Growing up in South Africa, being taught to hunt and scout from a young age by his brutal alcoholic father, Kruger had seen first-hand what happens to old predators. He had watched malnourished, arthritic lions and leopards give short desperate blasts of exhausted chase to gazelle and wildebeest before collapsing under the shade of a baobab tree. They would lay there, tongues lolling out, panting and in agony, not understanding why their bodies would not do what was asked of them. Even as a boy Kruger felt uncomfortable with that, did not want to look at these once majestic hunters reduced to wheezing and limping, failing to catch even the sickest stragglers. It was horrible to see the strong diminished in such a way.
He had watched his own harsh father, a giant of a man who had belonged to the savannah as much as a lion, who had hunted and killed for forty years, reduced to a living corpse no stronger than a child as the cancer ate his liver.
Bovine creatures and other herbivores can get put out to pasture, dream away their last days in a pastoral stupor, chewing grass and leaves as they find them. Their dinner gets no faster at running away even as they age. They get to wind down and slow the pace in their twilight years.
Not so for the lion. He gets slower as the world gets faster.
Kruger knew that the war against the Unseelie Court could not be truly won. The endless, immortal onslaught of pure hate would wear them all down to gasping aged lions before long. The only way now was to bargain with them, cut a deal and negotiate for his own little slice of the world before they took it over.
He dreamed of a game reserve.
His deal with the Unseelie was several hundred square miles of African wilderness, filled with all of nature’s savage diversity, fenced off from whatever hell it had become outside. Like Solomon, Kruger had bartered with demons and spirits to create his own kingdom where he could rule in peace in his final years. The only cost was his friends, his world, his species and his honour. Small potatoes as far as he was concerned.
Kruger had dreamed of his retirement for several years. He imagined himself sitting on the porch of his colonial style mansion somewhere in the Transvaal, on a rocking chair, shotgun draped across his lap, servants rushing around laying out his alfresco lunch, carving up something he’s hunted himself, something that walked across his sights, maybe an impala. His butler would pour him a Klipdrift Gold brandy, and Kruger would gently roll the rich gold liquid around in his glass, breathing in the notes of cinnamon, walnuts and cedar. He would know he had come home, raising his glass to the sunset and cheering
Gesondheid!
Then he would light his first Stuyvesant cigarette of the day and blow away the flies with its pungent odour. Or maybe, just maybe if he allowed himself to hope that far, some round hipped golden haired Afrikaans beauty would light it for him?
Don’t get carried away with yourself, Kruger. You’re still an ugly bastard. But money buys a lot of new friends eh?
The icy wind brought him back to his senses. The helipad was just below them, landing lights flashing and big enough for at least four choppers.
From a distance the bleak landscape gave him little sense of perspective to judge the size of the Proteus, but up close he realized that it was vast.
Through the darkness and driving snow, the flashing beacons of the ship ought to have been a welcoming sight, an invitation to warmth, technology and civilization. Instead all Kruger saw was warning lights screaming stay away.
As the helicopter began its bumpy wind tossed descent, Kruger saw a welcoming party gathered on deck to meet them. In the middle of them was a tall painfully thin shard of a man, still and unwavering against the gale force winds. He knew it had to be his new master, Isaiah Argent.
Alright Bru, he may be a soul eating monster, but he pays well. Isn’t that what matters?
Kruger had to admire the skill of the pilots as they bumped down onto the deck. It was challenging enough to land a helicopter on a ship in the dark, but to do it in these weather conditions, the guys must be really pro. That was the advantage of having the unlimited coffers of the Chromium Project, they could afford to pay for the best. As long as the best were willing not to ask too many questions and take the pay cheque, it was all hunky dory. That suited Kruger just fine.
As the rotors slowed, Kruger and his tactical team exited the chopper and moved in a crouched run away from the spinning blades. He stood up to his full six foot six in front of Isaiah Argent and it was then he realized just how tall the CEO of the Chromium Project really was. Argent extended his bony fingers and Kruger’s rough hand shook Argent’s cold slippery digits.
“Mr Kruger, thank you for coming in to assist us. Apologies about the weather, can’t think why old Santa Claus would want to live here at all eh?”
Kruger looked around the blustery deck at the crew working to repair the damage to the ship.
“Ordinarily I would say that I stopped believing in Santa Claus a long time ago Mister Argent, but after what I’ve seen, these days I’m willing to keep an open fucking mind.”
Argent smiled revealing his receding gums and rotten horsey teeth.
“Very wise Mr Kruger. There’s more in heaven and earth than is dreamed of in your philosophy, didn’t old Shakespeare say something like that? Not to me personally of course, never met the man, was around but wasn’t in town. Follow me inside, let’s get some brandy down you. Klipdrift Gold, that’s your drink isn’t it? See I always do my research.”
Ten minutes later Kruger stood in Argent’s office, sipping his favourite drink and looking out of the huge viewing deck window. He lit up a Stuyve and shook his head in amazement at the size of the deck beneath him. He turned to Argent and blew out his smoke.
“It’s incredible really Mister Argent, that a wild beast could bring to a halt such a vessel as this. Makes me wonder what I’m hunting. See, I also like to do my research. You don’t go hunting shark with a fishing rod for trout, and you don’t bring a game hunter like me in unless everyone else who’s gone after this thing has either ended up lunch or given up. So I want to know where I stand.”
It felt strange for Kruger to be standing in the same room as an Unseelie freak and not be emptying both barrels of a shotgun into it, but he was adapting.
Adapt and survive bru, adapt and survive.
Argent poured himself a tawny port and stood leaning casually on his desk, taking in a long slow measure of Kruger. The ghoul’s sunken pale corpse eyes seemed to register somewhere between admiration and hunger. It wasn’t pleasant.
“I like you Mr Kruger, it’s good to have you on side. There’s nothing gives me more pleasure than seeing a turncoat. I can almost taste that kind of betrayal, you see. Most people think when a Ghoul eats a man it’s the flesh that nourishes us, but that’s not strictly true. Admittedly it tastes good, I won’t deny I like the taste of long pig, yummy yummy, but that’s not what I need or savour. It’s the deeds of the man I eat, Mr Kruger. Every betrayal, every compromise, every bad decision, every addiction and flaw, that’s the gusto for me. The taste that beats all others, the ambrosia that gives me youth and strength, Mr Kruger, is corruption. It’s like the most delicious salty ash in my mouth, and you Mr Kruger, you absolutely reek of it. Even from this side of the room, your soul smells like a juicy sizzling steak of rancid beef to me. You are a dishonourable, filthy, untrustworthy, bloodthirsty, lecherous, self-serving wretch, and I absolutely love you for it. You’re my kind of scoundrel. I’d love to eat you whole if I’m honest, but I’m a man of my word and a pragmatist. We need your skills.”
Kruger dropped his cigarette stub onto the immaculate marble floor and crunched it beneath his filthy boot. He grinned his wide gap-toothed smile.
“Seems like you really did read the finer points of my curriculum vitae Mr Argent. Ja, I’m an inveterate fucking low life and no mistake. I tend to just get by on charm and my looks. So what are we hunting?”
Argent joined Kruger at the window, sipped his drink. Kruger’s predator sense of smell detected a
distinct stench of the grave lingering about the tall grey skinned man. Argent licked his lips with an long slug of a tongue.
“It’s nice to talk with one of the Special Threats Group, we know each other’s nature, no need to hide or pretend. We can lay our cards on the table. This thing I need you to hunt, Kruger, is a font of war. I sent my top scientist Dr Carver out to look for it, and he found it in the ice for me. I thought some foe had trapped it there at first, but apparently it seems it did it to itself, took itself out of the circles of the world, felt the danger its power posed in the hands of men was too great and gave itself up to the cold. How very noble of it. I woke it up because I wanted what it had in its blood, and I think, I could be wrong on this, but I think, I may have rather annoyed it.”
Kruger smiled, stroked the handle of the ivory handled machete at his belt.
“So it came out of hibernation as angry as hell, tore up your ship then fucked off out into the snow. It’s your secret weapon against the STG and you want me to go bring it back.”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“Why is it so valuable? You got a whole army of freaks and monsters currently trying to forced their way through that thin spot I see behind your desk, why you need this thing, what does it provide?”
Argent snapped his fingers, and from the shadows in the corner of the room stepped the six Feral berserkers Kruger had seen in Egypt. He actually took a step back, amazed that they had been hiding silently in the shadows and even his keen senses had detected nothing. For the first time in a long time, Kruger felt like prey.
He sucked his teeth and spat.
“What exactly are they then?”
Argent flourished his long bony arms like a used car salesman.
“Your people have your Empire teams, your battle hardened Special Forces, specially trained and equipped to battle my kind, and I have to grudgingly admit, not unsuccessfully. I would never have imagined that nothing more than a motley crew of foot soldiers could shatter the hearts of so many beautiful Shadow Elves, Coldbloods and Vampires. Really took us by surprise. There have been various knights and champions over the centuries that have been troublesome obviously, but nothing quite so organized as your irritating bunch. Bit by bit, victory by hard earned victory, and to my eternal fucking amazement, your little lot was making progress. It was even possible you could actually be winning.”
Kruger lit another Stuyve and shook his stubbled chin. “Never felt like that from our side bru. Always just felt like standing at the back end of an elephant that no one stops feeding, holding a shovel and an umbrella.”
Argent raised an eyebrow, sighed out through his long dark-veined nose. He smiled a little, apparently pleased that Kruger’s life had been a misery trying to fight them.
“The tactic that came to my mind was to observe what your enemy is doing successfully and replicate it. Small well trained Special Forces teams equipped and trained to nullify the strengths of their opponents. Your scientists spend millions researching bullets that will kill Djinn, or a technological device that will trap an Omen. You even use our own power against us, setting sigils and wards around your establishments, keeping us forever out. That’s what worried me the most. These last few years, you’re even starting to understand magic.”
Argent walked over to the nearest of his hulking soldiers and squeezed a huge bicep. It was thicker than Kruger’s thigh.
“So I used the blood of the Bjorn to create my own little special force of commandos. I’ve been testing them out over these past weeks, sending them on little missions, dummy runs and training exercises. They’ve been performing admirably. The best thing about them though, apart from looking rather intimidating, is that because they are not of Unseelie origin, all your magical protective measures mean nothing. It’s nature magic you never even considered defending against.”
Kruger looked at the commando team, felt a primal sense of threat. He could see how dangerous they were and that they were spoiling for a fight.
“So what’s their endgame?”
Argent downed the last of his port, bared his equine teeth and shrugged as if it were obvious.
“Why, all your friends, Mr Kruger, the people who have acted as your family for years, your team Empire One and everyone around them. This is my team Mr Kruger, Fury One, and it’s going to tear your friend’s stomachs out through their skin. Then, and only then, do I let out the things that are frankly trying to claw the door down behind this thin spot. It’s about time we brought you back to the dark ages, when you people really were too scared to go into the haunted woods, for good reason. I’m going to repopulate the world with your nightmares. ”
Kruger felt a paintbrush daubing in black the last unsullied part of his heart.
He drew in a deep lungful of smoke and let his mind drift to his promised nature reserve in Africa.
As he sipped his brandy, Kruger noticed that his colonial mansion seemed to be made entirely of bones, bleached white in the sun. He could still smell lunch barbequing on the lawn, but that crisped and blackening thigh looked distinctly human. Looking down into his glass, he noticed that his Klipdrift Gold was now lumpy congealing blood. He ran his tongue across his sticky crimson moustache.
Tastes a bit odd. Needs a bit of coke.
Kruger looked up to the distant fence around his wonderful nature enclosure.
There now seemed to be people gathered round the borders of his little reserve, throngs of ragged people grasping the high wire fence, shaking it and crying out for help. They all looked starving, scared and wounded, their soulless eyes devoid of hope. They pleaded with him to let them in.
Tourists probably. We’re closed, hunting season’s over. Go away bru.
Kruger licked his lips as his lunch plate was brought to him. Kruger had eaten impala many times, but never this cut. It looked like a barbequed human hand.
Still got a ring on it. Fuck it, lunch is lunch, gotta eat to survive.
The serving staff poured him another gloopy gore filled glass and Kruger cheered the setting sun, cheered the keen tourists, cheered lunch, cheered his beautiful home, cheered his damn good fortune to land on his feet, when the world was frankly going a bit downhill.
Gesondheid!
Argent turned to him, staring at him with his beady eyes.
“What was that Mr Kruger?”
Kruger blinked and woke from his reverie. He was staring out of the window at the storm buffeting down onto the deck of the massive death factory that was the Proteus. He must have been staring out too long because to his surprise there were tears streaming down his cheeks.
No one left to betray bru. No friends left to stab in the back. But I’ll still be going strong when they’re all in the dirt, and the dead don’t judge. Dead got nothing to say. Old lions got to survive somehow. That’s one thing you can say about this old lion. No honour, no friends, no soul, but I’m a survivor, and nature doesn’t judge either. I endure. Ja.
Kruger wiped his face discreetly with his sleeve then turned to Argent and his terrifying berserkers. He raised his glass of brandy to the ancient ghoul.
“Just toasting your impending victory. I hope the Unseelie have as fun a time on Earth as I have had. Gesondheid.”
Kruger took a sip, and felt the golden liquid burn the last of his conscience away.
Let them come, he thought. He knew they were coming for his skin but he would be waiting for his old friends with his knives drawn.
35
Ariel edged slowly to the mouth of the cave on his hands and knees. The snow was falling heavily outside and visibility was poor. Inside, the arctic wind howled through the tunnels creating a mournful wailing that chilled him to the bone.
Ariel’s eyes were not his own as he cast a gaze over the rocky landscape below. He could see for miles even in the starlit gloom. The thick blizzard was no obstacle to him, his eyes could see past every heavy snowflake. He saw a polar bear in the distance loping across the rocks, and a distant herd
of reindeer with their antlers encrusted in a thick layer of snow. He breathed a sigh of relief as he realized that he could no longer see the men with guns. Ariel stayed pressed down to the rocky floor of the cave but turned his head to face the giant figure crouched against the rocky wall.
“They’re not following us anymore. I think they lost our trail.”
The bear-god Arrik cast a glance from beneath his heavy brow ridge. Today one eye was icy blue and the other jet black. His form seemed to change with his mood.
“They will find us. Men who want the blood of the wild do not tire or falter. I know.”
“Can we start the fire then? I’m dying here.”
Arrik nodded and Ariel struck a safety match beneath the pile of sticks and kindling. It began to take and he shivered as he rubbed his hands next to the burgeoning flame. They had waited for over two hours to make sure they were not followed before lighting the fire. Ariel had thought that his fingers were about to blacken and crack.
Ariel edged his way back into the cave. He felt the world churning inside him like he was filled to bursting with memories and power that a mortal vessel had never evolved to contain. The fever he had felt in Longyearbyen had subsided a little but every now and again it would resurface and he would feel as if he was burning up. Strange thoughts swam in his mind that he knew were not his own, violent and predatory urges, moments of insane lust and fathomless hunger.
The fusion reactor of his metabolism was screaming at him from every cell. The craving for blood and muscle was overwhelming, his chin was dripping drool as he imagined rending thick fascia with his teeth, feeling the muscle fibres go taught in his jaw then finally rip, like those liquorice shoelaces he used to eat as a child.
The Last Line Series One Page 27
