opened Michael's side in the back, and then he was moving toward the door, walking, not running, moving with deliberate speed, as if he had all the time in the world, and couldn't be stopped by anything or anyone. Jason scrambled out and scurried to keep up. He forgot to open Claire's side, but that was okay; Michael zipped around in less than two seconds, opened it, and flung Oliver's extra coat over his head to give himself extra protection from the fierce afternoon sun. "Check the bus!" he ordered. "Wait, where are you--" Too late. Michael was gone, racing at an angle across the overgrown grass, heading for the leaning shadow of the building. He got there and slammed his back against the stone, bent over and shaking, and finally stripped off the coat and shattered one of the windows that led into the courthouse. It was odd, Claire thought, that there wasn't a single person coming out of the buildings to see what was going on--not even out of the Civic Hall and Courts. There wasn't a soul anywhere in sight. Blacke couldn't have very many people in it, but it must have at least a hundred or so. They couldn't all be completely clueless, especially if Morley had been his usual obnoxious self. Claire lurched for the bus, hobbled up the steps, and found the whole thing deserted.
None of the prisoners were still in their seats, and the floor was littered with cut plastic ties in the back. She left the bus at a limping run, crossed to the broken window--Michael hadn't waited--and groaned when she realized it was almost head-high for her. With no time to complain about it, she jumped, grabbed the sill, and ignored the cuts she got from the broken glass. Michael had swept away most of it; what was left was irritating, that was all. Her arms trembled with the strain, but she managed to lift herself up, get the toes of her right foot into one of the cracks in the stone, and boost up onto the window's broad ledge. From there it was easy enough to swing her legs in, but it was a longer drop to the floor than she'd thought, and she hit too hard. Her left ankle let out a fiery burst of pain, and she paused to brace herself against the cold stone wall, panting and waiting for the agony to subside. She was in some kind of office, but it hadn't been used in recent years; the desks looked like something left over from the turn of the century, but these weren't antiques; they were junk. The wood was rotten, drawers were cracked and hanging loose, and in some cases the legs had actually broken off. She surprised a mouse in one of the broken drawers, and nearly screamed as it zipped across the dirty floor in her path. Deep breaths. Come on, keep it together; they need you. Shane needs you. Claire pulled the heavy silver-coated stake out of her pocket and held it in her left hand as she opened the door with her right, ready to attack if she had to ... but the hallway was empty.
She could hear running footsteps, though. Noise upstairs. That didn't mean there weren't bad guys down here, however. Thanks to a thorough education in Morganville--Survival 101-- she always assumed there were bad guys around every corner. There was a lot of chaos going on upstairs--furniture crashing, thumping, running feet. People yelled--Claire tried not to think of it as screaming--and it sounded like that might be where Oliver had chosen to go after Morley. But where was Michael? Claire opened another door and found an office, with a desk and a computer and an old cup of molding coffee sitting on top of some papers. Nobody there. She tried the next door--same result, only no coffee. In the third one, she found a woman slumped in the corner. She was unconscious, not dead, thankfully, as Claire discovered on checking her pulse, which proved to be strong. Claire moved the woman into a more comfortable position, rolled over on her side; recovery position, it was called.
Shane had taught it to her--he was good at first aid. The woman was older, kind of heavy, and she looked tired and pale. Pale. Claire checked her neck on both sides, but found nothing. Then she checked the woman's wrists and found a slowly bleeding wound, and not a neat one, either.