by Tee Morris
******
The balloon, now fully inflated, struggled to take flight. Barry’s bodyguards watched, chortling amongst themselves, while the tractor remained firmly settled in the mud.
“Here we go,” Barry muttered, then jammed the lever forward.
Dozens of wires, roughly arc-welded to bolts buried in the mud, tore free, whipping dangerously around the tractor. Barry’s armoured balloon leapt skyward, taking only what was needed: the gunner’s chair, the cannons, the propane and air tanks and their respective lines and the tractor radiator, all bolted or hastily welded to the underside of the hansom.
And, of course, Barry Ferguson.
Ignoring the flurry of shouts from below, Barry swung the cannons and fired several rounds into the trees to cover his escape. With his feet driving the gas and air pedals, he released a jet of air over the radiator fan-blades, spinning them with a banshee’s wail and propelling the impromptu airborne gun-platform away in a mad arc amidst the crack of musket-fire.
After a few moments of acclimating to the dirigible—far different to steer than an all-terrain hansom—Barry yawed towards the glow of firelight in the ranges, where he was fairly sure he would find Mister King.
See, he would say when he arrived, I really did have it under control, sir. Shame about poor Mister Massey’s tractor, mind you.
