Now the Magnifica were turning to Mack, looking to him for guidance, waiting for him to give them some kind of direction. But you know what? Teachers didn’t exactly teach the use of extraordinary powers in school. Mack didn’t know how to make life-and-death decisions. He hadn’t read a book about it or anything.
“We don’t even know what to call those things,” Mack said, pointing at the fog riders. “If we can’t name them, we can’t control them.”
The fog, and the fog riders, had reached the bridge. There were still cars going by, but almost all the civilian pedestrians had gotten off the bridge. All except some handicapped boy in a wheelchair.
“Stefan! Get that kid off the bridge!” Mack yelled. “Wait! I mean, get him to safety, don’t throw him off the side.”
It was also best to be specific when dealing with Stefan.
Stefan ran to the wheelchair kid.
Beneath them the stone pier had now risen to the bottom of the bridge, and from the fog emerged a phalanx of Skirrit, who were the best climbers among the bad guys. They came swarming up the rough stone ramp.
At the same time the fog riders leaped onto the Marin side of the bridge and began to advance. They were built like humans but on a much larger scale. As they walked—it was more of a rolling swagger, really—they seemed to swirl in on themselves, as if they were slo-mo tornadoes made of dense steam. They had no facial features other than a suggestion of a brow, concavities where there might or might not have been eyes.
Mack shot a desperate look toward the San Francisco end of the bridge. The fog swirled up and over it, hiding the city and any illusion of safety from view.
Was that it? Did they have to flee? After all this, were they going to get their butts kicked in ten seconds, game over?
“No,” Mack said. And he clenched his fists.
“No what?” Jarrah asked.
“No, we’re not going to run,” Mack said.
“Never thought we would,” Jarrah said. She slapped Mack on the back.
“We’re probably going to get killed,” Mack said. “Sorry I got you all into this.”
“You did not get us into this,” Sylvie said. “It is fate, n’est-ce pas?”41
“We need a wind. A very big wind,” Mack said, thinking out loud. “That may get rid of those fog creatures.”
“It won’t stop the others!” Dietmar said shrilly.
“I know!” Mack cried.
Stefan came running out of the fog pushing the wheelchair. The boy in the wheelchair had dark hair, high cheekbones, cool blue eyes, very strong shoulders, and shriveled legs. He was maybe eleven. Or thirteen.
Or.
“Also,” Stefan panted as he ran up, “he says he’s supposed to be here.”
“You’re one of us?” Mack asked.
“My name is Ilya. Yes, I am one of you. At least, I said the words and was one minute in Moscow and then, poof, here!”
“Bad timing, Ilya; we’re about to get slaughtered,” Mack said.
“Eleven of us,” Dietmar said. “Maybe . . .”
Mack nodded. “We have to try. Now or never. Who knows the word for tornado or hurricane?”
“What about the cops and the soldiers and the Coast Guard and all?” the new girl, Hillary, asked. Apparently she wasn’t totally clueless.
“They’re already lost,” Stefan said bluntly, avoiding huh-speak. “Gotta do what we gotta do.”
Mack nodded, accepting that, and secretly grateful that Stefan was the one to say it so he didn’t have to.