The retreating suns cast dark and ugly shadows over the streets of Baggus.
It was time.
Vrall moved away from the others, towards the jail. His face set like stone. Charlie watched with dread as the large Umfian opened the door and, with one final look back at them, stepped inside.
Private Eckinson sat at the desk attempting to solve a small wooden puzzle. He was failing beyond belief. Still he was adamant that he would succeed. This particular type of wooden puzzle was created by the Shlolatian centuries ago. The Shlolatian have no arms, which only made the puzzle even harder. It was used as a test of intelligence. Those who solved the puzzle were given nice houses and the most respectable of jobs. Those that failed were kicked in the eyeball.
Times had changed and now, on Baggus’Regious, there was no punishment for those unable to grasp the most ancient of puzzles. At least not a legal punishment. As Private Eckinson was constantly discovering, every day he failed to complete the puzzle, his Sentry Jail Guard colleagues would pin him to the floor and indeed kick him in the eye.
It caused much amusement. Not for Private Eckinson.
The door opened and a large shadow fell over the front desk. Eckinson looked up from his puzzle and stared at the huge, dark silhouette in the doorway.
“Can I help you?” he asked, slightly concerned.
“I Do Hope So,” boomed the silhouettes loud voice. The Umfian stepped forward revealing his thick orange face.
Eckinson relaxed. “Private Klantic Pak. You scared me for a moment.”
Vegora Vrall smiled. An’ishia’s plan was working. She had said that all Umfian looked alike and that the jail guard would mistake him for their own Umfian colleague.
“Where’s your uniform?” Eckinson continued.
Vrall staggered. “Erm…” he mumbled, which shook the walls, “Day Off.”
Eckinson nodded. “What can I do you for?”
“Prisoner Transfer,” Vrall said. “Orders From The Governor Himself.”
“Oh? Which prisoner?”
Vegora Vrall’s eyes squinted. “The Gumthar Bounty Hunter,” he scowled. “Greebol.”
“Very good,” said Eckinson, standing and moving towards the big box of jail keys.
A fat and greasy Waabba jail guard entered the room from the back, scratched his crotch and chewed the meat off a chicken bone. “What you doing private?” he asked mid-munch.
“Private Klantic Pak here for prisoner transfer Sarge,” Eckinson replied.
“Where’s your uniform Pak?” the slob of a sergeant asked.
“Day Off,” Vrall answered smugly.
The sergeant, having finished the meat, began to chew the bone. “Why you transferring prisoners on your day off?”
Vegora Vrall was stuck. He didn’t have an answer to that. He was a warrior after all, not much of a thinker.
“Sod This,” he muttered to himself quietly, but as his vocal chords had no concept of quiet, his voice was actually heard by the whole street. He thrust a hand out and grabbed Eckinson by the throat. He hoisted the choking guard over his head, spun him around in the air a number of times before releasing him crashing through the far wall.
The Waabba sergeant leaped into duty, grabbing a licensed laser discharger from his draw and aiming it at the Umfian, ready to fire.
A ladies leather boot connected with the side of his face, a second in the stomach. The sergeant dropped his weapon and fell to the floor winded, coughing up a hair ball full of chicken skin and bones. Princess An’ishia flew at him again, crunching her boot back into his face, dropping him to the floor unconscious.
“It would seem we make a good team,” An’ishia said smiling to Vrall. She looked to Charlie. “You too pink skin. Thanks for the help.”
Charlie stood in the doorway shaking nervously. He nodded slowly, not really knowing what he was nodding for.
Vegora, An’ishia and Charlie found Greebol sitting in the dark cell, his tongue just about to lick the colourful fungus growing on the wall. He retracted it quickly.
“Charlie!” he beamed, open armed. “You have come to rescue me…” He stopped as he noticed his companions. “…or murder me,” he continued.
“Not yet,” said An’ishia stepping towards the bars.
“Princess! You look as stunning as ever,” said Greebol with a cheeky wink.
“And you look like crap,” came the sharp reply.
Greebol smiled. “I also see you are still as pleasant as ever,” he said.
“And I see you are still as ugly as ever.”
“Enough!” shouted Vrall. “Let’s Get This Over With So I Can Kill This Piece Of Scum!”
“Now, now,” said the piece of scum, “no need to be hasty. Charlie… what is this all about?”
Charlie stared at the Gumthar blankly. “It’s a prison break. Apparently,” he responded solemnly.
“Then what are you waiting for? Get me out of here!”
Vegora Vrall stepped forwards and grabbed the bars with his large, rock-like hands. Slowly he began to pull, stretching the bars until they started to creak and bow. The bars bent more and more, stretching out further and further. Then suddenly, and with an almighty crash, the ceiling came down on top of them all.
When the dust settled, and the coughing fits had subsided, Greebol stepped from the collapsed cell, free once again. He stretched and patted the Umfian on the back who growled.
“Good work that chap,” he chuckled.
“The only reason I’m not letting him kill you where you stand,” said Princess An’ishia, wiping dry cement dust from her slender shoulders, “is because you still have a job to do. I paid you good money to kidnap me. What went wrong?”
“It is hard to explain,” Greebol replied.
“Do it anyway.”
“This really is not the time or the place. Maybe we should talk this through later. Can we just leave now please?” asked Charlie. Being a wanted man under suspicion of being a terrorist made standing inside a prison a very silly thing to do indeed.
From the dark of the next cell a jittery voice spoke softly. “What about me?” it said. The owner of that voice moved towards the bars, letting the light shine down on his hairy face.
“They came to rescue me Wextoal,” Greebol said to his criminal Waabba friend, “not you. You will have to find another way out.”
“But there is no time for me,” Wextoal winged. “I’m sentenced to death in the morning! Besides Greeb my old buddy… you owe me one.”
Greebol squirmed. The last thing he wanted was to have Wextoal tagging along. He was unpredictable. He was a risk. But Greebol did owe him one.
“Don’t do it,” Charlie panicked, “don’t you do it Greebol!”
Greebol winced. “I do owe him…”
“Owe him what?” Charlie screamed. “You already helped him hold up a bank that landed you in here in the first place! Don’t you think your debt is repaid?”
Wextoal leaned forwards, an evil gleam in his mad eyes. He grinned showing two rows of pointed teeth. “Oh it will take more than a bank robbery and imprisonment to pay off his debt!”
Greebol shuffled on his feet for a moment before shrugging his grey shoulders at Charlie, an apologetic look on his face, and turning to Vrall.
“Let him out big guy,” he said with a wink.
The large Umfian scowled. He would not take orders from this filth! He would tear his spine from his back!
“Vegora,” said An’ishia slowly, “we have a deal remember.”
Vegora Vrall huffed, turned to the other cell and ripped the bars off, freeing the skinny Waabba.
“Can we go now,” Charlie grumbled. The others were in general agreement. It was time to leave. Huddling together, they exited the jail and headed off into the night.
Chapter 41
One of the main problems of being a superintendent in the Baggus Sentry was that you were never off duty. Even when you are sitting in your home, watching the goggle-box and drinking a b
eer that is actually only 10% beer and 90% pure alcohol, you always had to be ready, uniform by your side.
Rexan Stort was always ready. He had been doing this job for so long that he was even ready in his sleep. He found it irritating knowing that wherever he would go, be it to a bar, restaurant, bar, trip to the races, bar or even a brewery, he was always watching. Always on guard. Always on duty. He hated it.
He took another swig of his brain obliterating beer and searched for the remote control for the goggle-box down the side of his sofa. He was bored of watching ‘Galactic Station No. 3’, the only soap opera that actually killed off the actors at the same time as the characters. Stort didn’t want to turn on the box and watch programmes about crime, death and relationship breakdowns. That was too much like real life.
His Baggus Sentry badge, a bronze triangle with the image of the fat planet etched inside, buzzed and a little light on the top began to blink. Stort grabbed it and pulled up a long thin antennae from the top. He pressed a button on the side and spoke.
“Stort.”
“Superintendent Stort sir… this is Private Eckinson from the jail sir… the terrorists sir… they’ve…”
“I’m on my way,” Stort said quickly, already jumping from his seat and reaching for his jacket.
Running from the law was an exhilarating experience. Large spot lights had been erected and were moving around the city, searching every shadowed alleyway and corner. A loud siren was booming a constant drone, which hung in the air like a wailing cat.
It was a manhunt. Nothing more, nothing less. Every Sentry Guard in the city was on the prowl, searching for the terrorists. The gang of Sentry officers had teamed up with a gang of civilians, scouring the streets. There was a reward for whoever caught the terrorists and brought them back to the jail. 100 knobs alive. 101 knobs dead.
Charlie Pinwright slumped against a wall and gasped. They must have ran through at least ten streets. He was not up to all this running. His heart felt like it was going to jump out of his throat and throttle him.
“No time to rest,” said Greebol appearing next to him. “We must keep moving.”
“Moving where?” Charlie panted. “The whole city is after us!”
“I thought about getting to our electrical but they are sure to be guarding the docking bay.” Greebol scratched his forehead. “There is always Mother Muggo…”
“No!” Charlie snapped. “You will not get that poor lady involved in this.”
“What are the two of you doing?” Princess An’ishia called from the other side of the street. “Do you want to get thrown back into jail?”
The two men shook their heads like two schoolboys told off by their teacher.
“Then get your fat butts over here and let’s keep moving!”
“Yes ma’am,” they said as one.
“She is impressive is she not?” said Greebol staring after her as she began to run once again.
“Amazing,” Charlie answered dreamily.
They began to follow when they were suddenly hit by the brightest of lights. So bright was it that Charlie thought he had died. A large hover vehicle bobbed in the air in front of them. Three Sentry Guards and two civilians jumped down from it.
“Hands in the air!” shouted one of the Sentry Guards.
“Or we’ll blow your flicking heads off,” screamed one of the civilians.
“Now, now,” gasped the Sentry. “Let’s not be hasty.”
“We will never surrender!” Greebol retaliated.
Charlie disagreed whole heartedly. He would much rather surrender and be sent to jail than have his flicking head blown off.
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be terrorists,” the Sentry continued.
“Who is he calling a terrorist?” Greebol questioned to Charlie.
“That’s what they think we are,” Charlie responded. “Can you believe it? I mean thinking you are I can understand… but me?”
“You will not frighten us with your acts of terrorism any longer!” screamed the civilian as he waved a gun dangerously.
“We’re not terrorists!” Charlie blurted. His blurt went unheard as the hover vehicle exploded, flinging the Sentry and the civilians to the ground. Wextoal rushed away from the explosion chuckling to himself.
“What the hell was that?” Charlie gasped.
“Another bomb I am guessing,” Greebol responded.
“Where does Wextoal keep getting these bombs from?” he asked, truly perplexed.
“I do not know. Perhaps he makes them.”
“Out of what?”
Greebol shrugged. “Mud?”
The explosion had done the group more harm than good as it had been seen for miles. Within seconds Superintendent Stort and his men had arrived down the street.
Charlie and Greebol joined the others. They were surrounded. Still, they were not going down without a fight. Vegora Vrall was ready for battle.
Stort stepped forwards smiling.
“Where do you think you are going to run to?” he asked. “The city is under full alert.”
“Stort,” Greebol scoffed. “This is just one big misunderstanding. Can we not come to some sort of compromise?”
“Sorry Greebol,” came the Jaal’s reply, “the people of Baggus do not negotiate with terrorists.”
“Come now,” said Greebol, “you know I am no terrorist.”
“True. But the rest of the city don’t know that. Get ‘em lads!”
The Sentry rushed forward a little apprehensively after seeing the size of Vrall. But they outnumbered the criminals at least four to one. This was going to be easy!
Vegora Vrall clenched his fists. An’ishia gripped a large metal rod. Wextoal drew a sharp dagger from his boot. Charlie’s knees knocked. He was not one for battles. Especially when they had no way of winning.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a small blur dove from the roof of one of the buildings, landing in the middle of the oncoming Sentry, knocking some backwards and confusing most. When they had got back to their feet they looked around but could see nothing. Some shrugged. Others scratched their heads. Then one wailed and fell over, crippled with pain. Another shrieked and hopped about on one foot rubbing the other. A third cried out, reached down and picked up his leg, which had been detached from his hip.
Panic spread like the plague through the Sentry who turned on their heels, or lack of as more and more were soon discovering, and ran back towards Stort, cowering behind him.
Giblet the Dwarf grinned as he swung his axe, slashing and hacking. As he was only waist height to most of the Sentry, they could not at first see the little man and his brutal attack.
“Go!” he shouted to Charlie and the others, “get out of here while you still can!”
Charlie wondered why this small fellow was helping them, but not for long. Giblet had done enough to make a gap in the Sentry’s line. They ran through the gap as fast as they could, outwards, further into the city and, hopefully, to their freedom.
Chapter 42
The odd little group turned the corner onto Spinach Street and cut through one of the lesser alleyways that was too insignificant to be given a name. Not insignificant to the homeless old lady who lived down there however. Although at this moment she wished it was so insignificant that no one even knew it existed, as the fleeing convicts had not seen her sleeping under her rags and had stomped on her fingers, her knees and her head.
Before long they found themselves back in the market place, which was currently still void of people. They could see the docking bay in the distance. An’ishia strained her eyes.
“There are no guards at the docking bay,” she remarked.
It should be pointed out about now that May’orns have incredible eyesight, but it is selective. If they chose to, they could pick out a fly buzzing through the sky a mile away. It can be a great asset in May’orn society but it can occasionally cause problems. Al’loyor Mil’xer once tried to see the surface of the sun and ending up melting
her eyeballs. Il’corath Tax’zerlath used his impressive eyesight to search for his wife, eventually finding her on the opposite side of the city in bed with his brother.
Of course May’orns are not the only species with great eyesight. A native rat in Baggus’Regious has developed super eyesight to enable them to see through the immense amount of dirt in the sewage pipes. In a random dimension where the stars are black and space is white, the Intaloola, a species whose arms are five miles long, need brilliant eyesight to be able to see what they are holding in their hands. On Earth there is a creature called a mole that, under common belief has terrible eyesight, but in reality has the best eyesight on the planet. They just really enjoy fooling everybody.
“They must have all been ordered to help capture us!” Wextoal laughed.
“Why are you still with us?” Charlie grumbled. Luckily it went unheard or Charlie would probably have found a knife in his stomach.
“It seems,” said Greebol proudly, with a finger pointing into the air, “that we are in luck!”
“Luck is given and taken away by our Lord Beff!”
The priests of the True Believers strode into the market place led by the badly burnt Reverend Kimfin. It was he that had spoken and was about to again, his mood terrible. He had the rage of a god brewing inside him.
“You try to destroy us?” he growled. “Many have tried before. None have succeeded. Beff will not allow you to succeed. You will face His almighty judgement on the other side. The True Believers will not be destroyed by unbelievers or sects from false religions!”
Greebol chuckled. “There has been a large mistake here Reverend,” he began. “Have you not heard? We are not against your religion… we are terrorists.”
Charlie kicked him in the shin. Greebol didn’t seem to notice.
“The reason for your attack is unimportant,” the Reverend spat. “you will still face your punishment.”
Intergalactic Terrorist (New Dimension Book 1) Page 23
