by Shae Hutto
They had spent the better part of an hour observing people get in and out of loud, smelly metallic carriages. These carriages had no obvious means of locomotion. There were no horses or oxen or mules. The twins, who had some familiarity with several magical disciplines, could detect no magic moving the vehicles. Yet, they could not deny that the vehicles did move. In fact, they moved very fast. Their quest had almost come to an ignominious end when they tried to cross a street and woefully underestimated the speed of oncoming traffic. The blasting of deafening horns and screeching tires and brakes sent them hurriedly scurrying back to the safety of the curb amid a clamor of rude shouts and gestures from the drivers involved. The twins were unfamiliar with the hand gestures but needed little imagination to know they weren’t compliments.
It was understood the male would attempt to drive one of these vehicles, but so far they didn’t know how to make one go. They had found one that the door opened without the screaming and blaring that accompanied earlier attempts to enter one. Once in, they were completely unable to make it show any signs of life. A few carefully chosen words of power elicited a sharp barking cough from the engine, but then nothing. The plan was now to find one that was already activated and rumbling quietly. Their search for an already idling car was thus far fruitless. But as they followed the dragon, they came across several cars with idling engines and no occupants. They all had brightly colored strobing lights on top or in the windows. Most were black and white, but some were boxy and more colorful. The male was attracted to a boxy one because it had more lights than the rest and none of the lights were blue. He had an aversion to blue. The female favored a much larger, more powerful looking one all in red that several warriors in armor and helmets had emerged from. They thought of it as the war wagon and they were agreed that it would do just fine.
Everyone was distracted by the devastation left in the wake of the vengeful Connix and the fleeing bus. The black-clad duo had no problem climbing into the fire engine without being noticed, but were once again stymied by the utterly foreign interior controls. After several minutes of fiddling with buttons and levers, they knew how to make air blow out of the vents on the dash, but despite the eager growl of the running engine, they had no luck making it move so much as an inch. The female’s eyes settled on a man who was standing on the sidewalk, gawking at the commotion of the responders who were trying to extricate passengers from a sedan crushed like a soda can by Connix. The male twin followed her gaze and nodded once. She climbed out of the war wagon and made her way up to the rubber-necking bystander.
Darren Moffett became aware of a presence behind him. He didn’t hear anything and whoever it was didn’t touch him. He was aware the way he would have been aware of a mountain lion just behind him, estimating his caloric value. There was a slight musky odor and the intense need to turn around before claws raked his exposed neck. With a slight shiver, he turned part way around, his deep reptilian brain stem readying his body to flee, and he saw an oddly dressed woman with an intense expression. Although she seemed to give off an aura of menace, he felt like he wanted her approval. It was like she was one of the cool kids and he wanted her to think he was cool, too. “Crazy, huh?” he asked her, gesturing vaguely at the path of the great wyrm and immediately winced internally at his pathetic attempt at conversation.
She smirked at him, understanding the affect she was having on him. She pointed at the fire truck. “You can make that go?”
“Yeah,” he agreed, looking at the fire truck. “I’m sure I could. How hard could it be? It’s probably an automatic transmission. I’m sure it turns wide, but I don’t see why I wouldn’t be able to drive it. Funny. Nobody looking, I could totally steal that puppy.” He laughed at the thought. But she wasn’t laughing. Her slightly too large lips were not smiling, but parted slightly, giving him a mesmerizing glimpse of a bright red tongue and teeth that looked a bit too sharp for comfort.
“Come with me,” she said and turned toward the truck with every indication that she expected him to follow her. He looked at her retreating form and for a second he wasn’t going to follow her. He had the feeling that much of his future depended on his decision. In that second he weighed his life as purveyor of cell phones and cell phone accessories with no criminal record and it didn’t weigh as much as it should have. Her hand was tipping the scales and he felt his good sense slip. This was his chance to resist and it passed untaken. He followed her toward the fire engine, his eyes searching her for any sign of approval, hoping she would turn to see him in her wake and smile. But she didn’t. She walked to the truck and climbed into the passenger door. He walked around and climbed into the driver’s door, a stupid grin on his face and a lame joke ready as he sank in behind the wheel. Both smile and joke withered like tomatoes in a drought as he saw the vaguely repugnant male sitting in the middle and radiating murder.
“Make it go,” said the man, his expressionless features making Darren recoil with both distaste and dread. Involuntarily, Darren’s left hand found the door latch and he shifted his weight preparatory to exiting the vehicle when the man’s cold, slick, slightly moist hand grabbed his right wrist with unnatural strength. Darren thought it felt like a snake coiled around his forearm. In the man’s other hand, a wicked looking dagger appeared, it’s black blade glinting cruelly. Darren made a slight noise in the back of his throat that might have been a whimper of fear or an expression of disgust. Or both of them fighting to manifest simultaneously. “Make it go,” repeated the man, his seldom used voice hoarse in his throat and harsh in Darren’s ears.
Darren nodded and when the man withdrew his hand from his wrist, he reached up and shifted the lever into drive, with a shiver of relief from the breaking of skin contact with the creepy man next to him. The woman didn’t even bother to watch the scene in the left seat. As he gave it some gas and started to pull into the debris strewn road, Darren reached over and drew his seat belt down and buckled it. He saw two firefighters starting to run towards them in his mirror and he pushed the accelerator down more, urging the big truck into the street more quickly.
“Go that way. Faster,” said the man, pointing North up Williams Avenue.
“It’s blocked off,” said Darren, indicating the barricades and police cars keeping traffic from entering Williams Avenue by the library.
“Go that way. Faster,” repeated the man, his harsh voice grating on Darren’s ears.
With an actual shrug, Darren angled the big rig towards the barricades and now the pursuing firefighters were joined by police officers. More appeared in front of the truck, some with their weapons drawn. Darren closed his eyes, ducked down to avoid being shot or struck by debris and floored it. The man looked at him curiously and then nearly fell over as the truck turned left violently and leapt forward, it’s massive engine howling and bellowing black diesel smoke like an eerie homage to its school bus cousin’s earlier performance. The engine noise almost blotted out the din of smashing glass and bending metal. But not quite. “Angel of the Morning” was playing on the cd player inside the cab. Darren turned it up as he sat up in his seat again. He hummed along as he put the hammer down. The male nodded in approval.
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The elevator had worked just fine, belying Claire’s apprehensions. The library seemed relatively unscathed. Only the smashed front doors and scorched lobby gave any indication that a dragon had taken an unhealthy interest in the building. Official focus was more on multiple burning wrecks on the streets near the library. Some were caused by Connix, but others just by panicked or distracted drivers. Claire was unwilling to leave the service door open in the elevator. She had learned that lesson well. She was also unwilling to remain in her home world for any length of time, fearing that Connix would follow her and return to attack again. A compromise that made nobody happy was reluctantly agreed upon. She would remain in the hallway and ride the elevator down every half hour and call Amanda on her cell. With a little luck, this would fail to lur
e the dragon and allow the two separated parties to stay in contact so Claire could let them back into the hallway. With no luck, it would do neither and they would all die or be stranded, or both.
“I guess we could just steal another school bus, like Claire did,” mused Amanda as they exited the library and scanned the chaotic scene for possible means of transport. “That was one helluva ride, let me tell you.”
“I bet. I’d rather we nicked something a bit less conspicuous, dearie,” replied Roger deadpan. “Or we could call a taxi.”
“Oh, we could get an Uber,” said Amanda, excitedly. “My mom would never let me do that. Hang on a sec and I’ll see if I can download the app.” She pulled out her phone and started navigating the interwebs.
“Haven’t a baldy what a bloody Uber is, love,” said Roger. “But I say we just take that,” he suggested, pointing at a Nissan 350z sitting in the turn lane. It was empty and the driver’s door was open and its emergency flashers were on.
“I like your style, Ewan,” she said appreciatively.
“Who is Ewan?” Roger asked, perplexed yet again.
“Ewan McGregor?” She said. “Played Obi Wan? Trainspotting? Hello?”
“You’ve lost me, Amanda,” Roger stated. “But I’m pretty sure whoever he is, he can bloody wait, yeah?” He tugged her sleeve and started pulling her toward the car in the road.
“Wait a second,” she said, resisting his insistent pulling. “We can’t just jump in it and drive away. Someone would see. Besides, the road is blocked off. We need a distraction. Maybe Ewan McGregor is Scottish, now that I think about it.” At that moment, there was a loud engine roar followed by yelling and the cacophony of crashing and crunching as a bright red fire engine blasted through the barricades just down the street.
“Something like that, you mean? And if we see this Ewan, we’ll ask him where in hell he’s from, eh?” asked Roger, again pulling her toward the waiting sports car as he unbuckled his sword belt. It would only get in the way while he was driving.
“Yeah, Jonathan Swift,” she said. “Exactly like that.”
“Wrong century, but at least he’s Irish, for sure.” Roger made his way to the right-side door, looking around for anyone taking notice. Nobody was. Amanda also went to the right-side door.
“There’s no way you’re driving, girl,” said Roger as he caught her wrist before she could open the door. “Ima go Apache this wagan. It’s gonna be fierce!”
“Uh, right. I wouldn’t dream of getting between you and your uhm, wagon?” Amanda replied in a snotty voice. “But the wheel is on the other side, Einstein.”
“Wha… oh.” Roger suddenly looked a bit intimidated. “I’m acting the maggot. Of course, you yanks drive on the wrong side of the road, now don’t ya?” He walked around to the left side of the vehicle and looked doubtfully at the steering wheel and obvious stick shift. “Right,” he said. Amanda opened her door and climbed in.
“Well, we don’t have all day, Sinead. Get in and show us all about this ‘going Apache’ business,” she said smugly.
“Sinead O’Connor is a beour, you eejit,” Roger said through gritted teeth, then slid behind the wheel, marveling at the low-slung ride. The keys were still in the ignition and the car was emitting an annoying high-pitched beeping until Roger closed his door. The windows went up a quarter inch when he closed the door, sealing off the sound from the outside. Roger tossed his sword and belt into the back, then pushed in the clutch and started the vehicle, which awakened with a low, throaty growl. He looked at the diagram on the top of the shifter.
“Six speeds, Jaysus,” he said under his breath and put it in first gear.
“Let’s start off slow,” said Amanda. “We don’t want to attract attention-,” She was abruptly cut off as Roger slammed the accelerator to the floor and popped the clutch. Thanks to modern traction control, there was no spinning of wheels or dramatic clouds of smoke from burning rubber, like Roger expected. Instead, the car launched like a rocket and Amanda and Roger screamed in unison as it tore down the road through the recently created gap in the barricades, adding it’s racing-tuned scream to the mix of riotous sound. Roger finally clued in and upshifted, reducing the banshee scream of the engine to a mere angry roar again, but had to shift again in only a couple of seconds. More quickly than Roger could have believed, they left the library far behind and were doing close to three times the legal speed limit.
“Slow down, you nutjob!” screamed Amanda in panic at the maniacal speed at which they were hurtling out of town.
“It does seem a wee bit fast, doesn’t it?” said Roger. “I didna think a hundred fifty kilometers an hour would seem this fast.”
“That’s because we’re doing a hundred and fifty MILES per hour, you idiot!” she screamed back at him. “Slow down before we die!”
“Oh,” he said simply and let off the accelerator, the color visibly draining from his face as he did some quick math in his head and didn’t like the number he came up with. “Well, that’s not safe, is it?”
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The man looked up at the sky with a start. Then, he and the woman looked at each other grimly.
“What?” asked Darren. “What’s the matter?”
“Turn around,” said the man, simply.
“Turn around? What for?”
“The dragon is coming back,” said the woman ominously. The man nodded curtly.
“Dragon?” asked Darren in disbelief. “You mean whatever terrorist weapon tore the crap out of the school and the library?”
“The dragon has turned around. We follow the dragon. We must turn around. Do it now,” said the man. The last three words were the only ones uttered with any emotion and they carried definite emphasis.
“We can’t just turn around, this is a divided highway with a median, hey, what are you doing?” this last was because the man had reached over and unbuckled Darren’s seatbelt. Darren let off the accelerator and moved to the shoulder in preparation to execute a U-turn and go the wrong way into traffic. “Ok, ok, I get it. We’re turning around.” The man paid no heed, but reached farther over and opened Darren’s door. “Hey,” he screamed. “Stop that!” as he grabbed his seatbelt and attempted to get it snapped again. The man shoved him out the door with incredible strength before he could get belted in again. Darren remembered reading somewhere that stuntmen rolled when they jumped out of moving vehicles. Of course, stuntmen don’t leap from vehicles moving at 50 mph onto unprepared highways. They also practice a lot. Darren broke a lot of bones despite his attempt to roll. Most of his shirt and pants were also torn to shreds, he was covered in road rash and lost his shoes.
Barely ten seconds after jettisoning Darren, the firetruck performed a loud, smoky, powersliding U-turn and roared back the way it had come, facing into very panicky traffic. The man had paid attention to Darren’s driving and had most of the controls figured out. With a complete disregard for traffic laws about which he knew nothing, the man sped back toward town, massive implacable tires planted on either side of a lane dividing line. The couple in the cab ignored the honks and screeches of cars and trucks as they plummeted into roadside ditches in order to avoid fiery introductions to oblivion. Behind them on the ground, an uncoiled hose rasped over the pavement like a snake with fangs buried in a rampaging hippo. Behind them in the sky, a red and yellow dot was rapidly growing larger as Connix sensed the return of his quarry to this world and he raced to intercept her. Ahead of them, another dot grew larger as someone who knew almost as little about US traffic laws as they did yelled in exultation at wanton speed and turned up a classic rock station on the little sports car’s radio.
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At first, Roger didn’t recognize what his eyes were seeing. The red blob rapidly growing in his windscreen didn’t register as an oncoming vehicle until he was staring at the headlights of a gargantuan firetruck. Even before his conscious brain interpreted the image as what it was, his hands a
nd feet had already begun to act. He downshifted, turned the wheel and stomped the brake to the floor in an attempt to break the back tires loose and swing his back end around. Unfortunately, traction control and anti-lock brakes prevented this from working. Instead, the car turned almost ninety degrees like it was on rails and sprang for the ditch with an apparent death wish. Roger overcorrected back to the left with the wheel and finally felt the back end slide out. In the wrong direction. They missed being steam rolled by the fire engine by maybe six inches as they spun in a complete out of control circle. Three times. As the car came to rest in the right-hand lane, facing the original direction of travel, Roger and Amanda looked at each other in shock. They were both twitching with adrenaline. Roger’s brain wouldn’t work enough for him to talk just yet.
“WOO HOOO!” shouted Amanda. “That was totally awesome! Let’s do it again!” She pounded the roof of the car in a fit of glee. “You tha man, Roger,” she added and socked him in the shoulder.
“I just realized this is a two-seater,” he responded quietly.
“So?” she asked, confused by the non-sequitur.
“So, where is Nick going to sit? Your lap?” They stared at each other again, speechless. Then they both burst into laughter. The laughing fit stopped when Connix roared by overhead, the wind from his huge wings buffeting the car. With an ear-splitting screech, he backed his wings to slow down, touched down on the highway, then neatly turned 180 degrees and launched himself back the way he had come.
“Either that bloody dragon is bladdered or he’s a nutter. What’s he after?”
