Blood On Borrowed Wings: A Dark Fantasy Thriller (37 page)

We stood.

I spat feathers like a post-catch cat.

Jackdaw did not respond, his eyes fixed squarely on me.

My chest was heaving up and down and I realised the wings at my back did more than just allow me the option of flight, they completed me, made me feel whole. As my rising and falling chest fought to control the rage, burn the oxygen, quell the effort, I felt as I used to in battle. At one with my surroundings, familiar with my opponent; I felt in control.

I continued, ‘We do not have to fight, I do not want to kill you, but if you come again I will put you down.’

Jackdaw did not respond, he just stared, eyes wide, chest heaving, a fine spatter of blood across his face.

His coiffured hair was a mess.

I wondered what I looked like.

I could feel the sting of the new furrows on my right cheek. I think something was bleeding at the base of my wing too. A slow snake of blood trickled down, leaving a warm, sticky trail down the valley and ridges of my lower back.

‘I will put you down,’ I whispered.

He came at me then, a wild Mudhound, flailing and savage. His teeth were bared, his fingers extended, a scream belched out of him and spittle flew from his lips. He resembled a damaged grotesque, a sentinel frozen in the arc-sodium glare of the lights, a church gargoyle in the eye of the midday sun. His game had gone. His tactics and control and mouth guard were all somewhere else. All that was left was the stomping id and primordial desperation, the tantrum-spurned kicking and screaming of a child who was too used to getting his way and the snarling ferocity of an animal without reason, warped with hubris and ruination.

A rabid dog.

I put him down.

Always go to sleep on an argument – there is nothing more likely to piss the opposition off.

Improverbs

Hawksley & Eames

Beaugent brought the Orca down on one of his lesser-used Edgeland plinths in silence. Loopes was pretending to be busy in the kitchen and Bronagh, though waiting nearby to moor the Zeppelin, said nothing on landing. After successfully mooring their ship he went to his quarters. Beaugent gave him a couple of minutes then followed him in. He found Bronagh laying on his bunk, reading.

‘Weather’s bad. We ought to settle her for the night, somewhere in the lea of the wind. Maybe take a break for a few days whilst this storm blows itself out.’

Bronagh turned a page and carried on reading.

‘We should have some fun. We have been ferrying backwards and forwards and on the move for twenty straight weeks now, some tough jobs, reckon we are due a break.’

Bronagh said nothing.

‘It’s going to be like that is it?’ Beaugent said.

'After everything you said Cap. All the mess. You still pick this scum up?'

‘It’s what we do.’

‘No. It’s what you do. Me and Loopes are just stuck along for the ride.’

‘What, so now I am supposed to only carry cargo you approve of? You know how this works, Bronagh: we ship the things no one else wants to touch, we do not ask questions and we most certainly cannot afford the luxury of turning down good business, any business, that brings credits our way or keeps us in the air.’

‘We used to enjoy it though, Cap, didn’t we?’

‘You didn’t used to behave like a sulking teenager, that’s why.’

Bronagh propped himself up on an elbow. ‘But don’t you ever question why you are doing it? What is the point in working a job, or living a life, doing something that makes your world less liveable? Yourself less likeable.’

‘I don’t care what others think. You know that.’

‘I do know that, and that is what makes you a good captain. But sometimes, boss, you just got to listen to the people closest to you, or you will forget who you are and why you are doing things in the first place.’

‘You don’t like it, you can get off right now.’

Bronagh forced a thin smile. ‘And that’s your answer, is it? Rather than listen? Just show us the door and cart those Blackwing scum around on your own? Because me and Loopes will go, Beaugent, I promise you that.’

‘I do not like threats.’

Bronagh stood. He looked tired, but calm. ‘Threats come from the mouths of those Blackwings we are waiting for. Threats come shortly after we start carting Governors’ entourages about and loaning out harpoon guns. That is if we are not disappeared entirely for our involvement.’

‘Choice is a luxury …’

‘Yeah, that we can’t afford. I know, I know.’

‘Do you? Do you really?’

‘Look Beaugent, fuck the money. Can we afford to feel like this about ourselves? About what we do?’

Beaugent grunted and walked away. He stopped in the doorway and spoke over his shoulder, without looking back.

‘The Blackwings will be arriving soon, I want them transported and off this ship as soon as possible, so be ready to loosen the tethers.’

Bronagh said nothing.

‘Then choose as you may, we’ll drop them where they want and you can get off soon after. Both of you, and I’ll get a less whiny, more able crew. Long overdue anyway.’ He slammed the door to Bronagh’s quarters and stormed off to wait outside.

Bronagh went to tell Loopes to pack his things.

Crashing, turning, falling; where something great once flew.

Distant, spiralling, troubled; the thermals I once knew.

Low and full of sorrow, I careen into the wall.

Lost height in no tomorrow,

Launched myself into the fall.

Psalms of the Sky

K. Denman

I knew I had to come back here, what had Pan called it,
Hotel Hostility?
Since Doc had explained how easy it was for me, for us, to escape. I looked at the low-level building and holding cells Pan and I had escaped from and knew there would be no evidence left inside before I even walked through the open door. The absence of flies or smell of rotting flesh meant that someone had cleaned up and good.

Every room I entered was empty. No stains on the floor. No marks or equipment left. No teeth or shattered glass from fractured goggles. Just a poured-stone, featureless square building that looked like a tomb where all the bodies had resurrected themselves and shambled off to pastures newer, or greener.

I had hoped to find something. Anything. Thought maybe just by being in the vicinity I would see something or jar a memory of something helpful free, but there was nothing.

I went back outside and looked over at the black fields. I could remember talking to Pan about them at the confluence of juxtaposed geological formations. Nimbus City looming off to the East, the stench of sulphur caught on the stormy winds blowing from the West. I thought of heading deeper amongst the twisted mangroves and black pools of the swamps to see if something had been hidden behind their natural screen.

It was then I realised what was wrong with my surroundings, it was strange for the absence of change rather than because of it.

When I was last here, grass and long reeds away to the east had been trampled flat by traffic. I had assumed that it had been from the idiots that had taken me down at the Arena, maybe even thought that the crude building had been erected specifically for them, or me. Now, the grass was still flattened, the track still pressed and worn. In spite of all the rain and perfect weather for vegetation to thrive, the surroundings looked exactly the same. In the weeks since I had been surely things would have grown, tracks recovered, nature would have found a way to start to claim back some of its territory. Nature always finds a way.

Traffic had continued to come here, possibly in even greater numbers, and recently. I followed the direction of the vehicle tracks in the dirt. In places where a route was not obvious, I could pick up the trail where the grasses were snapped or bowed in unison showing me the way.

The bleeding had stopped at the base of my wing but something did not feel right as I opened and closed it. My fight with Jackdaw had taken it out of me, in many ways, but none more than the burning sensation I felt at my wing bases. I felt like I was being cauterised from the inside, a band of muscle and sinew so tight across my back that it was as if elasticised bandages had been applied with the sole purpose of constricting full movement and bending me double. It hurt when I breathed. The three nail gouges across my cheek had stopped bleeding and their welts stood prominent, the upper most one visible and distracting at the bottom of my field of vision.

 
The wind picked up and I was just contemplating taking a break when I saw it, shimmering behind the bending grasses of a building storm; a large, curved dome hangar.

Once it had shone, its dimpled curves and corrugated sides catching and rebounding light from the low desert sun, but its better days were gone. The high, arced structure had all the architectural appeal of a bunker and though it had withstood centuries of weather and mankind’s belligerence and abuse, its stoicism was due more to stubbornness than any dutiful or admirable design or intent. In the restrictive light of the storm it looked like a belligerent mass ready to pounce or strike.

As I got closer I could see that the semi-circular end to the hangar was covered in a thick layer of dust and soot, where engines from years ago had belched their signatures before taxiing out onto the once smooth poured surface to escape to the skies beyond. I saw a white van through a tattered hole in one of the corners, giving the hangar the appearance akin to a chewed thumbnail, painfully bitten too often and low. The speckled concrete struts that supported the structure had pocks and holes that added to the sense of neglect and dilapidation. Someone had sprayed an ode to their sweetheart, in black, along the concrete base; there was a name I could not discern from this distance, followed with the refrain:
if destroyed still true
. That could apply to the building, despite its state and standing, even if less of it remained in a somehow worse condition, it would still stand as a testament to what was here before. Science. Effort. Invention. Discovery. And war.

A mechanical clanking striving attempt at betterment in the old world.

If destroyed still true.

I hoped the same could be said for me,

For my brother.

I was mindful that someone posted on the perimeter or the curved roof, hiding in the weeds growing there, might be looking out for me, so I retreated from my vantage point and leaned back against a small natural ridge of stones.

I did a final inventory;

Bow and bolts.

Knife

Club.

Credits.

Small torch.

I crawled on my belly, making sure my wings stayed flat at my back and took a more detailed look to plan my incursion. An aerial approach would not be worth chancing, I could not land on the roof without fear that the thin tin structure would at best alert them to my landing like a huge banged drum or at worse, entirely disintegrate under my weight. Besides I was in too much pain to fly. I could not rest either though, the risk of discovery too great.

Keeping my head below the ridge I traversed west until I met a dried creek bed that lead down to a square, now grass filled, man-made storm drain. The creek’s crumbling, jagged path would be forged during each rainy season and re-mapped, dutifully with every deluge, like an old shaky hand tracing the line of one of nature’s veins. It was arid and cracked and it had evidently been a long time since rain had fallen here. Judging by the weird light now casting itself almost apologetically on the day it would not be long before the creek flowed once again. A storm would definitely be here soon, I could taste it in the ozone, feel it in the fickle breeze that rose and dipped, ruffling my feathers. Parched, brittle grasses stiffly bowed and curtsied, with reverence or fear to the tidal wind. The susurration of nature around me, made me feel uneasy; I could not hear anyone approaching amongst the sea-like ebbs and flows of the wispy dried grass. Waves of sound would obscure any give-away twig snap or footstep, though this was all to my advantage, it added to my caution rather than embolden me with confidence. The topography was in my favour.

When I got to the creek’s end I stayed low and coursed the length of the storm drain until I found it, a small conduit leading to the darkness of the drain’s gut. All buildings are a little like people; they have façade-skins and foundation-bones; they also have eyes. And bowels.

I placed the torch inside the access hole before turning it on; not wishing for any ambient light to alert anyone of my presence. Its soft glow died inches into the gloom beyond, I turned it off, turned to lay on my belly and wiggled backwards into the small gap. It only just accommodated my wings. Dust plumed up as I landed on the drain floor. I had a vision of getting wedged there, stuck as the heavens opened, to watch the waters slowly rise above my head, drowning me like a sparrow in a divot. On cue a distant thunderhead rumbled; the blue of the sky losing battle to the advancing battalions of blacks and greys. Dead reeds whispered their approval and rubbed their thirsty limb entangled bodies together in excitement, they would drink soon.

I arched my back to navigate the curvature of the next opening and slid down deeper into the drainage system. Grit crunched underfoot and the noise echoed with the dull, lifeless reverberation only underground places can muster. I turned my torch on again and looked around. The drains ran in a square around the hangar. Each side stretched away so far into darkness, that the light of my torch could not reach them.

I could not stand to my full height but an ungainly stoop was bearable under the dry archways. Disorientation did not matter, I did not intend to be leaving by the same way I was entering. Symmetrically geometric structures could be pleasing to the eye but they usually afforded no discernible turn, landmark or edifice with which you could ascertain your bearings.

After all one coffin looks very much like the next.
        

I made my way, doubled over, turning my torch on in three and four second bursts.
          

There was no sound alerting me to company, rather the threat revealed itself by a creeping feeling spreading itself out in my gut.

Then came the voices, faint, but there, thinly, off in the dark distance.

I froze where I was, doubled up and hoping any light spilling in behind me did not highlight my position.

The men advancing down the storm drain did little to disguise their movement or positions. They were talking loudly, clearly not expecting me here and complacent, probably through route-walking repetition. How many times had they walked these drains to find nothing, no one?

They would see me if I retreated, framed by the light entering the drain at it’s opening. If I waited they would meet me like a bung in a bottleneck, where none of us could move and the outcome would be too uncertain for my part. To obtain my advantage, or keep hidden, I would have to find a way to get around them.

I found what I needed twenty hunkered paces in front of me, felt it with my hands at first, a break in the smooth wall of the main drainage duct - a small feeder drain that, fed from above,
 
probably helped keep the runway, or other surrounding maintenance area clear. I turned ninety degrees and stepped back into it, crouching silently into a very low squat. My knees and wings complained at the more cramped surroundings as I watched the torch light of the guards get closer.

Just pass by and don’t look down I thought.

The sound of their voices got louder, echoes rebounded off the tunnel ceiling and walls. One of them laughed.

Pass by and don’t look down.
           

I caught snippets of their conversation;

I hate perimeter patrol … like a sewer rat.

…storm is going to be a big one. Huge I heard …

...that Leo on the other hand. Definitely.

Laughter filled the void as they got closer.

The torchlight passed and the voices took on a different quality as their bodies blocked out some of the sound and they carried on by. I emerged from the drain low and walked after them. I had heard three voices, counted three go by.

‘Do you think he will take the bait?’ The lead one asked, perfectly silhouetted by his torch.

As the second man responded I grabbed the third round the throat, took hold of his lower jaw and twisted his neck hard and sideways. It broke and I dropped him to the floor. The second man turned, I dropped to the floor and jammed my knife into the top of his boot, it went through into his foot and he screamed. He flailed with his hands at chest height, but I was not there. I pulled the knife and swung it up into his side then pulled hard and down. His warm innards spilled out down my arm and his knees gave way.

I slipped as I backed up, then the torch found me and I was blind. I turned sideways instinctively and heard a bolt thwack into the gutted guard, whose screaming went, inversely, down a notch. Close. I hurled myself at the light, the torch fell from the guard’s hands and spun where it landed as I caught him off balance and we both tumbled over sideways. A pain shot down my shoulder and something at the base of my left wing cracked. I dropped the knife.

He brought a knee up that caught me on the bridge of my nose. I immediately tasted the coppery tang of blood and my eyes started to water. It rolled me back down the tunnel, scrambling as I went, catching hold of the man I had gutted earlier by the hair. He did not speak. To be silenced so quickly he must have been struck somewhere fatal, somewhere … a low kick hit me in the side and I rolled again, but kept hold of the guard’s hair. I scrambled around for the bolt and found it in the guard’s head as I heard the last remaining guard ratchet a bolt onto his bow.

There.

I had to pull a few times to free it; it had gone in deep and anchored in bone. I yanked it out and swung it into the last guard’s thigh just as he fired; his bolt careened and clattered off the curved sides of the drain.

The torch was facing the wrong way so I scrambled further into the tunnel and pitch darkness. I heard him grunting, breathing heavily and subduing a cry, he was pulling the bolt from his leg. I used the opportunity to move away, kept low and scurried as fast as I could, stumbling over the first guard’s still body as I went. I heard the standing guard curse then ratchet another bolt into his bow. It was such a small, restricted space that the chances of him missing me again were negligible at best. I kept moving, trying to stay as quiet as I could, until I found the feed drain entrance and dived into it. I heard the bolt
thwip
past me as I turned.

           
I removed the club from my belt and kept quiet, swallowed the cacophony of my breathing down, did my best to keep my heart in my chest. My eyes were watering and felt as if the top of my nose had Edgelands granite implanted there. My left wing started to feel numb, there was a tingling at the base of my limb that was somehow worse than pain; it had the feel of something dying or fading away. I wiped at my eyes, then closed them. I gently felt the floor of the drain until I found a small, smooth pebble. I leaned out of the opening and threw the stone down the main drain and away from the last remaining guard, then quickly ducked back inside. The sound of the pebble clattered down the stone conduit and was quickly followed by another bolt being fired after it. I quickly leaned out again and whispered a small complaining grunt out of the opening, along the path of the drain, hoping it sounded as if I had been hit and was further along than I was.