Blood On Borrowed Wings: A Dark Fantasy Thriller (38 page)

I leaned back inside and listened.

He was noisy at first, stumbling over his friends and cursing me and the drains as he came, then he realised his error and went quiet. Very quiet. My knees complained at my cramped position but I held my breath and waited, hoping he was still unaware of the small culvert I was secreted in. All I could hear was the adrenalin-fuelled hammering of my own heart. The taste of coppery blood made me want to spit, but I stayed motionless and silent. I held my breath. He had to be close.

 
I did not hear him as he approached or passed the entrance; I felt him. Movement in the still and stagnant air telling me all I needed to know.

Eyes still closed I swung my club on a low arc and smashed it, backhand into the guard’s knee. I felt bone shatter. Knowing he would bend forward at the blow I swung my club straight up and caught him somewhere under his jaw or on his forehead. A thick ‘thunk’ was followed by the sound of a shallow sighing swoosh involuntarily leaving his lungs and I heard him fall, his weight dead and demanding the floor.

I could not be sure that the altercation had not drawn the attention of anyone nearby, so I lay quietly amidst the three guards to make sure there was no noise in the drain other than my laboured breathing. I spat hot syrupy blood out onto the dry drain floor. I found my knife. I wedged each guard in turn, down into the side drain I had hidden in. Two dead and one unconscious, probably bleeding out from his thigh wound. That would do.

After taking what I needed, with a few small adjustments, I made my way towards the hangar. My breathing was laboured through my closing nose but I had to hurry as I had no idea how long it would be before the patrol would be missed - though if they had been doing a perimeter check, I must have encountered them reasonably early on, they had only just left the hangar and not even made daylight.

Eventually I came to the hangar’s maintenance room at the end of the drain’s long straight run. It was square and offered more room and accommodating steps to take me up to the manhole at hangar level. I checked my appearance, making sure no blood was visible, turned out the maintenance room’s light and pushed up on the access cover, hoping it would not be locked. It was heavy but I shoved it out of the way and stepped into the access room. It was a small room housing the water valves, huge shut off levers, empty oilcans and some ancient, unused cleaning equipment. Without hesitating I stepped through the unlocked door and out into one corner of the hangar. I knew I ran the risk of getting caught if I rummaged around too much, but I had to find out what was going on here to see if I could use anything to my advantage. Maybe all I would need would be information and I could get out of here without further fighting, injuries or casualties. I had to keep a low profile for as long as possible, go with the flow.

It was a huge hangar, more than eighty meters wide and extremely high. It was open at one end, and at the other only a small amount of light seeped in, and a wand of grey sky and green grass was visible through the gap in the doors, little else. Emerging into this spacious building from the cramped sewers I felt like I had been born, and leaving the womb, entered the busy, screaming, vacuous, treacherous world. I subdued feelings that made me want to turn back around and leave. The sense of exposure. The sounds echoing. The smell of oil and sweat and something else: death.

I could not attribute the feeling of unease to anything other than my come down after the fight in the drains. Combat had a way of doing that. Churning your guts, emptying them.

In the centre of the hangar I first saw something I mistook for an alien craft. It was so at odds with time and geography, so anachronistic that I could not quite process what I was seeing. It was something I did not think existed anymore. An old aeroplane, hundreds of years old, stood white and almost gleaming on the oil-stained tarmac. I thought the last aeroplane in existence had been destroyed eons ago, just as guns had, after the war. Thus heralding the new era of, what evolutionists had called, self-propelled flight. Religious sects had called the winged everything from the
Angel Aberrations
to
God’s own messengers
. Though science, through theories of evolution and genetic mutation, tried to give a more rational, less loaded explanation.

I had read about aeroplanes in books, knew how similar they were to cars and other vehicles. But they had been banned and vilified for so long I thought their like would never be seen in the sky again. The Government must have been at the heart of this, this what?

Revival?

Had to be. No one else would have the resources, money or ability to pull this off. It was clean. Impressively kept. The smell of oil and paint still tangible in the large space. The aeroplane looked like it would only seat four or six people and despite the new coat of paint, ‘SSNA’ was still visible on the side. Some other letters and numbers could be seen near the tail, no doubt some code to identify them by, from long ago.

Rain started to drum on the roof and awoke me from my stupor. The sound of the pattering growing stronger, like the spit-crackling of meat being seared when it first hits a hot pan.

I looked up at the noise, wondering if the roof would hold, to see a badly beaten man hanging by his neck from one of the central support struts, sixty feet in the air.

The smell of death I thought.

Doc?

Innocence is diminished when the battle calls, like feathers lost when an angel falls.

Book One: The Nimbus Foundation Principles

‘I do not care if you hate the drains or if momma made you take a shit in the fumbling fucking dark when you was a kid. Just do it!’ The staff sergeant’s shout rippled across the pocked corrugated underside of the domed roof. The three guards saluted, turned sharply then made their way, double time, over to the drain’s maintenance room door. As they closed it behind them, the first boom of thunder punctuated their exit.

The Sergeant did his best to ignore the meeting taking place between the three people in the centre of the hangar, though he found the battered body almost as difficult to look away from as the plane.

‘You found him then? Our little loose end?’ Rose asked Vedett.

‘Was there ever any doubt?’

Leonora looked at Rose then stepped forwards, almost defensively, ‘We have had our ground-forces scouring every Lowlands hovel looking for him, looking for them both. Where did …’

‘The only
where
that concerns me is
where are my credits
. My means and ways are my own.’

‘And thank goodness for that,’ Rose said.

Leonora shared a look with Rose. ‘And you are certain Drake has spent time with him lately, that this will have, erm …’

‘Optimal impact,’ completed the Governor.

‘I do not give two flying rat’s nest fucks how this is received, just pay me and I will be on my way. Storm’s coming, I’ve got to fly, and so do you by the looks of things.’ He looked at the plane, ‘Impressive. She really is.’
                       

Leonora and the Governor exchanged a disgusted glance.

‘He has had quite a severe beating,’ Leonora said, her lip curled up.

Blood had darkly stained most of the white cloth and dripped from the hem of the Doctor’s coat.

‘I threw that in for free. He is missing some fingers too. They are in one of his pockets. He won’t be working again.’

Rose turned away. ‘Well, we will be outside. I have a speech to rehearse and a plane to catch.’ She turned to Leonora. ‘Shall we?’ as much an order as request. She gestured to Cowlin, who sat in the cockpit of the plane, checking readouts and buttons. He clambered down from the plane and dutifully joined them outside.

Vedett stashed the bag of credits in the back of the Angelbrawl stage van then climbed onto its roof to check his work. They had strung him up high, as high as the hydraulic lifter could go, the two Mudheads who had tied him up there, nervous on the easily swayed platform. Vedett was satisfied his victim was visible from anywhere inside the hangar and that he had completed his side of the bargain, taken care of a loose end. Vedett made his way off the recently acquired van’s roof and climbed inside.

He did not want to risk being any part of the upcoming fun and games, as much as he enjoyed confrontation, there were too many variables to ensure his safe passage, so he just did what he so often did, grabbed his payment and snuck out the back door. After all, he already had his credits and needed to attend a face to face with some rotten Chief out on the desert plains. There was massing unrest in the outlying barrens, and with the right words supplanted into their sun-scorched, addled Deluvian heads, Vedett was certain people could be pushed over tipping points into conflict, and that through that, he could end up being a very rich man. He was sure that talk of the government’s new flying fortresses would urge them on quickly, if not unite them in a common cause. To break the news to them first would put him in a very powerful position. He loved visiting with his violent, volatile neighbours. There was something he liked about the stark sandy surroundings. It resembled a blank canvas or mirror to him, reflecting back the personality and soul in its constant shimmers and shifts. Plus, the whoring out there was great.

Vedett put the van into reverse, to drive out of the hangar.

It was then he noticed a guard emerge from one of the store cupboards. He was bigger than most and looked a lot worse for wear. It was hard to make out in the pre-storm gloom but Vedett could see blood on his face and a hulk at his back underneath the guard’s coat. He watched the guard as he first looked at the restored aeroplane and then up at the hanging corpse, then he saw the guard’s face constrict into an anguish almost as dark as the cloying, massing skies.

‘Hello Drake,’ whispered Vedett, who smiled and waved at him from behind the steering wheel.

He depressed the accelerator, quietly drove out of the hangar and was gone.

Grief is defined not by whom you are missing, but by what they left behind.

Deadlook

G. Aleass

In the soft underbelly of the hangar I looked up at the swinging corpse and felt something break inside. The plans I had, the thoughts and subtleties and processes I was evolving as I entered the large open space evaporated like the first drop of rain on desert heated metal. A shudder coursed from the nape of my neck down my spine and it was all I could do to not collapse on the spot, ruined by the worse gut shot I had ever taken.

Doc.

The very thing I had tried to avoid, the only thing more important than avenging my brother and clearing my name, the person I wanted to keep safe, was now swinging gently from side to side above me. His white coat was almost entirely dark brown and red. Blood had been slowly dripping from the soles of his bare feet and had dried in cakes and clots.

As I walked across the mainly empty floor of the hangar, I heard a van reverse at speed to leave. I was worried my cover was blown, that they were going to raise the alarm but they just waved at me from behind the windshield. I returned the gesture. I then heard a collection of different voices coming through the open main door, the voices were raised, agitated. Someone shouted an order then there was a clamour of booted feet across a wet surface, getting out of the rain. I placed my hand instinctively on my bow and paused. My position was entirely exposed. I could hope for two, maybe three successful shots before they retaliated or withdrew to leave me stranded in the middle of the floor, a sitting duck. I could still not even think straight so I took refuge in the only place I could.

The aeroplane.

A plan can be a self-generated purgatory.

Ludicrously Brilliant

Jack Slater

‘Does he really have to be up there?’ Rose asked as she made her way to the middle of the hangar floor.

Leonora nodded. ‘It should push all the right buttons when Jackdaw drops him off. We can film him going berserk in the hangar, even film the plane crash. Are the hidden cameras all in position? Shouldn’t he be here soon?’ Her voice was raised as she tried to speak above the noise of the wind and rain.

 
Cowlin nodded. ‘Yes cameras are on and running. And yes, he will be here soon. There is no answer at the Arena so I assume Jackdaw is on his way. I have also dispatched three men to check the culvert and perimeter.’ He walked over to the plane, placed his hand on the rail and began to climb the temporary, crude steps into the cockpit, instructing one of the engineers in brown coveralls to top up the fuel tank as he went.

‘Where do you think you are going?’

Cowlin paused in midstride.

‘One last check of the instruments, Governor. I am concerned about …’

‘That will not be necessary. Check all of your men are in position, we need to ready for him. Have your patrols come back with anything?’

‘Nothing but complaints about the weather, Ma’am. I have pulled the man off the roof and the storm drain/perimeter patrol will not be able to radio in until they are out of the underground systems.’

‘Well, that will do then,’ said Rose.

Cowlin remained where he was, a statue to his own stubborn concern.

‘With all due respect, Governor, I have only ever flown this thing on two dry runs. Literally dry. The atmospherics today are all over the place. You would do well to get a person with wings flying in these conditions, let alone an ancient tin bucket like this. I want to check everything again, Ma’am. With all due respect.’ His tone implied no respect at all.

A gust of wind howled through the hangar, the building’s shape amplified the gust in both sound and intensity.

A drop of blood fell and landed on Leonora's lapel.

‘Ugh! Shit. Shit.’ She immediately swiped at the blood and smeared it into the material. She and the Governor both took a couple of steps back.

‘Don’t worry about it, Leonora, you will not be the one on camera,’ Governor Rose said. She looked back to Cowlin. ‘Very well,’ she said, ‘just be quick about it.’ Cowlin was already on his way inside the plane.

‘Now let’s retire to the main office to get this public address recorded. Outside would have been better, but it does not look like our Deadlands weather is colluding today.’ Rose walked off towards the lower floor office.

‘That’s good,’ said Leonora, ‘maybe we could use that in your speech.’

Cowlin exploded from the door of the plane backwards, holding his head as he fell.

The Governor’s professional façade totally slipped away in an instant.

‘What the f…?’