Firedrake - Volume Two

by T. Mike McCurley

“Two guns, no waiting,” he said.

  “Enough of this,” Hart said. A second later, Gunsmoke jerked savagely at her head. The popping sounds from her spine were audible even over the harsh yelp of pain that erupted from her.

  “You can drop the pheromone thing, lady, less’n you want to wind up a smear on the wall,” he growled. His featured were trembling as he fought against her emotional control. “She’s good, Drake. I don’t know how much longer I can hold out. I tell you, though. If I think she’s winning, I’ll pull the trigger.”

  “If you knew our history, you might have picked a better hostage, slick,” Drake said, laughing again.

  “You covered her from the sniper. Made sure she got in here before you came in. That means she ain’t just a corpse to you. Don’t bullshit me.”

  “Fine. So if I surrender to you, then what?”

  “Then she goes free. You go get patched up and get ready for the fight with Onslaught. Once you’re there, I get my favor, and we all go home happy.”

  “What the hell favor could you, of all people, want?” Drake demanded. He started to fold his arms across his chest, but the blinding pain from his right shoulder stopped him. He settled for letting his tail drape over his left shoulder. The long barbed tip lay against his chest armor, tapping in a rhythmic pattern. “I mean, what could you want that you can’t just take?”

  “You gimme your word and I’ll tell you.”

  “It’s a trick,” Sally whispered.

  “It all goes down like you said?” Drake asked. “I get healed first, then we go?”

  “Fighting trim, he said,” Gunsmoke answered, nodding briefly. “I aim to see you get there in the best possible shape. Gotta look good for the cameras, right?”

  “And when it’s all over?”

  “We go our separate ways and call this one even.”

  “What happens next time I see you?”

  “Well, now, I reckon that’s up to you,” Gunsmoke said.

  “Okay,” Drake said, nodding his head. “But you go back on the arrangement -”

  “I don’t welsh on no bets, ya damned horned toad.”

  “Fine,” Drake said. “I’ll do it your way. Cut her loose.”

  “Done and done,” Gunsmoke said, releasing Hart from his grasp. The Director stepped clear, signaling to Sally as she moved aside. The Uzi started to sweep up. Drake slapped it aside with his tail, not bothering to look at what he was doing.

  “This is my deal, Sally,” he said, ignoring the angry glare from Hart. “Get the boss and take her home.”

  “What about you?” Sally asked, pointing up into the truck at Gunsmoke. “You want me to just walk away and leave you here with him? You’re injured, Drake.”

  “Not for long, I figure,” he said. “I put a half-dozen holes in him a few hours ago and he looks fine to me. Figure he’s got access to a healer of some kind.”

  “Big fat guy,” Gunsmoke confirmed, picking at a tooth with the edge of a blackened fingernail as he casually interrupted their conversation. “Smokes too much, drinks too much, and he kinda smells like a dead rat, but he can work the mojo.”

  “You see?” Drake said, guiding Hart toward the back of the truck where Sally waited. “It’s all gonna be okay. Just two guys with an agreement.”

  “You just made the Top Ten list, Gunsmoke,” Hart declared, stepping down onto the pavement. Sally immediately insinuated herself between the woman and the grey-clad booster. If unable to fulfill her duty of protecting Drake, she could at least act as a shield for the Director.

  “Yeah? Yay me,” he drawled. “Now you and your little sister there get on out of here, ‘fore something bad happens.”

  Drake nodded to Hart, managing a weak grin that the pain in his arm did not let him feel. “I’ll be okay,” he said. He was trusting that Gunsmoke would be true to his word. He knew that the risk he was taking was a large one, but the casualties could at least be minimized if he went along with the plan.

  “You know your man killed two cops out there,” he said, almost casually, once Hart and Sally had stepped clear of the truck.

  “Nope. Just Tranq rounds,” Gunsmoke said, not wasting any time with further explanation. He turned and pounded twice on the cab wall behind the driver. The truck began to move, slowly at first, and then picking up speed. “Have a seat,” the booster invited, jerking his chin toward the long bench that ran down one wall.

  Drake complied, flipping his tail back up and over his left shoulder to rest once more on the side of his neck. Though his wings were somewhat cramped by the condition, he was secretly glad to be sitting down. The scene had played havoc with the few pain-blocking drugs that were still in his system, and the shoulder wound was throbbing to such an extent that he felt the arm could fall off at any moment.

  “So what’s the deal?” he asked, biting on the inside of his jaw to keep from grimacing as the truck bounced over a pothole.

  “Like I said: Deal is you go fight Onslaught. He gives me what I want and then we leave. I guess you could arrest him if you wanted, but that‘s your thing, not mine.”

  “Why not fight him yourself if you’re so eager?”

  “Hell, son, you’ve seen what I did coming after you, and I wasn‘t even trying. I’d tear that boy up. Reckon you will, too, but that don‘t make me no never-mind,” Gunsmoke added with a wide grin. “Besides, he ain’t put out no bounty out on me.”

  “Which brings me back to my earlier question, slick. What the hell kind of favor can this asshole grant that you can’t take care of yourself?”

  Sighing, Gunsmoke planted himself on the bench beside Drake. He slipped the hat off, exposing the wavy brown hair beneath, and held the hat in his hands. He toyed with it as he spoke, turning it over and over, around in circles, and brushing away imaginary lint.

  “Y’all ever hear of the Kirkham-Lambard virus?” he asked. When Drake shook his head, he continued. “Nasty damn thing. Burns victims up from the inside out. Kinda like a bottle of Drano in your guts, chewing away and tearing through you. Shuts off the liver and kidneys after a while. Lungs get weak and fill up with all sorts of nastiness. Ain’t no cure, either.”

  “You a carrier?” Drake asked. His eyes rolled toward the open rear door of the truck. The vehicle turned off the main road and onto one topped with thick gravel, picking up speed once again.

  “Not me,” Gunsmoke replied. He pointed to the doorway. “I seen you looking. You wanna jump, go ahead. I’ll have Johnny turn this heap around, then I’ll come back and drag your ass back in here. After that things’ll get rough.”

  “Just figured if you had something like that I’d better make sure I had plenty of air,” Drake responded, bracing his left forearm across his knees and leaning forward onto it.

  “Got a friend picked up a case a while back,” Gunsmoke continued, satisfied with the obviously false answer. “He ain’t doing real good.”

  Drake nodded slowly, avoiding making a jest about Gunsmoke having friends. He probed further.

  “So what? You want me to fight him so he can cure your pal? I got news for you, slick. This Onslaught ain’t got much on the ball, near as I can tell. What makes you think he can help?”

  “Oh, he ain’t got the cure. Leastways, not yet. But he was there when my buddy caught it. I reckon he knows where it came from, and I aim to have him tell me. Getting you to come along was just easier and more reliable than beating it out of him.”

  The flat manner in which Gunsmoke delivered the last statement left Drake speechless for a moment. He sat in silence as his mind twisted different scenarios around in an attempt to make sense of the situation as it had unfolded. When he finally spoke, his tone was incredulous.

  “So you blew up a car, killed the driver, put a half-dozen cops in the hospital, and laid waste to a city block, not to mention taking a Federal Agent hostage and chancing destroying a hospital, all because it was easier than getting Onslaught to talk?”

  “Yep.”

  “Got any idea
just how stupid this whole idea was?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay. Just checking. You know you could have called and asked for help, right?”

  “Ain’t my way,” Gunsmoke said, shaking his head.

  “And once he tells you where the disease came from, then ‘your way’ says you go waste whoever did it, right?”

  “Might torture him for a while first, but in the end, yeah, pretty much.”

  “You know, my boss gave me a card a while back for an anger management guy. You might want his number,” Drake said with a snort.

  “I manage just fine,” Gunsmoke said, looking up at Drake with eyes as pale and cold as mountain snow. “So you go in there and kick his ass, but don’t hurt him too bad, ‘cause I got some questions for him.”

  “Are you serious?” Drake raved, his own eyes widening. “You had how many plans you could have come up with and this was the best you could manage? I mean, come on, slick. Who the hell decides this is the way to do anything? This is the kind of shit you expect from people who walk into a police station and ask to have their dealer busted ‘cause the coke he sold them isn’t pure!”

  “Selling bad coke? That’s just bad business, there.”

  “It also ain’t the point. Point is, you could -”

  “Yeah, and I didn’t,” Gunsmoke said, standing up. His voice was raised and Drake could see a noticeable tremor in his right hand. “Let it lay.”

  The truck was slowing, and it began a long, slow curve to the left. Gunsmoke gestured toward the door. “We’re here,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “Medic’s place. You be nice, now, ace. Larry’s no friend, but he‘s a damned good asset.”

  “Whatever,” Drake said, glaring at the other booster.

  Once the truck had come to a stop, the pair exited. They were standing in front of a long, grey double-wide trailer with a projecting porch covered with a sloping roof. Trim of a pale green hue decorated the windows, which had foil taped over the inner sides. The underside was surrounded by a layer of plastic underpinning, from which several pieces were noticeably missing.

  “Nice place,” Drake said, looking around him at the trees that dotted the land.

  Gunsmoke snorted and walked up the wide wooden steps to the porch. His boots thudded loudly on the timbers of the porch, announcing his presence even before he raised a fist and knocked on the flimsy door with enough pressure to leave small dents where his knuckles had impacted.

  “C’mon in!” shouted a voice from inside. “It’s open!”

  Gunsmoke opened the door and entered. Drake ducked his head and stepped inside. His nose wrinkled up at the smell that greeted them. Sensitive to odors, he easily picked out rotting food, stale beer, and overlaying it all, a thick pall of cigarette smoke. Some of that smoke was even visible, drifting on the air currents. The scents all clung to the raggedly-upholstered furniture that occupied what Drake felt would best be described as a living room. A much-abused Sony television sat in one corner, connected by a series of cables to a satellite feed. Stacked atop it were a combination VCR/DVD player and a collection of tapes and discs without labels. A few paintings were on the walls, though they appeared to have been chosen for their appeal to the owner rather than out of any sense of decorative style. A thick layer of grime seemed to be on everything, and merely being in the place left Drake feeling dirtier than when they had entered.

  “This is the doctor you brought me to?” he asked in a low voice. “I’d be better off waiting until I heal. Probably get sepsis or something.”

  “Let him do his thing. You ain’t gonna be here long,” Gunsmoke replied. He turned and shouted toward the back of the house. “Yo! Larry! It’s me! Get your ass out here!”

  “Oh, yeah. Hang on!” called the voice.

  “Like we were going somewhere,” Drake grumbled.

  Drake was unsure what he was expecting to see when the doctor emerged, but the mountain of a man that stepped out of a distant room was not it. His skin was cadaverously pale, and there was a lot of that paleness showing on his frame, which Drake estimated to be about four hundred pounds or more. The man was dressed only in a pair of cut-off Levi’s jeans and sandals. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth and one pudgy hand clutched a beer bottle. Long, unkempt hair hung down to his shoulders, and a gold hoop glinted in one ear.

  “What the hell?” he asked upon seeing Drake. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. The cigarette tumbled to the floor. Still staring at his guest, the man casually used the toe of a sandal to crush it out on the filthy carpet.

  “Drake, Larry. Larry, Drake,” Gunsmoke said by way of introduction. He pointed to Drake while looking at Larry. “Fix him,” Gunsmoke demanded.

  “Fix…fix what?” Larry stammered.

  “Shoulder’s blown apart,” Drake explained. He jerked his head toward Gunsmoke. “Josey Wales here got in a lucky shot. Blew the joint open, stripped off the meat. It’s clamped and I can regen part of it, but I need a quick fix.”

  “Places to go,” Gunsmoke added.

  “Well, sure. Yeah. Ummm…let me take a look,” the man said, waddling forward until he was near to them. As he approached, Drake felt the trailer rocking in response to his weight. He tried not to wonder about the structural stability of the trailer and instead focused on unwrapping the bandages provided at the hospital, revealing the construction clamps that held him together.

  “What sick barbarian put these on?” Larry asked. His breath was a miasma that made Drake swallow to hold back a surge of bile. Fat little fingers reached up to remove the clamps.

  “This will hurt,” the man warned, slipping them free of the wound. A fresh gout of blood erupted as he did so, running hot and thick down Drake’s arm. The reptilian booster clenched his jaw in response to the horrible sensations.

  “I can’t do anything about the pain,” continued Larry, speaking casually as his fingers danced over the gaping hole. Everywhere they touched, fresh tissue sprouted and began to weave itself together. Muscle and sinew knitted with a sickening creaking sound, and a moment later, scales appeared above it all. Drake kept his mouth tightly shut, glaring at Gunsmoke throughout the process. His breathing was shallow and very slow as he controlled the pain by an effort of will.

  “There you go. All better,” announced the man after a few minutes of work. Drake turned to examine the wound. It was no longer evident, though the quantity of blood that had welled out of it still left proof of its recent presence.

  Turning away, Larry went to a cabinet in the next room and returned a moment later with a small bottle made of amber-colored glass and a clear plastic vial filled with blue pills. “Drink this now,” he said, handing over the bottle, “And take one of these capsules every thirty minutes until they are gone.”

  “What is it?” Drake asked.

  “That would be proprietary information,” Larry said with a grin. “Got a patent pending on those little puppies.”

  “I ain’t looking for the formula, slick. What do they do?”

  “Suffice it to say, the liquid will prepare your body for the capsules. Each of them will aid in rebuilding platelets and regenerating your lost blood. That represents three years of work right there,” Larry added proudly, pointing to the bottles. “Three years to come up with the right blend. Booster or norm, no matter the Rh factor, they seem to be in perfect order.”

  “Yeah, well, nice seeing you again, Larry. Drake and I gotta be going now,” Gunsmoke said, reaching out to lay a hand on Drake’s bicep. He guided the big booster toward the door.

  “You guys wanna hang out for a while? Got plenty of beer,” offered the rotund man.

  “No,” Gunsmoke said flatly. “Like I said, we got places to go.”

  “Thanks, though,” Drake said, uncapping the glass bottle and tossing its contents into his mouth. He struggled to swallow past a flavor he could not describe. He only knew it was the foulest substance he had ever had occasion to put in his mouth. He popped
the top off the pill vial and flicked one of the blue capsules all the way back to his throat, swallowing again.

  “Every thirty minutes,” Larry reminded him as they left.

  “Nice guy,” Drake noted once the door had closed behind them.

  “He helps. Don‘t ask no questions, neither.”

  “Same thing you went through after I put all those pretty holes in you?”

  “The breath, you mean? Yeah. Now you see why I don’t like getting shot.”

  “Oh, yeah? Here I was figuring not getting shot was its own reward.”

  “Get in the truck,” Gunsmoke ordered. “We’re gonna take a little trip.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Drake muttered. He climbed into the back of the vehicle again, glad that he was able to use both arms this time. Some pain was still present, but only as a lingering aftereffect. Nothing new came from the freshly-repaired joint. He flexed the arm and waved it about as Gunsmoke pounded on the cab and the truck pulled away again.

  “Works good, huh?”

  “Yeah, it does,” Drake confessed. “Kinda surprising. I wouldn’t peg Larry as the doctor-type.”

  “He’s got his thing, we’ve got ours. Course, he actually was a doc for a while. Got bounced for not keeping his records right. Seems a bunch of his stuff went missing or some such.”

  “Drug supplies?” Drake asked.

  “Naw. He was helping out some folks what couldn’t afford it. Refused to deal with any insurance hassles, paperwork and what-have-you. He just gave ‘em what they needed to get better. Someone leaked word to the Medical board folks, and they came in and shut him down. Their loss, too, ‘cause when he gets working in his lab, he comes up with some damned impressive mojo.”

  “Aww, shit,” Drake suddenly swore. Gunsmoke looked up, eyes traveling automatically to the shoulder.

  “What?” he demanded.

  “Forgot my C-clamps. Damned things probably cost me a grand or some shit, too.”

  “You kidding me? A grand? Next time I go to Home Depot I’ll snag you a pair. My treat,” Gunsmoke said. He laughed then, a sound that was utterly alien to the persona he projected to the world.