Book 2: Chapter 28: The Sound of One Hand Clapping (2/2)

Dan mentally cursed his mouth, his temper, and his own parents for not instilling a proper fear of authority into him.

Dunkirk stared at him, his jaw rhythmically clenching and unclenching.

”We don't have time for this,” he decided after a moment. ”Do what you want.” He gestured to his remaining men, all five of them. ”On me!”

They scrambled into an approximate formation, and Dan was struck by the sheer callous stupidity of the man. He could see the uncertainty, the fear on the faces of the federal agents, as they followed the man who claimed to be their leader. He saw worried glances towards the bodies of their allies, the many dead, and several more who had been dragged aside and roughly bandaged in the midst of the battle. These were office drones with a dash of field training, not soldiers.

Despite it all, they followed their leader without question. There was probably something admirable about that, but Dan just thought it was incredibly foolish. A fancy badge and rank did not mystically endow intelligence, nor did it erase glaring personality flaws. Dunkirk, Dan realized, could not be relied on to save anyone.

Fuck it, then. He'd do it himself. Dan willed himself back to the medical station, now abandoned. The tents still stood, though they were tattered from stray rounds. Several cars sat nearby, including an ambulance, whose drivers were presumably unwilling to risk escape in a big, bright red box. It was a high-capacity version, taken out specifically for large scale disasters. Dan found the keys conveniently dangling from the ignition, and the ambo started up without issue.

Dan backed the vehicle as close as he could to the entrance of the field office, figuring that, if things went really bad, he could at least drive a few injured people out of the way. Hopefully the feds would come to their senses before it came to that. If Dan had to pull a Hacksaw Ridge, it'd be nice to have some fucking backup. Dan parked the ambulance, then blinked into the back. He sorted through the first aid supplies, grabbing bandages and pain meds, before blinking onto the street.

His feet splashed against something as he landed, but Dan kept his eyes averted from the ground. He followed the sound of people in pain, probing with his veil to find them. He went for the ones not making noise, first. The most seriously injured, and the unconscious. He loaded them onto stretchers, and dragged them out of the way as best he could. Most suffered from bullet wounds. Dan could do little more than apply coagulant, a bandage, and pressure.

Between his rushed first-aid attempts, he tried calling Abby, then Cornelius, then Gregoir. All came back busy. He briefly considered teleporting back home, to tell Abby himself. He knew, though, if he did that then he wouldn't be coming back. If he found himself at home, safe, away from this horror, he wouldn't be able to muster the courage to return. Better to be here, with grim reality staring him in the face, inescapable.

Dan tried emergency services one last time, and got nothing. After his third failure, he paused for a moment, just taking in the state of the city. Sirens reverberated across the tall skyscrapers of downtown, a cacophonous riot of noise. The air outside the field office stank like death and the dying. His boots were stained red.

Dan shook himself, and continued. If he needed to break down, there would be time later. Once he was safe. Once everyone around him was safe. He had a job to do, and he couldn't do it if he was blubbering to himself. Dan slung another unconscious volunteer onto a stretcher, and dragged them across the melting ice.

The ambulance was near full, and Dan briefly considered grabbing another vehicle. It was pointless, he decided quickly. The entire idea was to flee if things went bad. He wouldn't have time to drive off five different vehicles. The ambo was reserved for the worst cases. The rest would have to play possum.

Hopefully, things wouldn't come to that.

Paranoia and suspicion had Dan peeling a few threads from his veil, and sending them creeping through the field office. He kept a portion of his attention on that, as he searched for more survivors. After a moment's thought, he peeled back towards the main area of battle. Several of the dead villains still had sidearms strapped to them, and Dan mechanically stripped them off. He brought them towards the entrance of the field office, where several injured federal agents had been dragged aside by their fellows.

Only one seemed fully aware of himself. His arm was in a rough sling, and his torso was covered in blood, but his eyes were clear. He watched Dan approach, scavenged pistols held loosely in hand. He dropped the weapons beside the man.

”You'll probably want these if things get nasty,” Dan offered.

The fed stared at him for a moment, then reached for the pistol, wincing at the motion.

”Thanks,” he grunted weakly.

”You think your boys can handle that guy?” Dan asked, nodding towards the entrance. The metal-manipulator had seemed impervious to everything they'd thrown at him.

The fed leaned back, letting out a rattling groan. ”T-t-the office is n-nothing. He'll be looking... below. It's a m-maze down there, should buy us some time. I d-don't know what that villain is looking for, but if Dunkirk can get to the armory before he finds it, we'll be fine.”

Dan's threads raced along stone corridors, searching and searching. He was forced to reduce his efforts outside, feeding more of his veil's reservoir into his mental map of the field office. With a thought, the threads dove down, quickly hitting a hidden basement. The agent wasn't wrong: it was a maze. Wide and winding and deep, Dan was finding it all but impossible to actually locate anything of use.

He had no idea where anyone was, and that terrified him.

”What if they don't?” he asked quietly.

The wounded agent looked away, shifting uncertainly.

His silence was the answer.