrels of the two guns, tipping them toward the ceiling just as the girl pulled the triggers. Twin booms thundered in the air. Pellets riddled the ceiling and walls, breaking glass and splintering wood. Michael slammed into Ryker, and both of them tumbled over the edge of the concession stand and crashed to the floor. She struggled to get free, but he was on top of her and he was bigger. He wrestled the two guns out of her hands and pointed one of them at her face.
“Tables … are turned,” he said through heavy breaths. “Don’t tempt me.”
Ryker squirmed beneath him but with less effort than before. “Such a brute, pointing that thing at a girl’s face. Your daddy beat up your momma, too?”
“Oh, shut up. You were the one threatening to kill us.” He lightly tapped the tip of the gun on her nose, then got up.
“Ow!” she yelled. Michael had never seen such a look of ferocity on a girl’s face before.
“That was dangerous,” Sarah said dryly. He looked over to see her and Bryson exactly where he’d left them.
“It worked, didn’t it?” Michael realized something then. “Hey, where’d that lady go?”
Bryson pointed over at the ticket stand. “She ran over there and disappeared under the counter.”
Michael knew immediately that something was wrong. He climbed over the concession stand and joined his friends, handing one of the shotguns to Bryson. “Let’s get out of here.”
That was when Stonewall popped up from behind the counter, huge arms folded across her chest, just like the first time they’d seen her. “You picked the wrong day to mess with me. Did you really think I’d let you waltz in here and play a game you’re restricted from? Huh? Did you?”
A hissing sound suddenly came from all directions at once. Michael spun in a circle to find its source, and it took him a moment to realize that several holes had appeared along the walls and in the ceiling. Before he could warn his friends, thick lengths of black rope were shooting out, slithering through the air like flying snakes.
He turned to move, but the ropes were everywhere. A piece wound around his ankle, squeezing tightly, as if it was alive.
As he bent over to yank it off, the rope jerked him off his feet and flung him into the air.
9
Michael’s stomach lurched as his body twisted, the rope whipping him back and forth like a dog does its prey. And just like a dog’s prey, he was disoriented. But somehow he’d held on to the gun. As he flew around the room, he focused all his energy into trying to get it cocked. Lights flashed and the colors of the lobby spun until they merged into one. His head began to ache, as if another episode was coming on.
Michael gripped the shotgun with both hands, strained to double over, and aimed, making sure his foot wasn’t in the way. Then he fired.
The gun recoiled and flipped him backward. The floor came into view and kept coming, rushing up until he slammed into it face-first. Through the pain, he could feel the rope around his leg break free—he’d hit his target.
Its partners closed in, coiling and twisting in the air. There were dozens of them, and Michael scanned the room to see what had happened to his friends. Bryson was pinned to a wall, one black cable around his thigh and another one clasping his arm as he struggled to break free. Sarah had avoided outright capture, but she had the loose end of one of the cords in her hands and was trying to keep it from her face, as if it was a cobra straining to strike.
A rope found Michael, snaked up his leg, and began to twist around his knee. He grabbed it and yanked, jumping over it as he did. Then he batted another one coming for his head. Sarah lost her battle—the black cord had wrapped around her neck and was now dragging her to the wall where Bryson stood, his eyes closed and no longer struggling. Terrified that Bryson had been hurt, Michael started in that direction but was cut short by ropes attacking from both sides. He dove to the ground and rolled, kicking out to fling the cables away.
A draining, hopeless feeling tried to suck the life from him. How in the world could they get out of this? He only had one more shell in his shotgun; Bryson’s had slid clear across the room and landed at the foot of the ticket counter, behind which Stonewall stood like a statue, silently watching. Something about her made Michael do a double take—she was like stone, unnaturally still. Her eyes were glazed over and focused on some point in the distance. He’d never seen anything like it.
A cord tightened around Michael’s waist, pulling him back to the fight. Too late he tried to grab it and wrench it from his body; it had a solid hold. The cable jerked him across the floor, and he struggled to free himself as he slid toward his friends, both of whom were now cinched up against the wall with several more ropes than before. The gun started to slip out of Michael’s grasp, but he held on, knowing that last shell was his only chance.
Another rope began to wrap around his left ankle; he kicked it away. One came in from the right, straight at the gun, but he knocked it down with the gun’s barrel, almost pulling the trigger on reflex. Both hands free for a moment, he gripped the weapon tightly and aimed it two feet down the length of cable that had him by the waist. The blast sent him slamming into the floor again, dazing him for an instant. But he was able to tear loose from the now-limp coil. He rolled, dropping the gun, as it was now useless, and scrambled to his feet, slapping ropes away. That was when it hit him: he suddenly knew what the old lady was doing. Why she was so still and focused.