Myra went with her impulse and turned the wheel left.

“Change of plans?” Brown asked as the auto took them down one of the city’s lesser streets.

“I don’t know how much of a plan we had to begin with,” she replied. She drove a modest distance before sliding to a stop by a sidewalk. “Let me see the map again.”

They had by now done their little crossword puzzle around every single one of the Green Bomber’s appearances, with the bombing of that one patrol auto two nights before adding a tragic final piece. The Bomber’s likely, possible, and highly unlikely pathways were now more or less mapped out. But with how spread out his attacks had been there was still room for guesswork. Sadly it didn’t all add up to an arrow pointing conveniently to the only possible place he could be hiding at.

But there were hubs, centres, or whatever else her mind felt like calling them at each moment. Spots which the blue and red lines she’d drawn led to, and which fit the general pattern she was starting to observe. Flint Street, pretty much on the border between Black Bend and Fields, was one of them. Moreover, it was poorly lit, with spaced out buildings.

It was still raining too hard to make out much of anything from inside the auto, but she’d driven by on occasion and knew the local apartments were poor. It was the kind of area where people minded their own business, and had presumably been that way ever since the factory closed.

“Doesn’t this look promising to you?” she asked.

“This isn’t the dead centre,” Brown replied. “But yeah... this does lead into most of the likelier paths.”

“And a nice, abandoned building to hide out in.”

“I don’t know how nice a failed chemical plant is, but then he IS insane,” her partner replied.

“Yeah.”

Myra stared through the rain. All she could really see of the plant was a bit of the fence around it, faintly visible in the feeble glow of an antiquated lamppost.

She killed the lights, then the engine.

“Worth a peek, at least,” she commented. “And a bit of caution.”

Brown sighed.

“You want to go strolling in the shower.”

“I want to not spook him, if he’s actually here,” she said. “Rain makes a handy cover. Let’s take advantage of it.”

Brown took his revolver out and went over it for a moment, as was his wont. Then they both opened their respective doors and stepped out. There was an odd feeling to it all, as if she’d stepped into some isolated netherworld. The rain dampened all other noise, even the splashes of her soles on the pavement. What few lights shone really did reveal very little, serving as little more than guides for traffic, and even the wider city and its glowing windows were mostly hidden from sight by the surrounding buildings. A strangely lonely sensation gripped Myra, although tension began overpowering it as the fence came into view.

It was made of brick, topped by iron spikes, and the plant itself was only a barely visible bulk beyond; a fat ghost in the rain and dark. There was an iron gate, and memory of those immensely destructive green blasts made her peek carefully around the post it was riveted to. There was nothing to see save more vague outlines, and she risked approaching the shutter. Unusually, there was no padlocked chain guarding the property for whoever still owned it. It could be significant, and it could also simply be negligence. It did make Myra test that her shoulder holster was readily accessible, before she opened the gate.

It squeaked, of course, and she settled for a crack just wide enough to slip through. Brown followed, accompanied by one more minor squeak as the gate had to make way for his larger body. It was a short walk to the front door but they moved slowly, staying aware of their surroundings. It was dark enough for Myra to get out her flashlight to find the handle, and the beam shone on sturdy, rusty chains.

“Can’t be the only entrance,” Brown whispered.

“No. It can’t. Left or right?”

“I’m fine either way.”

“Of course you are.”

She selected left for no particular reason and stuck close to the wall as she went. All of the first-floor windows had been thoroughly boarded up, but she gently touched each one in passing, looking for one that might be loose.

They rounded the corner, and now faced the torrent dripping down from the edge of the roof. The edge wasn’t wide enough to provide proper cover and somehow stepping away from it felt like exposing herself too much, so she just put up with it and let herself dream of a warm bath. The windows continued to be thoroughly blocked for passage and sight, and the little employee entrance they found was chained-up as well. That left them with rounding another corner, and that’s when things got interesting.

Myra didn’t actually know what they had produced here, but it seemed to have been piped out the back, presumably into either a truck or a tank that had since been removed. A couple of metres of the pipe remained, and it looked easily large enough for a person to pass through, if not comfortably. More interestingly, some sort of sturdy wire net had been put up over the opening and then bolted in place. And then it had melted.

Brown aimed his light at the pipe and Myra approached it carefully. She touched her fingers to the destroyed metal. The destruction was almost utter, leaving the opening only slightly narrower than if the net had never been put up at all.

“Now, what did that, I wonder?” Brown said meaningfully.

Myra crouched down without taking either foot off the ground and led with the revolver as she peered in; she had no intention of taking one of those green blasts in the face. There was nothing to see save for a darkened factory interior, but in withdrawing the light she happened to shine it at the bottom of the pipe.

Whatever had once flown through this metal tunnel had fastened to its interior. Or perhaps it was some sort of chemical coating. Myra had no idea. But it was white, and coming off in flakes that littered the bottom.

“White flakes on his shoes and pants,” she whispered. “That’s what Tom in the Placid Parlour said.”

She sniffed, getting a whiff of strange chemicals. It made her think of that journalist's account of the Bomber’s odour.

“Looks and smells promising,” Brown commented.

“Yeah,” Myra replied, feeling a hard determination settle within her.

“The question now is: Do we go call for backup, or do we go in? Or does one go and the other stays?”

“How long would backup take, given the mess everything is in right now?” Myra said. “And one staying? No. No, I say we go in.”

“Yeah, we go in,” Brown said grimly. “If he’s here, we find him and we finish this. Here and now.”

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His meaning was plain enough, and Myra didn’t quite know what to say. So she didn’t say anything and simply crouched her way into the pipe. It was just big enough that she could waddle on through. Doing it with any amount of stealth took quite a bit of concentration, given the echo in such a tight space, but she felt she managed it alright.

Myra came out the other side and stayed crouched, holding her gun at the ready and one finger on the flashlight button. There was no need to give herself away with the beam right away.

Brown came in after her, and he did have to crawl. As he got out and got his bearings she did activate the light. Their respective beams shone across pipes and machinery she couldn’t make heads or tails of, and clearly some of it had been removed when the plant shut down.

She really tried to not think of the place as a carcass.

In the silence she could now hear a distant voice, muttering inaudibly.

“He mustn’t get away,” she whispered. “Not again. He can’t slip around us. Stay here and guard the pipe, in case he evades me, or circles around in the dark.”

“If the lunatic spots you before you spot him he’ll start blasting away,” Brown replied. “You have to drop him on sight.”

Myra didn’t like what he was saying. But the terrifying damage the Green Bomber could inflict at will played on her mind. As did his body count.

“Just stay,” she said. “I’ll shout if I need help.”

“Fine. Just announce yourself when you come back.”

She headed into the plant’s bowels, moving around pipes and tanks, gantries and stairs. The floor seemed relatively clean, but she was still wary of making any kind of noise, and alternated her light between down and forward.

Following the muttering proved a bit harder than she’d assumed. The ceiling was high and oddly shaped, and there were plenty of things for sound to bounce off of. Still, she made gradual progress to what felt like the centre of this place, coming upon some sort of control room.

“... where is it, where is it, where has beauty gone, why is it me...”

She started spotting empty food containers on the floor, and through the omnipresent chemical stench she detected the aroma of human waste. The muttering continued, and Myra was terrified to realise she didn’t know what she would do upon finding the source. She had no desire to kill some confused vagrant who was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or indeed to kill at all. Not in cold blood. Not because it was the safer option.

“... where is the dawn, where is the dawn, where is the bell...”

Her foot caught on something on the floor, producing a scraping noise. Myra flinched, but only internally. Her body went ramrod-stiff as the muttering ceased.

She turned off the light, then waited, and waited, breath held and senses on full alert. She considered kneeling, in case of a sudden green blast, but decided against even the slightest creak of her shoes on the floor. There was a rustling sound, followed by soft footsteps that nonetheless echoed. Myra decided they were cover enough and continued walking, keeping the light off and trusting in her memory of the path ahead.

Whoever was here with her had fallen silent by the time she was at the control room. Myra put her hand around the front of the flashlight for a narrow beam, then flicked it on with her pinky.

She’d found someone’s den. Boxes had been stacked up to form two walls up against the control room building. A ratty blanket lay in between them, as did a couple of bags. There was a faint smell of unappealing food, and a large bird had been crudely drawn on the building wall.

Myra heard movement again, echoing off walls and tanks in this unpleasant place. But she thought she detected a general direction and shut the light off again, before taking a few steps away from the den. She went quiet a moment before the other person did, and so she heard the scraping of a foot without her own footsteps interfering.

She activated the beam and caught a figure standing a few metres away. The coat was familiar, as was the shape of the body underneath, and Myra took aim at the head.

“It’s you,” he said, and the voice sealed it.

“Yes, it’s me,” she bit out. “Put your hands up.”

“You’ve found my hiding spot...” the Green Bomber mumbled. “What am I supposed to-”

“Put your hands up,” she repeated, with all the menace she could muster.

The man did raise them a bit. He wasn’t holding that deadly rod.

“I’ve tried, and I’ve tried...” he continued. He sounded less frantic than the previous times she’d heard him speak, and she didn’t know if a cooler head on his shoulders was good or bad.

“You’ve killed and you’ve killed,” she replied. “Lie down on your stomach.”

“No. No no. You ought to help me, Myra.”

“Lie down, now.”

His head swayed a bit. She couldn’t tell if it was a poorly done headshake or an attempt at clearing it.

“I’ve tried to open people’s eyes. No. I... I know. It’s clearer now. I know what I must do. Tomorrow night. Tomorrow the bastions to this wretchedness end.”

“Tomorrow you will be dead or in a cell. Lie down, last chance.”

“Tomorrow I will destroy the banks.”

Myra’s finger tightened around the trigger, but instinct brought her aim low, at his legs, before the shot went off.

In this confined space the report hit her like a punch. The bullet punched a hole in a metal surface, and the Green Bomber’s reflection darted out of her sight.

“No!”

Myra broke into a run, moving to intercept. Some kind of hydrant got in her way, lengthening the Bomber’s lead by a few metres while she moved around it. She tried to keep the light beam fixed at the man’s location, even if he was only visible in glimpses amidst all the industrial equipment. He was nearly to the pipe when another beam shone, followed by another shot.

Myra lost sight of the Bomber for an instant, but through the two gunshots lingering in her ear she heard him stumble into something with a loud crash. A flash of that horrid green glow made her dart into cover by some vertical pipes, but the blast hit the wall closest to the Bomber.

She couldn’t see Brown, but she saw the light bobbing up and down with his movement, a moment before another gunshot. The next green blast shot upwards, and was followed by a terrible clatter and rending of metal. Myra didn’t know if he’d hit a gantry or a walkway or both, but something groaned very ominously in the darkness.

She sprinted, clearing pipes in bounds as Brown’s light seemed to near the Bomber. There was a clash, and the light swayed about wildly, giving her only glimpses of what was going on. After a couple of seconds the rod fired off another flash of green, searing death, and in the light it cast she saw Brown and the Bomber grapple for the rod itself. The shot went wide, hitting a beam and destroying it utterly, very close to Brown’s head.

It sufficed for the Bomber to break the grip and slam the other man’s head into something. Brown slid down as the Bomber shouted “False!”, but was still too close for Myra to dare another gunshot. Instead she slammed into the bastard, swinging the butt of her pistol into his head. There was a loud crack, and by any sane measure the man ought to have fallen like a cut tree. Instead he just stumbled a bit and tried to get a hold on her.

Myra dropped her flashlight and caught his wrist, twisting the deadly rod wide. Her other arm swung up and her elbow caught him in the face. And just like that, she had the rod.

“No!” the man screamed, and with the two lights on the floor she couldn’t quite tell what he did. But something hit the side of her head. She spun in a circle like a drunken dancer before falling down into a sitting position. The Bomber’s feet passed through one of the flashlight beams, coming her way, and she saw an outstretched hand.

She raised her gun and fired. The Bomber flinched away and his feet vanished. She couldn’t hear him. Only the metallic groaning up above was loud enough to penetrate the ringing in her ears. But some instinct told her he was leaving. She tried getting up, but the first attempt failed. She collapsed onto all fours, clumsy due to both hands being full.

The rod wound up in one of the beams, and she got her first really good look at it. And she remembered. She remembered-

“Get him,” Brown groaned, from where he lay up against piping, bleeding from his head.

Myra switched to holding the rod with two fingers, using the rest of the hand to pick up one of the lights. She swung it towards the hole the Bomber had blasted into the wall, and sure enough: He was exiting through it. She couldn’t bring her gun hand to bear quickly enough, and so had to get up and give chase.

She was unsteady, dizzy, and shocked in some way she couldn’t make any sense of. But she made it to the opening and aimed both gun and light just in time to see the Bomber leap.

He soared, impossibly, up above the wall and its iron spikes, and vanished into the rain.

“Tomorrow the banks!” he screamed.

Myra staggered dumbly over to the wall. She holstered the gun, stuck the rod and the light into a coat pocket, and tried getting a grip on the bricks. But the cracks were too small. Even if she’d had the strength to pull herself up, there was simply no handhold. She turned around, thinking of the front gate and the tiny chance of catching up to him. But there was a modest crashing noise inside, followed by a groaning even louder and more ominous.

“Brown!” she shouted. Then she ran for the opening. “Shit!”