The 6th of Six (The Legend of Kimraig Llu) (11 page)

Geri-5 finally grabbed hold of her racing fear. Expecting the signal to attack in support of the red leaders, she turned to her counterpart Viral-1, so she would not miss the order—just as Kimraig’s sword hacked Viral-1 from breastbone to pubis.

He cannot do that. No. No. A Hunter must not murder his Queen!

She glanced fearfully to her own Hunters.

Her fear taking hold again, Geri-5 turned to flee, only to trip over both her Hunters. After they had righted her, Kimraig stood blocking her sight, glowering into her face. The point of his sword, dripped blood on her boots—the blood of a sacred Queen.

For a fleeting micro second, she considered engaging him; fleeting only, as she lacked the spine for that. She hated him, everything about him. She would not back away from intimidation, not very far anyway. Standing with her short little legs braced and her hands clenched on her misshapen hips, she finally choked back her fear and rasped indignantly.

“What have you done?” she protested, suddenly glad she had left the bright blue scarf behind, that blue, the symbol of the Others, behind in the trash. If needed, she could pick one up from the field—bloody if she could bear to touch it.

Starring down at her, Kimraig replied. “Do you support these traitors, or will you fight for the Wicca?”

He waited only a moment for her answer then continued. “Answer now, or die where you stand.”

“The Wicca,” she stated without much conviction.

“Follow me then.”

I will not follow. I will calm down my Battle Group. Wait. Watch, and then capture the glory for myself. We must replace these steel tipped spears with training spears. Not all, it would make us look like the enemy. Just a few, as if we replaced the spears we had thrown from those laying in the field.

Geri-5 always hedged her bets.

Hunter Kimraig led the remains of his now disgraced Battle Group, across the parade ground and murdered the two red plumed Leaders as they tried to surrender and claim their non-combatant rights.

No way would Geri-5 stop him. She preferred to remain a hero Queen without lifting a finger to help. She led her group closely behind him though. Fortunes of war go to the quick and nimble. She would not forgive him. He had recognized her moment of terror.

It never occurred to her to kill Kimraig and save the day for the Others. The red plumed leaders made their final mistake long before this day. They had underestimated a Hunter; and chose the wrong future Leader. Their carefully forged plan failed.

* * *

“Welcome back, my Queen,” Charles said staring into her eyes from two inches away. “I see you have returned to the land of the living.”

“Back away Charles or I will make you sorry you were born.” She quickly strained back to her tippy toes, piggy little eyes glaring. She had yet to see Marvin standing behind her.

Charles lunged forward to sweep both her arms off the desk. Her chin smashed down with considerable force stunning her immediately. Marvin placed a knee into the small of her back. The pressure forced a grunt. With Charles’ help, they bound both arms behind.

No more tippy toes, no more breathe rancid with her last meal. Just fresh meat draped across the desk. With a handful of hair, Marvin forced her head back while Charles slapped her face several times until her glazed eyes cleared. Words were impossible.

“Were you lost in the fantasy of sinking your tongue into your little girl or just your regular dreams of becoming a Leader?”

Charles did not wait for an answer. He walked to his desk, lifted his briefcase from the bottom drawer and placed it, with a dull thud, next to Geri-5’s shoulder.

“We brought a present for you my dear—from a past admirer.”

Charles looked up and grinned at his longtime companion.

“What is that old time saying Marvin? Oh yes, I remember. When attempting to wedge a pin into a hole that is slightly too small, what do you do? Why, you get a bigger hammer of course. And you are that pin, Geri.”

Charles reached into the case and withdrew a heavy, oversized hammer with a thick handle, double wrapped in a bath towel.

“On the head of this hammer is a legend, Geri. It says ‘TWO POUND NEVADA.’ I looked that up for you in the
Dictionary of Hand Tools.
It is a small sledge hammer, about two pounds in weight, sometimes used for shaping hot metal.”

He casually removed the towel from the hammer and placed it over Geri’s head, covering her pleading eyes. While holding the towel he casually swung the hammer back as far as he could reach.

“Your little son sends you his deepest regards.” With all his strength, Charles whipped the heavy hammer forward to land exactly between forehead and eyes, one deep crunch and nothing more.

There was no need for directions between them. Each knew his job. Marvin contained the mess that had been Geri. Charles moved to trip the latches of a false wall hidden behind the blue seascape.

Those who knew about the hidden chute that disappeared into the floor did not care what its former use was. No one would ask why the smooth sides fall three floors to this building’s basement. Nor would they ask why the shaft climbed ten more stories ending two floors below the roof. The time anyone cared about anything was long past.

Charles knew this fact about his chute. Near the beginning of their newly recorded history, a particularly meddlesome journalist fell down the shaft. A bitter Queen had just followed that long gone journalist. The animals roaming loose in the tunnels would make short work of her.

Geri disappeared, as was fitting for any coward who had not done her duty to the Others that day in the old train station. Charles had completed half of his commitment to Mistress Ann. They had failed with the ex-Hunter Kimraig for now, thanks to Leader Breen’s protection at the last minute. There would be other chances. The Hunter was the last who had any part in ending the Others grand plans to rule after the first Gender War.

It seemed fitting that his death should start the next Gender war,
Charles thought.

Or, Gender War Two,
he giggled.

“Marvin, first blood goes to us.” Charles reached tenderly to the scars on his partner’s throat, the trophies of a tongue brutally removed. His crime had been defending his rights.

“Female Leaders, female Queens. Life is always about them. Things have been their way much too long. We males will finally take our turn. Yes, we will finally seize power for us.”

“We will celebrate with a nice tumbler of clean water from last night’s rain.”

Charles continued to preen. He did not notice the unhappy frown on Marvin’s face as he turned to the adjacent cabinet for the pitcher.

* * *

Stop staring, Charles.

Oh yes, he had locked in a trance again, staring down into this chute yawning in his office floor. These same smooth sides had recently repeated their legacy as a handy disposal unit for trash and other unwanted waste such as one quarrelsome Queen. It had a new purpose now. The last of Charles’ three man teams, his dreams dressed in mottled gray camouflage, now disappeared down to the basement below.

Geri’s assignation squads were on a new mission, but now working for Charles.

They had made the three-story drop sliding down a knotted rope. From there, they would blend into the gray concrete rubble and dust along Leader Breen’s secret route to the building named One Nine. There, they would take care of hero Kimraig and his second commitment to Mistress Ann, and the Others, would be complete.

Perhaps Leader Breen and the Superior of Number 5 Building would suffer collateral damage when their SHORT came under attack. He could hope.

The knotted rope thumped softly against the chute’s smooth side. A signal, all was well. Charles reached for the quick release knot securing the line to this landing. One quick jerk and the line followed the last of his teams down the chute.

Finally, there is a positive use for my hidden exit; this will end in death just the same.
Charles suppressed his nervous titter.

Moving to the window, there was only early morning; a dark morning, deep and black. He imagined his teams as they made their way into position using each shadow thrown by the waning crescent moon as a trusted ally. The need for a trusted person like that moon, constantly twisted at his heart and lungs. That would end soon. He would take charge of this narrow little world and everyone would be his ally.

Marvin’s soft step pulled him reluctantly back from his dreams.

“Were you successful?” he asked his partner.

There was no answer. Marvin would not grunt for anyone just so that person would know he heard. Instead, he removed from his coat pocket a heavy, black piece of metal incased in a strap-and-snap contraption of worked leather. Skilled fingers disengaged the snap and held it back, withdrawing the metal from its snug lair. He placed the black object in the middle of the desk, laying the worked leather alongside.

“So, this is a pistol.” Charles sighed, pinched the grip between thumb and index finger and lifted it from the table. The weight, supported by just two fingers, pulled his limp wrist down until the barrel pointed to the floor.

“I was not prepared. It is heavy.”

Marvin retrieved the pistol from Charles’ outstretched arm. With just small adjustments, a cylinder hinged down to reveal six large, empty, holes. Marvin reached into the opposite pocket of his coat, partially dragging out one end of a bright blue scarf. He opened his hand where three round, blunt objects rested on his palm.

“Are those bullets? Why only three when there are six holes?” Charles questioned.

Marvin shrugged.

“Well, I guess one should kill the one old lady who horned in on our Director’s party.” Charles could not stop his crazy giggle at Mistress Ann’s belief that she was in charge.

Marvin gave no notice. He slid the three projectiles into the cylinder, leaving one empty space between each. If needed, two quick pulls for the second and third shot. He did not know why. He was simply following the instructions given by the ancient thief who sold him the weapon. He reversed his hold and offered it to Charles.

“No. No,” Charles said backing out of reach. “The penalty for carrying one of those is instant death. You must keep it safe until we reach One Nine. And do not even think about bringing that bright blue scarf with you to the meeting.”

Hands in the pockets of his jacket, Marvin glared at Charles—his way of showing disappointment. He pocketed the items he had brought and turned to slam out the door, a rare display of anger at a situation that happened too often.

“Well, honestly, you did not expect me to shoot her, did you?” Charles whined.

I cannot put myself at risk. Mistress Ann thinks that she can control me from her comfortable little spot in the council chambers. She thinks she will be in charge when I have finished setting the plans for all the killing so the Others, with their bright blue scarves, will face little resistance when they seize power for themselves. No, I will take her place—but Marvin will not be joining me.

Life will be much better when I take the helm of this lost island!

Chapter 5. Stealing Babies

Across the street,
in the old Subway tunnel, flickering yellow strobes flashed from the crown of riot helmets. Three silent figures, dressed in flat black armor, moved quickly over uneven ground. Each mismatched pulse of light flashed yellow, sulfur shadows over the half round surface of the old subway tunnel. Glints of light sparked from dripping water.

They were careful. Leaving Builders territory was never easy, but this time each was carrying stolen goods on their chests that would mean death if they were caught. The Builders would like nothing better than to hang a Crosser infiltration team.

One male led them, his gait surprisingly light for the bulk he carried on his six foot two inch frame. His two female companions loped as easily, their slender bodies hidden under the thick protection of that same flat black armor.

A large round canister hissed on each back.

This breather forced a rich oxygen-air mixture into one large hose and one small hose. Full-face masks, rigged to their riot helmets, received the large hose. The small hose passed over each right shoulder to feed a smaller oblong canister clamped securely to each chest; a light canister, no burden at all.

Legend said—the air in this closed tunnel ate flesh from steel.

Their irregular course led them around piles of brick, tile and broken cement. Large ragged fissures lay in wait for the unwary. At irregular distances, the tunnel’s side had collapsed. Each brief yellow flash from their strobes, briefly exposed gaps in the half-round sides exposing the jumbled contents of large basements.

The leader reached an area cleared of debris and stopped. The females joined up, on right and left side. Military training and military efficiency was on display, but who was watching? In unison, they tapped the right side of their helmets. Strobes stopped. Pitch-black blotted in.

There was no sense of distance; no perception of depth.