Blood On Borrowed Wings: A Dark Fantasy Thriller Page 20

  He looked a little closer at them and saw their lips were moving.

  Trust your guts for bile, food and intuition.

  Standard Roll-call

  Sergeant Shaw

  CHAPTER 43

  Something did not feel right.

  Returning to my apartment, I stopped without making any conscious decision to do so. I had coursed these detritus-filled runs and alleyways innumerable times. The puddles seemed greasier, the darkness more dank, the rotting food more putrid. Flaking stone hung like tessellated armour over a threadbare disassembling skin of cheap mortar, thin brick and render. Blustering rats were notable in their absence, as was sunlight, which, though it never reached down here, had never felt so far away. Barely intact mesh was bedecked with handwritten or paint stuttered notices:

  ‘Keep Out!’

  ‘Come In.’

  ‘No cold calling!’

  Crooked buildings stretched up into the sky and pollution clung to them like nicotine to an old man’s arthritic fingers.

  Nothing appeared to be out of place.

  But it was.

  I strained into the drizzle to hear something tell-tale, the creak of a bowstring, the pop of a long locked knee, the descending death of an assassin falling from above.

  I had learnt that every man comes to depend on his instincts and training in battle. When to duck, swing the axe, fire the bolt.

  When to run.

  Only a wet novice, blind slave or total fool disregarded what his guts were telling him in times of crises. So I stood motionless, thinking about trying not to think too much.

  Disappearing was not an option, I had to go back to my place and see if someone had sprung my trap. I did not have many leads and even fewer ideas about how to go on the offence; I could not turn and run away from any potential clue or suspect. I had so very little to go on.

  And I had to go on the offence.

  In times of uncertainty, one defensive move leads to another, then another; soon, rather than making a decision, you kid yourself that the act of defence is a decision in itself. It is not, it is merely a reaction to an aggressor.

  Be the aggressor.

  I had to go on the attack, be unpredictable, break my standard patterns of engagement and thinking. Go straight for them.

  Whoever they were.

  Was that it? I was trying to convince myself that arrowing straight into them was the smart thing to do, but I knew it was nothing to do with tactics or the machinations of a well-trained, honed, ex-Slayer. It was everything to do with ego, retribution and pride. It was because they were pissing me off.

  So, certain in the knowledge that I was not a wet novice or blind slave, I ignored my guts and followed the internal war drum like a total fool. I sped on into the well-known darkness, my feet pounded across the worn cobbles and flags, the raised grates, the sunken runnels, well-travelled yet best avoided. I arrived at the back of my apartment building, checked around.

  And up.

  Removed a knife and collapsible bow then stowed my bag with the rest of my things in a small recess beneath the eight stone stairs that led up to the back door of my apartment block. They would stay dry there.

  I didn’t use the back door.

  I had other plans.

  Old age: that thing we strive for and yet never want to achieve.

  Pre-war Saying

  (Anon.)

  CHAPTER 44

  ‘What the f...’ the man started where he sat, jumped to his feet then spilled most of the pre-processed food from his plastic plate onto a tartan blanket that covered his small armchair. A fork loaded with pasta fell to the floor.

  ‘Calm down. It’s me.’

  ‘Who? I don’t kn...’

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ I hissed.

  He blinked, shocked more by that, than my initial entry into his apartment.

  ‘Now look here, you come barging into my home like...’

  ‘It’s me. Number 37? Across the way? Helped you get that chair up here. Remember?’ I spoke quickly and low. Fired sentences like they were bolts. Five into his surprised and addled brain.

  I watched recognition fleet across his face. He had some food on his chin.

  I pressed a finger to my pursed lips for quiet.

  He looked bemused but leaned closer. Good. He was joining in. He spoke in a whisper in the same punchy style as me.

  ‘Why in the hot fuck have you just climbed in through my window?’

  ‘Forgot my key.’

  He made a soggy ‘Pah’ noise and waved his hand at me as if I were a fly on the edge of his dinner plate.

  ‘Out,’ he whispered, as he sat back down.

  ‘There are people out there,’ I gestured with my thumb toward my door, ‘who do not need to see me coming.’

  ‘Well, I clear as fuck didn’t!’

  ‘Used your fire escape.’

  His eyes widened.

  ‘Raised it back up after too.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I mean, you don’t know who could be down in those alleys.’

  He waved at me again, or maybe he was waving at his deserting resolve and patience. He brushed food from his dressing gown and chair then picked his fork up and grunted.

  ‘I’ll be gone soon enough. Here.’ I dropped a hundred credits onto his table.

  He looked at them then carried on eating his meal as if I and they were not there.

  I made my way over to the small glass eye in his front door, placed my hands flat, either side of it on the cold wood, closed my right eye and leaned in to look through it with my left.

  My flat was diagonally opposite this place.

  And my door was open.

  I saw shadows move across the open doorway. I counted two or three, maybe more, people moving around inside.

  Someone was groaning.

  Someone else was shouting instructions.

  I strained further left as if doing so would afford me a better view of my apartment but through the small eyehole, I could not see inside. I hit my head on the door when the man, now stood next to me, spoke:

  ‘Rent’s two hundred for that piece of real estate.’

  I turned from the peephole.

  ‘Don’t push it,’ I whispered through gritted teeth.

  He recoiled, took two steps back, looked towards the kitchen, stopped, swallowed, looked back at me.

  ‘Your eyes give you away. Chances are you can try to get whatever weapon you have in the kitchen then bustle back here and whisk me to death, or you can sit back down, stay quiet, earn one hundred easy credits and not make me hurt you.’

  ‘Well don’t drip wet on my parquet.’

  I showed total trust by turning my back on him and going back to my eye into the hall. The sound of muffled voices made it through the door. ‘Dane, Clarke, cover the fire exit out back whilst I sort this fuck up out, will you?’

  I heard footsteps then saw two men heading for the stairwell. I heard the rusting fire door open, then close.

  That left one, maybe two in my room.

  The groaning carried on.

  ‘Ow! My fucking leg.’

  ‘Keep the pressure on it. They’ll be here soon.’

  They? I had to take my chance to get out now, see better what was going on whilst they were isolated, before help or reinforcements arrived. I looked back and the man was staring at me with undiluted hatred, the food still on his chin. I said nothing, opened his door and eased out quietly into the corridor.

  I took two small, quiet steps to the edge of my door, stopped and listened. I could hear their voices clearly coming from my room.

  ‘It hurts. It fucking hurts.’

  There was a sound of cloth ripping.

  ‘Tie this round there. Like that. Slows the blood loss.’

  ‘Round it? Round it? There’s a fucking bolt more in my leg than out and you want me to tie a bow on it.’

  ‘He’s clever, I’ll give him that. Expected nothing less.’

&nb
sp; I knew the voice.

  ‘Always was one of our best,’ he continued.

  The injured man hissed, ‘I can’t believe you are actually sympathising with this...’

  ‘This what?’ I said from the doorway.

  Sergeant Bleecker started, smiled, then looked concerned all in an instant.

  He looked considerably older than when I had last seen him. His former wrinkles were now established glacial cracks. His weatherworn skin had a toughness of leather and earth about it. His white hair was cropped square and short and topped his massive physique, like a marshmallow sat atop a breezeblock. His arms bulged beneath his military issue uniform and I could see two new scars running along his jawline. His eyes were the same though, steely blue and cold, despite the genuine smile trying to illuminate them.

  ‘Slayer,’ Bleecker said. It was an answer and a greeting.

  There was no tension in his face or voice, neither agitated nor confrontational. He looked like he had been expecting me. He swept his arm sideways to make sure the injured man on my bed did not fire the bolt he was busy trying to load into his military bow.

  ‘Slayer? Not anymore,’ I said.

  ‘Once a Slayer, always a...’

  ‘Quit with the epithets. I don’t have to listen to your clichés anymore.’

  ‘Quite,’ he said.

  I regretted my tone instantly, it was more from feelings he invoked about my past than anything he had specifically done to me directly. Still, he deserved my respect, even if he was sitting in my room, uninvited.

  Bleecker’s jaw set forward and he visibly puffed his chest out, he stood, almost to attention, pleasantries were over.

  The guy on my bed stopped groaning.

  They had not come to arrest me.

  Then it dawned.

  Why they had come.

  Their solemn, rigid faces gave it away.

  ‘We... erm... I have... Theron, it’s bad news.’

  I had been expecting it, but the Blackwings must have worked quickly even by their own slick standards, I should have stopped. Called in on her. Done more. Maybe…

  ‘We found the body and have been trying to find you since. It looks like the work of your two favourite Blackwings.’

  They must have got to her straight away; killed her.

  I tried to lie to myself that I felt nothing. Something inside wound a little tighter; there was less air in the room.

  Pan was gone.

  I had expected it but still.

  I swallowed. ‘Where did you find her?’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘Pan.’

  Bleecker looked confused at the wounded soldier on my bed then back at me.

  ‘It’s your brother, Newton. We found him with his wings removed in the Edgelands. Shot with a harpoon gun. I’m sorry Drake.’

  ‘Fuck.’ I said.

  Terrorists occupy a powerful circle wherein all those who dare to be different are feared, all of those who fear difference are revered.

  Lost to the Tides

  Campbell Wrykszek

  CHAPTER 45

  Croel’s upper lip curled as he walked into Vedett’s warehouse. Somehow his already thin lips stretched out even further over his rapacious sneer.

  ‘There’s no place like home,’ Mckeever said.

  ‘Makes ours look decidedly welcoming,’ Croel said, turning to address Mckeever as they made their way to the stairs. He turned back and walked directly into a mannequin torso, sending it toppling to the dusty concrete floor.

  ‘Fucking things. Why doesn’t he...’

  ‘Why don’t I what?’ asked Vedett who had been stood, unnoticed, watching them making their way across the floor.

  ‘Dust,’ said Mckeever.

  ‘This,’ Vedett said, spreading his arms wide, ‘represents our decay as a species. Our numbness. How we place so much stock in appearance and vanity that we forget all about what is inside.’ Vedett walked over, stopping at the fallen dummy. ‘They are soulless, plastic replications of our shallowness.’ He righted the fallen dummy, seeming to take care how it was arranged amongst its quiet teammates.

  ‘Save it for your quivering little boys, Vedett, we have enough philosophy back at home, filed under ‘U’ for useless,’ Croel said.

  Vedett looked more amused than perturbed by Croel’s comment.

  Croel and Mckeever shared a look. Mckeever broke the silence.

  ‘The bitch is gone.’

  ‘Good. How?’

  ‘You don't want to know.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Let's just say we had our...’ Croel turned to Mckeever whose eyes flashed as he finished the sentence, ‘fun.’

  ‘Any loose ends?’

  ‘No. The doorman didn't see us. The Pimp was even bought out, for less than expected, all went smoothly, as planned,’ said Mckeever.

  Croel shot Mckeever an admonishing glare as Vedett held his hand out.

  Mckeever briefly looked confused then realised what he had said and removed the surplus credits from the pouch at his belt, reluctantly placing them in Vedett’s hands. As Vedett counted them he asked, ‘Did you get the wings to Coyle.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Theron?’

  ‘He gave us the slip. He...’

  ‘I do not want to hear your pithy excuses. I will take care of him. He will be where he is wanted soon enough.’

  ‘Fuck the wings,’ hissed Croel. ‘We deserve a chance to take care of our long lost friend for good. He’s nubbed, anxious and ready for finishing. You promised us we would get our shot at him. It’s the only reason we took this job.’

  ‘You think your petty rivalry interests me? Your whittled codes and tarnished insignias? Bethscape was years ago. You need to move on or you will get rolled over.’

  ‘We will do what...’ began Mckeever.

  Vedett drew himself up to his full height and stood nose to nose with Croel, raising his voice despite the proximity. ‘You will retire to your book hut and await further instructions. That is what you WILL do. If I so much as catch one of your slightest farts or whispers on the wind down here...’ Vedett left the threat unfinished, turned his back on them, walked over to the stairs and concluded their meeting.

  Croel exhaled heavily through his nose.

  ‘So what do we do now?’ said Mckeever.

  Croel swooped a hand from his belt and plunged a knife up to the hilt in the top of the mannequin's head. ‘We go home,’ said Croel. ‘We have things to do.’

  *

  They did not talk on their way back up to the Edgelands. Did not even look at or acknowledge each other until they crossed the threshold of the library. Even the opportunity for derision at Mckeever’s awkward landing had been entirely lost on Croel.

  They walked in silence past empty shelves. Dust kept the wood type a mystery and did its best to obscure the defunct classification system at the end of each fruitless row. Small filing cabinets stood empty and a few index cards littered the floor, the print on them long ago bleached by sunlight and blurred by water damage. The plethora of Studiatia, large centres of learning and excellence scattered generously throughout Nimbus City, though more sparingly on the ground, had made the smaller, provincial book libraries obsolete. It seemed fitting that the two Blackwings should live here now, amidst the discarded unsightly relics that had been forgotten in the debris over time. The world had underestimated and then forgot them, as the military had at Bethscape, and as their current employer was doing now, and that seemed fitting too.

  Croel looked over at Mckeever, standing in the shadows, unloading the things from his belt into a cluttered desk drawer.

  ‘I am tired of being used,’ Mckeever said, his voice low.

  ‘I know. I know. But we will not be in the shadows much longer, my brother.’

  Croel could make out the greying bandage over Mckeever’s eye nodding up and down its agreement in the darkness.

  ‘They will remember soon enough,’ said Croel. He rubbed his wings to
gether and shivered at the thought of finally being lead to the last of the Theron brothers.

  ‘And they will never, ever underestimate us again.’

  Slayers hear this, in Nimbus’ name:

  From Lowlands to Heartland to Edgelands the same.

  Fight for her trust and love, our pride of the sky.

  Fall, if you must.

  And so never die.

  Book of Nimbus

  Vanguard Slayer Oath (Closing Ceremony)

  CHAPTER 46

  I heard vague snippets of what came next.

  Identify the body.

  Harpoon.

  Wings showed up at the station.

  Missing an eye.

  The neighbour I had visited earlier sneered at me from his open door as I passed, escorted down the main stairs by Bleecker.

  The injured man moaned and hobbled ahead.

  The noise.

  The people.

  Edgelands.

  Brother.

  Dead.

  Sorry.

  Bleecker put his hand on my head to duck me into the military vehicle.

  We were in a car.

  Driving.

  The world sped by on its usual dark and wet axis, and despite looking, my eyes saw none of it.

  Fat neon came on, in electric hums and buzzes.

  A warm cloying coppery taste of blood filled my mouth.

  Bleecker said something else.

  Maybe it was to me.

  Could not hear him.

  Bleecker looked embarrassed, stared straight ahead.

  I closed my eyes.

  All I could hear was the man who had been shot, wailing in excruciating pain, and the cavernous noise filled the car with dread and woe.

  Then I remembered the injured man was not in this car and was, instead, on his way to military hospital.

  Then I realised the wailing was coming from me.