Storming: A Dieselpunk Adventure (18 page)

The place didn’t look set up to hold more than a couple dozen patients, and judging by the glimpse through the door into the open ward beyond, three times that many already jammed the ground floor. Nebraskans were used to summer storms. But this one had upset everybody more than usual.

He leaned over two people to catch the nurse’s eye. “Jael!” he raised his voice above the hubbub. “I’m looking for a girl named Jael! She was hit by lightning.” Or close to it, at any rate.

The nurse gave him a harassed shake of her head.

He filled his lungs to try again.

To his left, a dog barked.

He turned.

On the far side of the ward, in the open doorway of what looked to be a single-patient room, Taos sat beside the dark-haired kid who’d come by yesterday for a ride. Nan and Aurelia loomed behind him. And behind them, sitting on the edge of a bed, was Jael.

She gave him the tiniest crook of a smile.

Thank the Lord for miracles. The breath he’d gathered left his lungs in a whoof.

He pushed through the crowd and weaved his way through the ward to her room. “You’re alive... Shoot, kiddo, give me a heart attack next time, why don’t you?”

She slumped, both hands braced against the mattress edge. Dark circles deepened her eyes. Her bobbed hair, light brown before, was streaked with silver.

Other than that, she looked downright scenic.

“You all right?” he asked.

She nodded. “
Now
am fine.” She jutted her chin at something in the big room. “I have acquainted your brother. They are saying he brought me to this place.”

Hitch glanced back.

Griff, his deputy’s badge glinting against his shoulder, was working the crowd, trying to calm the folks down. He caught Hitch’s eye, held it for five full seconds, then turned away. He looked beat. Who could blame him? He’d probably been up all night with the murder. And now here he was again, hard at it.

“And then I once more acquainted your friends from store.” Jael nodded to Nan and Aurelia. She lowered her gaze and smiled. “And Volltair.”

The little boy—he was about eight or so, with wide ears and a nose full of freckles—looked back and forth between Jael and Hitch. His eyes were big and excited. He kept one hand on Taos’s head.

Nan reached for Walter’s shoulder. She stared at Hitch, practically dragging his gaze back up to hers. “This is unbelievable. It’s amazing she survived.”

Hitch shifted his weight and pushed his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, well, thanks for looking out for her.”

“I do what needs doing, Hitch Hitchcock.”

“I know you do,” he said. “You always did.”

Her cheeks flushed, and for that one second, she looked, inexplicably, like she might burst into tears. She pushed Walter forward. “Come along.” She beckoned for Aurelia. “We need to go check what’s happened to the farm.”

Aurelia patted Jael’s cheek. She sighed. “I’m so sorry you don’t have to stay in the hospital. I was going to buy you a violet nightgown.” She looked at Hitch and tilted her head from one side to the other, considering. “I know something. But of course you wouldn’t believe me.”

“I might.”

“Another storm is coming. I know. I was told. And if there is one storm, there will be two.” She inclined her head, like a queen after a pronouncement.

He touched her shoulder. “That’s true as true. I believe you, Aurelia.”

She blinked benevolently, then wafted out after Nan and the boy.

Hitch closed the door and turned back to Jael. “This is nuts. You know that, right?” He felt like he was going to explode right out of his skin. His forehead pounded where he’d hit it against the cockpit rim. The whirl of his thoughts, most of them ending in question marks, didn’t help one bit. “Everything that’s gone on today—everything that’s gone on since you about fell on my plane the other night—that stuff does not happen. All right?”

She pointed to his forehead and opened her mouth in what might have been concern.

“This guy Zlo,” he said. “Who is he? How’s he doing that stuff with the storm and the wind and the lightning?
Did
he do that? Did he send the lightning deliberately?”

She eased up off the bed and stepped toward him. “Your head. You have blood.”

“What you did with the pendant, you did that on purpose. Didn’t you? You took the hit on purpose?”

“It did not hit me. It just... was surrounding me.”

Which explained why she wasn’t all crispy.

“And how exactly does that work?”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “Lightning is giving much danger to...
Schturming
, just as much as Groundsworld. So Nestor is letting me make changes to
yakor
—to direct lightning—and maybe to give protection.” She tilted a sheepish smile. “It is only half working.”

“I noticed.”

Heck, why not? After everything that had happened today, a lightning puller/protector thing seemed almost the most believable.

“Well,” he said, “if it attracts lightning, then do me a favor and don’t take it in a plane ever again.”

She picked up a rolled-up bandage from the table beside the bed and reached to dab it against his forehead. It came away streaked with red, and she dabbed again. She raised her other hand to prod his forehead with a fingertip.

“Ow!” He grabbed her hand reflexively. What she was doing caught up with his brain. “You’re doctoring
me
? You’re the one who got hit—or surrounded—or whatever by lightning.”

She positively blushed. Embarrassed she’d been caught fussing? Or embarrassed she was still alive when her insides should be scorched?

She pulled free and lowered herself to the bed’s edge once more.

He backed up to lean against the door and watched her, arms crossed. He made himself take in a deep breath.

Okay, so there was something up there that could command lightning. Probably not the best thing to have happening just before an airshow.

He dug around for the right words to frame this crazy question he had to ask. “I went straight up into that storm. Ran smack into something.” He pointed to his head. “That’s when this happened. And then I was in a long room full of supplies, and Zlo and a bunch of other people were there.” He eyed her. “That was
Schturming
, wasn’t it?”

She gave one tight nod, then busied herself straightening the tray of instruments on the side table.

“Well, what is
Schturming
?” It sure as Moses wasn’t the big bomber he’d been halfway expecting.

More fiddling. Then she looked him in the eye. Her pupils were tiny, the silver of her irises practically engulfing them. “If Zlo has control, he will use power wrongly—against my people. He will make more days like today. Worse days, even.” She stood back up. “I am going to go home. I must find way home on any plane, and I will give stop to him.”

“Why? From the sounds of it, folks up there haven’t been treating you too good.”

She jutted her chin. “Zlo was killing Nestor. And...
someone
has to give stop to him.”

Her determination was about as real as it got. But what was one woman—even one as apparently indestructible as she was—going to be able to do?

A thought occurred. “This all isn’t your fault somehow, is it?”

“No.”

But she was still headed back up there, sure as shooting. She’d get herself killed. People who could zap you with lightning weren’t people you wanted to be messing with. She’d be better off staying down here.

“Maybe you should back up a little,” he suggested. “Catch your breath. Most people would say getting hit by lightning is way above and beyond the call of duty.”

“I did not get hit. And this I
must
do. If Zlo is able to do these things he did today, it has to mean he has at least killed our
glavni
—our leader—and Enforcement
Brigada.
” She raised her chin; her nostrils flared. “I will never be free, I will never be happy, if I leave my people in danger.”

He wouldn’t know about that. His people were only in danger so long as he
was
around.

“Being free is a harder thing to find than you might think.”

“Yes. But I will not ever gain it by running away.”

In his experience, life wasn’t in the habit of making things that clear cut. But he bit his tongue. “Who are your people? What are they flying around in up there?”

The glimpse he’d gotten from his cockpit had been of a legitimate
room
—plank walls and floors. And the people inside of it hadn’t exactly looked like crew. Their clothing hadn’t been familiar, but it hadn’t seemed to be any kind of uniform. That might mean they were closer to being passengers. But since when did passengers have to help with stowing the supplies?

The whole thing had seemed awful
permanent.
That explained her talk of it being “home” and the fact that people would be up there long enough to need burial rituals. Even still, flight and permanence didn’t exactly belong in the same sentence.

She shook her head, almost apologetically. “I cannot tell you. It is not for Groundsmen to be knowing.”

Right. He’d heard that one before. “Tell me this then—how do you figure on finding Zlo?”

She slipped a hand into her pants pocket and fisted it around something. “He will find me maybe.”

Ah, that wasn’t so good. After the airshow maybe he’d go hunting, just to satisfy his own curiosity. But right now, the last thing he or the airshow needed was a crazy madman in a cloud machine.

Truthfully, Zlo’s coming back to find Jael didn’t seem like the best thing that could happen to her either.

They looked at each other. From beyond the door, the bustle of the hospital filtered in.

His pulse beat a steady rhythm against his bruised forehead. His muscles all felt like they were starting to sag right off his bones. The excitement was almost gone, and all he was left with was a huge desire for his bedroll and someplace dry to unroll it.

She was probably wanting the exact same thing right about now. But she looked a far sight better than he felt.

He clucked. “Anybody ever tell you you’ve got some guts?”

She knit her brows and laid a hand on her stomach. “Guts?”

“Courage. Maybe a little more than your share of insanity too.” He offered a grin. “But then I’m hardly one to call the kettle black.”

The line between her eyebrows deepened.

He stood up from the door. “I’m just saying, you’re a brave and crazy person. Smart too.” Everything she’d done out there today had been calculated. She made her decisions—the right decisions, as things had turned out—and acted on them without a second thought.

For some strange reason, the image that flashed through his mind was of what Celia would have looked like if she’d been the one standing on the wings of his plane today. Part of him almost laughed. Celia had hated planes. Never wanted to go near them. Partly, she’d just been worried about her health—she was always worried about something. And partly, she’d been maybe a little jealous of them.

She’d never have been able even to dream of doing anything like Jael had just done.

He tamped the thought away. Celia’d been her own person, with her own strengths. She’d hardly been alone in not being able to count wing walking and lightning dodging amongst her foremost talents.

But Jael... There
was
something about her. She surely hadn’t been born for a life with her feet nailed to the ground. True, she didn’t know much of anything about anything. But she could learn. Earl himself had said she’d picked up the workings of the engine fast enough. With a little training, she might really be able to do something in the air that was worth watching.

He hauled himself up short. No, the last thing in the world he needed right now was another mouth to feed—especially a mouth belonging to someone who needed a heap of training.

Jael cocked her head and looked him up and down. “And you,” she said. “You are brave man too.” She pushed up from the bed and limped past him as he opened the door. She tossed him a half-teasing, half-knowing glance. “But not crazy.”

If that was her way of saying everything he’d seen up there in the storm wasn’t a hallucination after all, it was a sight less comforting than she probably meant it to be.

He could always pack up the Jennies and leave. But he didn’t scare
that
easy. Besides, where something smelled this funny, there was bound to be opportunities on the rise. He’d never been one to pass that up.

***

As it turned out, he wasn’t the only one who smelled an opportunity.

Back out on the street, people crowded around a white-suited man standing in the bed of a rusty truck. Livingstone. He was gesticulating—hat in one hand, walking stick in the other—and hollering something.

If anything, the storm would be bad publicity for the airshow, since the pilots could hardly be expected to fly if this weather persisted. As if Hitch’s stomach needed any more encouragement to be queasy.