Blood On Borrowed Wings: A Dark Fantasy Thriller

by Darren Stapleton

  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.

  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

  CHAPTER 92

  ‘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.