Blood On Borrowed Wings: A Dark Fantasy Thriller Read online

  Leonora looked out across the gardens. It was dark, that cloying emptiness that smeared Nimbus City’s edges and lines before a storm. And through the absence of shape and form a turret stood under lit and proud, a silent sentinel. It swung on a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree arc, moving slowly from side to side covering the perimeter approach. The considerable firepower could penetrate the thick anodised shell of a Zeppelin or bring down a windshark if it got so bold or desperate to come this far in from the Edgeland thermals.

  It could obliterate a man.

  She shuddered.

  Despite the cover of night, the grounds full of nothing but armaments and guards and open space, the thick glass; despite all those things Leonora did not feel safe. She touched her lips, trying to contain her doubt. Rose would not want negativity or second thoughts now.

  Without further words Rose left.

  Leonora stepped back and caught her own reflection in the toughened glass - it looked like an apparition lost in the gloom, full of woe and anxiety, ghostly and insubstantial. She pulled the heavy drapes closed, sighed and rested her head on the thick textile before leaving the room.

  As she pulled the door closed she resisted the urge to return, throw the drapes back and see if her reflection was still there, alone, silent and lost in the dark.

  Yesterday was not shaped by time,

  Or you.

  T’was shaped by the day before.

  And so we go,

  Back,

  Into infinity.

  And onward evermore.

  Recollections, Whispers and Screams (A Poem)

  Constantinouto Falk

  CHAPTER 83

  Doc awoke, stretched and rubbed the heels of his palms into the corners of his eyes to massage some of the morning in. He reached over to the flimsy bedside table and opened the book he had placed there meticulously the night before. He put a line through the previous days date and wrote the new one out and time he had awoken. He read his shorthand notes about Drake, where he was staying and the stage they were at in Drake’s rehabilitation. He was glad that the operation had been a success.

  Doc always felt refreshed by sleep, fully restored. The clamour of the previous day’s confusions, the million and one things that had to be conferred, consulted and cross-checked, even his own shortcomings and disability; all negated by eight hours of absence. He enjoyed the quiet time before the reminders. It was not just the small scribbled countless notes that would tell him what his duties, plans and actions for the day should be that annoyed him. It was much more than that. It was the need for reminders that crippled him, that served as the biggest reminder of all, of what he had lost.

  Doc could not hear Drake moving about yet so chose to spend a little more time searching the empty page of his head for any kind of inexplicable thought or idea that he should make a note of. He had dreamed the night before, could not recall the exact subject matter or details of the dream; but a woman’s face pervaded his waking thoughts, and her name danced elusively just beyond reach. She had been beautiful but was now surrounded by sadness, an air of loss.

  Something beginning with P?

  He shook his head, got out of bed, opened his case and put on a clean shirt, slightly crumpled trousers, a sweater and a pair of odd socks. He dressed quickly but neatly before going into the small shared bathroom.

  As he shaved he looked at his jaw surprised, expecting to see a bruise there but finding nothing. He went to reread and update the notes he had written previously. He read about Drake pushing it too much and winding up to go too soon. Doc would have to intervene, to help his friend see there would be no cheating physiology and medicine. As he walked into Drake’s adjacent room, its emptiness had a quiet finality to it. The fire had burnt down and was now cold. It was clear Drake had not been there all night just from the feel of it, Doc was sure of it. This did not make him anxious, he simply entered the living area to check for his day notebook to see the things he had not read about yet; the things that shaped today, for a reason why Drake had gone.

  That pages of his journal had been torn out was not unusual, Doc had done that frequently on days when not much had happened. But entire chunks of the month’s notes had gone. Aside from his last minute summary ones he had written in his bedside journal, he was virtually in the dark about how he had spent the last few weeks. He was not certain why he was in this crumby apartment, with Drake or what they were both up to, but he did know he would not be taking further part in his plans. Then he found a note next to the last blank page:

  DOC

  I must apologise for being weak.

  Forgive me, but I cannot further risk your life or wellbeing.

  I cannot live like that or with that anymore.

  My wings are good, I am strong. Do not worry.

  Over the years, my visits may have been scant, terse or even pointless to you on occasion, but Doc, you have always been my landing strip.

  My reminder of where I have come from.

  Where I can go.

  What I owe.

  Who I am.

  I know now what I must do.

  And I am going to do it.

  I apologise for destroying your journal; blank pages I will take great joy in completing upon my return in a few days. Please sit tight, I will need you to be here when I get back.

  You have been a great friend, the best, but selfishly, I insist on doing this alone. Enough people have been hurt because of me and it is time.

  It is time.

  For you.

  For Newt.

  My brothers.

  Drake

  PS - I have borrowed a small bag of painkillers, you can keep the green liquid.

  Doc looked at the drab apartment, the flaking painted walls, the used and bloodied bandages in the corner of the room. He went back into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror again. He stared into his own eyes for so long that the rest of the room started to whiteout, like the cheap porcelain bathroom suite; until even the lines in his face were blurred like the tiles surrounding him.

  Nothing.

  He placed his hands on the edge of the sink and squeezed, his knuckles went white and cramp threatened. He squeezed his eyes shut and simmered, allowed anger to boil up, hissed through his teeth.

  Nothing.

  He had read before how man was made up of so much more than that which we feel constitutes the conscious mind: the soul, the subconscious, intuition, common sense, the heart, hope, will, passion, faith and love; all things could not be explained by the thought process alone. Yet here he was stuck in the room, with a locker of thoughts that contained all the answers, for which a key no longer existed.

  He wrote down the door number as he left the room.

  Wrote the building number down as he stepped outside into the still cool morning air. Lowlands people were beginning their days dressed in greys and blacks, shuffling to their dead end jobs with their heads down and collars up, grunting into their zipped up coats. It looked like rain. A diner’s neon sign popped and hummed into life next to him as he stood trying to get his compass bearings from a sunless sky.

  He thought of going into the diner and asking one of the saggy faced waitresses for directions, but he did not know where he was going, so instead decided to turn himself over to the gods of serendipity.

  I’ll look for a sign, the first thing I see of note will lead me in a direction, and I must trust it, trust my gut.

  He stood on a street corner, concentrating on not concentrating and allowing his body and mind to free itself from forcing any issue or thought. He did not look out of place amidst the populace, he fit perfectly. Discordant and slightly off centre seemed the look of the day.

  A vehicle slowed at the intersection and someone shouted at him for not crossing.

  ‘Are you blind or stupid? Dumbfuck!’

  It echoed around his head.

  Blind and stupid.

  He had something. Desperately fought not to push it, to force the
thought through. He held onto it. Rode it.

  Blind and stupid … where had he heard that before?

  Wait, it was the blind and the stupid.

  That’s right.

  As a Nation and Corps we are destined to follow the blind and the stupid; characteristics bestowed, it seems, on all of life’s politicians and superior officers.

  ‘Sergeant Bleecker,’ Doc said, to no one in particular, then held his hand out for a passing taxi, that began to slow and pull over.

  Doc Carlow marvelled at the complexities, wonders and mysteries of the human mind as he ran towards the taxi.

  He had been driven three blocks before realising that he was not wearing any shoes.

  Friendship is just a shared make believe.

  There In the Wreckage Dwelled Me

  J. Reed

  CHAPTER 84

  ‘Doc?’

  ‘Hello, Sergeant Bleecker.’

  ‘Doc, how are you? How did you get here? Are you ok?’

  ‘I am not too sure of any of those answers Sergeant.’

  ‘Unfortunately I am not a Sergeant anymore; my rank is higher these days.’

  Bleecker looked genuinely disappointed. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ He leaned forward in his chair and interlocked his fingers. ‘Please, sit down.’

  Doc looked confused as he made his way over to Bleecker’s desk for a seat.

  ‘Are you lost? I haven’t seen you since the funeral,’ Bleecker asked.

  ‘It’s Drake. May I?’ He tapped his journal.

  Bleecker gestured his approval, cleared some space by stacking a few buff-coloured folders to one side and then sat forward in his chair.

  ‘You have a lot of books,’ Doc said.

  ‘The world is a story, Doc …’

  ‘And he who has not travelled is stuck on the same page,’ Doc finished.

  Bleecker smiled. Though Doc had aged considerably since Bethscape, the spark of intelligence still shone out from his eyes. Doc consulted his book.

  ‘My previous notes said a number of things that now I cannot recall. Drake burned them, to stop me following him. I found this, this morning.’ He showed him Drake’s note.

  ‘He came here, before the funeral,’ Bleecker said after reading.

  ‘I take it because of Newton. He makes reference to him in his notes. Has his brother been locked up? Is he in unwell? In trouble?’

  ‘He’s gone,’ said Bleecker. ‘Dead. You were at his funeral.’

  ‘And now I must hear the news again.’ Doc hung his head.

  ‘I am sorry. It must be …’

  ‘It is,’ Doc finished.

  They compared notes about Drake’s movements, about the wing acquisition and operation. About his history, and Bleecker the little he knew about Drake’s current situation.

  Bleecker pulled a few files on current government and military manoeuvres, but found nothing, though he was not surprised; this one was definitely off the radar.

  ‘I cannot help but think there is something I am overlooking or forgetting here,’ Doc said.

  Bleecker walked over from his bookcase and looked out of his third floor window. The day had taken on such dark overtones that it looked like the early onset of night was looming.

  ‘The times I spent chasing stories and angles when I was a journalist were so long ago that I have forgotten how.’

  ‘The memory can be cruel.’

  ‘Maybe we are overcomplicating this, though, Doc. What if we are looking too micro?’

  ‘You mean ignoring something bigger. More obvious?’

  ‘That is exactly what I mean. In a couple of weeks the Governor is going to be televised from somewhere in the Deadlands, making a huge announcement that, how did her press office word it, “will bring the ground and skies together.” What if this was linked to Drake in some way? Maybe he is involved with it, or maybe they want him to be.’

  ‘Or maybe they want to get rid of him like they have Newt?’

  Bleecker frowned as he thought about this. ‘But why not just arrest him, haul him in? Murder him. No. I am convinced they want to manipulate the situation, somehow in their favour too.’

  ‘But why? He shouldn’t even be on their register. What has he ever done to them?’

  ‘Survive Bethscape?’

  ‘Is that enough?’ Doc asked.

  ‘It is an election year, Doc. A time when historical actions are reviewed and scrutinised. When the Governor will be on her media offensive to the Nimbus whole and all it’s residents. What better time to remove a painful reminder of the biggest mistake she ever governed over, and garner public opinion in the process.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘Bethscape, Doc. Don’t you see, she is getting rid of the two brothers, tying up loose ends. She is going to use Drake as some kind of bad guy, take him out, maybe publicly. That could assuage any doubts people have left about what really went down.’

  ‘But we were at Bethscape too,’ Doc said.

  ‘You cannot remember a thing, though clearly Drake was still concerned enough about your personal safety to try to contain you.’

  ‘Well that worked didn’t it?’ Doc laughed, ‘but what about you, Sergeant?’

  ‘Me?’ Bleecker turned to look back out of his window. As he spoke his breath fogged the class. ‘I am just an aging fat yes-man who they silenced with a desk with … with …’

  ‘With loyalty,’ Doc finished.

  Bleecker gently tapped his fist onto the thick wood of his desk, delicate thunder, as he was lost in thought.

  ‘I’ve seen memoranda about the security detail for The Governor’s launch. Know where people will be stationed, I cannot believe I had no idea …but that is two weeks away.’

  ‘That is where Drake will be heading, sooner or later. I can feel it. Right to where they want him.’ Doc’s mouth downturned, the darkness of the sky outside seemed to press on the glass, sent his eyes three shades darker.

  ‘Clearly neither of us are seen as threats anymore, for one reason or another,’ Bleecker said.

  Doc nodded his agreement and watched Bleecker as he removed an old leather case stowed behind a bookcase, he opened it to reveal his old crossbow then reached for his coat.

  He turned to Doc Carlow and Doc felt like it was ten years ago.

  ‘Let’s go and get you back to your address. You will be safer there. I will look into a few things and come to see you if I can prove you right,’ Bleecker said.

  He turned the sand timer over and briefly watched as the grains steadily spilled down, before striding for the door.

  ‘Ah, before we go, Sergeant, can I ask a favour?’ Doc pivoted, still in his chair.

  Bleecker turned to face him.

  ‘Can I borrow some shoes?’

  Preparation is the only shortcut to achievement.

  From Meadow to Mud

  G. Jorges

  CHAPTER 85

  Since leaving Doc, two weeks ago, this room had been my home. It was even worse than the quarters I had shared with him after my operation. On check-in the man at the seedy motel’s counter had greeted me with some surprise, probably because I was alone or maybe because I paid for the full two weeks in advance. He said they had an hourly rate and then asked if I wanted the Executive Suite.

  This was it.

  Peeling floral wallpaper that had once been bright shades of gaudy yellows and oranges now hung in listless discoloured swathes, bound by a thin layer of grease and neglect. There was a functional television set that needed a couple of thumps on its side before it would kick into life. The lamp on the night table flickered every now and then, though the surrounding walls and drab, moth eaten furnishings seemed to devour any light before it managed to fully invade the room. The bedding was threadbare and ancient and seemed to be degrading before my eyes.

  I had been checking the news regularly, to see if there were any announcements about big events or pertinent political happenings that would give me some kind of dire
ction. It was during a mid thump on the side of the television that I had heard something. I rushed to sit on my bed (there were no chairs in the room,) and saw it was Jackdaw, talking about his next fight. It was a common occurrence for Angelbrawlers to appear on live television, goading and blustering to each other in their pantomime way. The voice sounded familiar.

  ‘...next fight will be tomorrow, and I am sorry but it will be a private affair. This. Is. Personal.’ Jackdaw said theatrically. ‘He’ll be needing a DOCTOR of his own when I have finished with him.’ I had not been interested in his posturing until then. Doc? Had they got to him?

  ‘And might we ask who the lucky person is?’ The interviewer asked.

  ‘No, you may not Selene but he knows who he is, and where it will be.’ Jackdaw looked into the camera, he grabbed it by the edge of its lens and pulled it towards him. His face filled the screen. ‘Dinosaur, come to Daddy. Come. To. Daddeeee!’ There was a cheer from a nearby crowd.

  The interviewer then did her bit to camera.

  ‘So, there you have it, another Lowlands exclusive. The fight roster at the weekend has changed, though all tickets are still valid. Questions remain though - who is this mystery man? Why is Jackdaw so riled? When will we...’

  I turned it off.

  I got the message.

  It was clearly a trap, but if Doc’s safety was in question I had to go.

  I checked and the story was shown, with a different interviewer asking the same questions, on another channel half an hour later. It was repeated on the late-night bulletin, on other channels. I watched the same open challenge over and over and felt a foreboding slide to settle in the pit of my stomach. The Arena would give me some answers, whether Doc was there or not. I had to go.

  I lay on my bed and tried to get some sleep.

  *