The MP is looking for Gilder. I’m looking for Gilder. And to top it all, in ascending order of investigative ability, the elves are looking for Gilder. Unless this ass turns out to be the biggest genius of Saros, which seems unlikely considering his last job, there are two possibilities: either he’s so skilled as to manage to remain invisible forever, or someone is hiding him. His friends. What would be friends with someone who is on practically everybody’s shopping list? Funeral companies with an exclusive? Ghouls? Other people under a magic contract? No, that’s not possible. If he had that much cash he wouldn’t be in such desperate circumstances.
Wait, wait. There’s a thin red line underneath my nose that I didn’t notice before. Inla took part in the Croce riots, and I have every reason to believe that the Blonde was somewhere around there, too. Equal rights for all etcetera. The Spire, on the other hand, plays the little soldier but leaves in disgust soon after. Both of them are ostracised by their respective families, “spitting on tradition” as Colonel Marblearse said. A pay-off that even I wouldn’t know how to squander in only a few years. If the dots are joined up, the picture that comes out is of two idealistic kids too caught up in screwing themselves to take a step backwards. What if they were part of one of the many underground political movements? Only subversives or revolutionaries would go against everything and everyone to save the arse of a hare on the run. Particularly two fanatical activists like our two lovebirds. They could even have set it up themselves—which would explain what happened to all that money.
Scene: Gilder and Inla finally have something damning against their blood relatives, after years of ineffectual attempts with their ragbag group of terrorists. They prepare the bomb and the escape plan, but somehow the other rabbits find out and send their hired assassin to clean up. Maybe the redhead tripped herself up with that phone call to her father, she gave something away. Or maybe there’s some weird thousand-year-old law that says that it’s the parents who have to sort out their children’s shit and she calls him and asks him to pardon her, I don’t know. Anyway, whether he likes it or not, Nylmeris, like a good tin soldier, all duty and honour, gets his blade and kills her, but Gilder gets away. So, not only did he do something that earned him a death sentence, but now he’s also hell bent on getting his own back on his old commander and comrade in arms, therefore there’s no fucking way he’s leaving. That said, he also has sound moral principles, and simply killing the old man doesn’t quite cut it, he wants him to be publicly condemned. He wants justice, the imbecile. Or perhaps he’ll make do with justice because he knows he can’t get to the colonel. But why me especially? Maybe, being a Feltu, he’s heard of my endeavours. Then again, he may have believed all that rubbish in the papers and he thinks I’m some sort of defender of the law.
Here’s another plausible theory with just one hole in it, some pieces don’t fit, the premature aging, the corpse in the middle of the street; even though the latter could have been a simple demonstration. Regardless of the official version, those with ears long enough to hear with, heard and heard well, everyone else got the titillating stories such as the ogre lover and jealous boyfriend, the scandal would have lasted until the next saucy story came out and then ended up, inexorably, being quickly forgotten. The story stands up, but I haven’t got a shred of evidence. However, if my theory is right, the Blonde has already got the proof.
But then, why on earth did he run away when we met him at Cicisbeo? Easy: because I would almost have certainly arrested him. He presumably didn’t think we’d have found him so soon, he went to get his bit of money before disappearing for good.
Or the proof, shit. The fucking proof. He couldn’t hide it in his house, too obvious. So he hid it in his dressing-room, where somebody wouldn’t think to go and look. I can’t really see Nylmeris going into that dump, never mind rummaging around in Gilder’s sweaty thongs. If I’d apprehended him and taken him to the station, I reckon he’d have been dead in under an hour. I can just see it, three hundred pissed off lawyers descend on us and start hitting MetroPo with lawsuits for anything and everything, including the empty fire extinguishers or the certification for the heating systems, Cohl’s commissioner pees his pants and they get rid of him in eight minutes flat. Gilder takes ten steps inside the building and he’s mowed down by a mammoth which escaped from the zoo, reduced to elvish mush or is the victim of some bizarre accident, and that’s goodbye to both proof and witness.
So the good news is that all I have to do is find Gilder and get hold of the proof. While the bad news is that I can’t go door to door, ringing ten million doorbells and ask if by any chance they’ve seen a handsome star of the stripping world.
Once we get past the junction, the cars visibly thin out and we quickly cut though the general squalor. Around these parts humans are a small minority. The area’s grimy pubs are surrounded by herds of anthropomorphic boars intent on seducing sows. We streak past a group of gremlins busy cooking three fat rats stuck on pointed sticks, the improvised chefs are huddled round a burning bin. As though we could be tempted in some sick way by their sumptuous banquet, the demons eye us suspiciously until we’re well out of their line of vision. Nobody knows for sure just how many and what kind of bizarre creatures populate these crumbling buildings, and I have absolutely no intention of finding out, especially as I recently received confirmation, unfortunately for me, that rumours concerning un-dead creatures hiding at the bottom of Nectropis are true. Inevitably, there’s the standard brawl outside another sleazy dive two blocks down the road. Hope they’ve got knives, that’ll bring the numbers down nicely. It’s definitely more efficient than any campaign promoting the use of contraception.
We make our way towards the centre of the level, avoiding the ring roads, where there is the slight risk of running into an overzealous cousin, who has recently been diagnosed with a terminal illness, and he’s trying to die on the job so his family can cash in on the insurance. Every now and then we see some seriously shifty characters hurrying along who knows where, or smoking while standing guard at the entrance to a pusher’s square, more to keep the tramps and rivals away than out of the fear of the authorities.
All I need to do now is find the Blonde.
That’s what I was thinking while I was rubbing my eyes, when a wrong noise brought me back to the present. Initially, I can’t block the image, something dark and rumbling overtakes the van. Metallic, chrome. Combustion engine, pistons pumping. Motorbike, sounds like a gang of pigs on horseback. Dark leather jackets, orange shaved heads and…
“Ambush!” I yell at Bomutu, who instinctively slams on the brakes.
And sub-machine guns.
The vehicle swerves when the brake pads hit the plates. One of the bikers stops and raises his weapon, he sweeps the windscreen with a precise spray of bullets, from left to right.
I duck behind the dashboard a fraction of a second before a bullet rips open the padding inside the backrest of my seat. The driver is less fortunate and is torn apart by at least six shots to his upper torso. He dies with his foot firmly on the brake, while the van obstinately skids around until it is stopped by the soft impact against a couple of dumpsters surrounded by piles of rubbish bags.
“And here’s me bothering to ask you your name,” I say to the corpse while I beckon the Altra.
Shit. I’m dead this time. The holes in the glass are tidy and precise. Professionals.
The wing mirror on my side is still intact. One of the four is sliding along the side of the van with his weapon at the ready. He’s coming to certify the killing. I can see another one farther away, he’s positioned so as to cover the others. Fucking experts. The only positive thing is that pros tend to get cocky as their careers develop, and this, sooner or later, will kill them.
I fling the door open and fire with my left hand, trying to shoot parallel with the vehicle. The muffled cry and subsequent thud tells me that the Altra has done it again. This theory is supported by a shower of blasphemous expletives in the Ogre�
��s own language and a hail of bullets which forces me back inside the vehicle.
The bullets are incessantly peppering the chassis, like a drum roll. Fuck, I’ve got to get out of here. They won’t fall for it again. The windscreen is cracked in two places, keeping as low down as possible. I try and knock it out with the butt of my gun. Another round of bullets hisses past my ear, just to make life easier.
It’s a half-arsed idea, but I haven’t got anything better, okay? Pushing back against the seat, I tense my kidneys and throw myself out, rolling out in a somersault across the bonnet and falling into the rubbish. This time a bullet grazes my shoulder and wrenches a yell from my lungs.
Oh, no. While I take cover between the dumpsters, I realise I’ve pulled a muscle in my back.
“So presumptuous, Arkham. The last time you did a somersault was in a P.E. lesson at high school.”
Yeah, witty banter. That’s what the heroes on the silver screen do. It’s more realistic than you think, it stops you from shitting your pants.
A new series of detonations and ensuing impacts against the dumpsters reminds me that I’m certainly no athletics champion. The pigs are still there, there are still three of them and they’re even more outraged than before. I check how many bullets I’ve got left in the magazine and push it back in, satisfied. Eight shots. I mean, if I can actually manage to fire eight shots before they screw me I will consider it a glorious death.
The machine guns cease their hammering for a few seconds, something’s not right.
“Have you finished, bastards?!” I shout from my crouching position, hoping to distract them long enough to formulate a plan.
Pity they don’t fall for it. Something curves over my hiding place, bounces off the wall and heads straight for me.
OHSHITAGRENADE!
I make a break for it and jump towards the abandoned carcass of the van, near the pile of rubbish.
The explosion happens while I’m in mid-air, the blast pushes me several metres farther than the world record for the long-jump. My ears are ringing and everything hurts. My brain switches off, the seconds stretch out. That thing where your whole life flashes before your eyes when you’re about to die is a load of old bollocks.
Once you’ve got used to the fact that every now and then people try to stick you inside a big black bag, you develop a second brain in one of the hormonal glands. Animal instinct. The survival instinct.
Still stunned from the blast, I drag myself on my hands and knees behind a white minivan. My hands are caked in layers of dirt, blood, black stuff from the Sixth, different blood. Some shards must have pierced my body somewhere. In various places. However, I don’t feel any pain, I haven’t got time.
More guttural swearing and the umpteenth spray of bullets shattering the windows above my head distract me from my suffering. Grabbing hold of a fragment of the rear view mirror I use it as a periscope.
Bastard number one: he fires to kill from the back of his motorbike. It means he’s very sure of himself if he chose such poor protection. The reasoning being: I’m already screwed so I may as well stay in the middle of the road and at least protect my balls.
Bastard number two: his orange head pops out on the other side of the road. He’s getting ready to drive me out, I would literally bet my life on it.
The last contender is nowhere to be seen yet. He’s probably coming from the other direction. If I give him time to get into position, I’m finished. Crossfire. I’m stuck here until number two gets a clear shot and turns me into a human colander.
Number two has reloaded, his machine gun starts spitting warning fire. The other one breaks away and starts running to close the distance and get me. Here comes the shot of my life, if I mess it up I’m dead.
I take the Altra and take aim based on my reflexes. The circus has come to town. The world slows down once again, a final hair’s breadth adjustment.
Fire.
The bullet hits the motorbike saddle. Number one ducks automatically and holds his fire. I stand up and spin around until I’m facing the runner, catching him by surprise. He tries to raise his automatic, but he’s on the move, and he has to take aim. I only have to improvise mine. The Altra produces its murderous hissing noise, and the pig suddenly finds himself lying on the line which separates the two lanes staring at an expanding pool of blood.
Two against one. The one on the ground tries to shout and emits a broken moan of agony.
“Two-nil, shit face!”
“Fucking bastard!” answers the one who was providing cover, not so self-confident now.
Now he needs better protection, the chicken shit. He fires off a few more shots to the spot I was in three seconds ago, but I’m no longer there. I’ve rolled under the car, bastard. I was just waiting for you to crap yourself and move away. Yeah, move to exactly where you are now.
A whisper, flames, right in his shin. Number two smacks his face onto the ground with a scream. In this case, having a flat nose is an advantage. Pity it can’t save him from the second bullet which blows his head clean off.
One against one. I want a fucking statue. With a plaque: TO THE BEST SHOOTER IN HISTORY. Okay, okay. And to his gun.
“Let’s not argue just now.” I take my leave from my colleague and slide out.
Oh, shit.
There’s number four. In front of me and he’s pointing his machine gun in my face. He’s grinning triumphantly, with those long, fat canine teeth sticking out of those orange lips that all fucking ogres have. Murdered by a pig biker. I prepare for death, squeeze my eyes closed and pray to Zadro that this does not end up being my epitaph.
Click.
Click click click. He squeezes the trigger hysterically as though he were masturbating a frigid sow.
It’s jammed.
“Oh-oh. Tough luck!” His face is stunned. Then I add an air hole smack bang between his incredulous eyes. It’s so gratifying when they pop their clogs wearing that expression which says “Shit, I don’t believe it”. I love it.
I sink to the ground and breathe. How long has it been since I last breathed? Phew.
Fuck, that was close, really close.
I take a hefty snort straight out of the baggie, way too much. My heart is pounding crazily, but palpitations are a small price to pay for numbing the pain in my back and in my thigh, from which I’ve just extracted a piece of metal almost two centimetres long, it was poking out halfway. There isn’t anything sticking out of my back: apart from the exact nature of the object which injured me, I hope it’s because the dart came out when I took my ripped raincoat off.
The second cigarette, lit directly from the stub of the first one, seems destined to live a longer life than the previous one. I swap my raincoat for a leather jacket belonging to the last pig I shot, to hide the most obvious injuries at least. I find the killer’s mobile in one of the pockets, after throwing away a magazine of bullets, the hit man will never get to use it again. I realise my hand is trembling when I key in Ugube’s number, which I know by heart. I wait for him to pick up the phone, I am unnaturally calm.
“Hello?” he answers after one ring.
“Fucking, bastard bag of shit.” I open with the tone of voice of someone ordering a takeaway.
“Lieutenant Arkham?” He’s disoriented.
“No, you heap of toxic waste, it’s your dietician. I resign and I’m going to kill myself because you’re a hopeless pile of shit, you obese bastard.”
“Watch your language, if…”
“Like fuck I will, son of a bitch!”
“What is this rant in aid of?”
“I’m standing in the middle of a fucking bloodbath, that’s what, you brainless fuck!”
I’m waving my arms about amongst the road strewn with vehicles.
“Lieutenant.”
“Lieutenant what, for fuck’s sake?!”
“Take a deep breath, calm down and tell me exactly what’s happened.”
I take his advice so I don’t suffocate and die, c
ertainly not out of politeness.
“I’ll tell you what’s happened. Four bastards that were popped out by some whore from your family ambushed your shitty van and I was this close to getting killed, this close, let’s say the length of your miserable cock, for fuck’s sake.
He takes that in and thinks for a moment.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? Sorry, what the fuck?! I’m bleeding like a pig that’s had its throat cut and you’re sorry?”
“I understand that this situation has made you emotional, Arkham, so I will overlook your impertinence.”
“Fuck you!”
“ … However, I’m sure you’ll agree with me regarding the urgency of getting you to safety and medicating your injuries as soon as possible.”
“You can bet your arse I agree. Send me one of your arse-lickers and get me out of here now!”
“That’s out of the question.”
“What the bollocks are you on about?”
“Be quiet and listen to me, if you want to live. Near the south-east ring road there’s a bar, the Iron Fist. Go there and say I’ve sent you, they will treat your injuries.”
“So, in your opinion I’m supposed to walk a kilometre in this state? What happened, did you feel peckish and eat your own brain?”
“You are an extremely resourceful man. I’m sure you’ll find a way. In any case that’s as much as I can do for the moment. Call me again from there, I shall take this inconvenience into account when we discuss your fee.”
“You’d better, fatty.”
I end the call. Bastard.
Two of the four wheels which brought me here are ripped to bits, and I have absolutely no desire to see if there are two spares, let alone jack the car up. What’s more, driving around in what’s left of the van is a sure way to draw attention to myself: Sixth or no Sixth, sooner or later the cousins will come to see what the fuck all that shooting was about, and they’ll set about hunting down the ones who got away.
Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets Page 21
