I’m not given the opportunity to make my decision. And as grateful as I am, it isn’t worth it, especially when you consider the cost at which it comes.
This time, the burst of light across my face is no hallucination. The heat that follows is real, palpable, even through the windscreen. And the worst part is, when I stand bolt upright, it doesn’t all just disappear.
Alfie—NO!
6 Alfie’s Ignition
You know what I’m well fucking thankful for?
I’m thankful that whoever tried to slaughter us all as we settled down for bed was at least nice enough to do it at the start of an absolutely blinding summer.
Best one we’ve had in years, I can’t help but think as I sprawl on the roof of Penny’s van, knotting my fingers together behind my head. It’s bloody gorgeous out. Even with the metric ton of smog choking the atmosphere like a nine-bob whore and clouding the stars from view, it feels ethereal. Anomalies have no rights, talking about climate change is an arrestable offense, the Roman Wall rebuild was finally finished back in March. But, hey, look at that sky.
It’s the kind of sky we’d all sit out under after a mission, tossing back tinnies of Boddington’s and shooting the shit. Copeland would haul out that old electric barbecue thing of his and then the techs, they’d hack into the main power lines. The old Strangeways prison hasn’t been in operation for at least two years, since they conceived the Vault down in Birmingham as a much more efficient way of locking up and torturing shoddily-arrested Anomalies. A bunch of us would climb the turrets of the old entrance and lay out on the tiled roof and get high. Share stories, tell secrets, dare each other to do stupid shit. We’d have a right laugh.
It doesn’t even feel real that all that’s probably over now. After seeing the state the Switchboard was in, while I’ve got to respect Penny and the muppet for their optimism, I think this might be all, folks.
Huh. So, after almost three solid years of tearing it up with the best of ‘em, this is who it all comes down to. I have to admit, this isn’t what I pictured when I imagined the tsunami of bullshit that would bring my world crashing down around me again, which happens more often than is worth renting a violinist for. I never imagined the last few heroes left standing would be myself, Penny, the muppet, and a mouthy, skirt-wearing, caber-tossing, wall-jumping thistle-dick.
Color me fucking surprised.
I’m about to roll over and do another visual sweep of the area when a noise snatches my attention. Maybe a stone skittering over the concrete. This place is rank with rats and mice and spiders the size of my palm (we kick ‘em over the fences here like footballs), but it could still be something more threatening.
About time things livened up out here, I can’t help thinking as I slide to the front edge of the camper van and do a quick check before leaping down, bending both knees deeply to absorb the impact. Otherwise this lot’s never going to want to hit the road and get out of here.
Part of me hopes it’s a copper. I could do with a little physical release right about now. I don’t want to sit around for another bloody hour, waiting for people who probably don’t even exist anymore.
There. I said it.
With my ‘wits about me’, as Penny would put it, I pick my way forward in the direction the noise came from. Please let it be something fun, please let it be something fun… It’s been a long time since we’ve had a good excuse to kill-on-sight when it comes to the Fuzz, and me? I’ve got a craving for bacon.
Nah, just kidding. Eating people, can you imagine? Even in today’s fucked up world, that’s so wrong.
My trainers lose the pavement and find the uneven tarmac of the alley. Shadows are flung across bins and bags and other rubbish receptacles by the streetlamp above, making it impossible to see anything clearly. Maybe with a hand from my lady friend Nova… I lift my hand and click my fingers sharply, birthing a flame in the friction. I catch it in my hand like a tennis ball, containing it within the curl of my fingers, and its light floods the dingy alleyway.
You should see me when I work. You have no idea. I’m like your favorite fucking superhero.
I squint into the beam of yellowy-orange light. It’s hard to ignore the way the tiny little inferno tickles my fingers and concentrate on discerning optical illusions from actual movement. My lungs cling to my breath. My teeth are set.
Probably just a rat. Well, if that doesn’t blow the biggest, fattest, veiniest—
To my left, a bag rustles. My head whips round. The glow from my hand glints off of something that wasn’t there before, and my brow furrows as I stare at it. What the…?
It’s a nozzle. A six-inch, black-painted, conical steel nozzle.
Wait!
As I dart backward, out of the alley, a stream of flame explodes in my face, driving me further into the street. The force of the blast knocks me across the curb and I land on my back in the middle of the road, fire rushing over me like a warm summer breeze or hot shower, or something just as refreshing and soothing as either one of those things I don’t get as often as I want.
I brace a hand across my face and sit up. Through the flurry, I can just about make out that same steel nozzle and, behind it, a fireproof anti-gas mask.
Huh. Never known the Bashing Squad to use canned heat before.
Fully sitting up now, I drop my hand. The masked arsehole is approaching me with caution. What’s left of Oliver’s trousers fall off of me as I stand up in the flames and, purely for comic effect, dust myself off. I hope it makes the tosser shit himself.
Penny asked me once after a mission if fire heals or recharges me at all. As I told her, I don't know if it 'heals' me in a sort of video game sense, but it definitely feels lush. I think I compared it to taking a fifteen-minute power nap in a couple of seconds, and her eyes got all wide like they do when she’s intrigued. She’s so curious when it comes to our Magick, it’s sexy.
Right now, I’m feeling baller. Almost like I spent the entire evening lazing around watching pirated movies in my boxers before taking a long, leisurely soak in a jacuzzi tub. I’m in my element in all this heat—literally. And, I think as the flamethrower finally cuts out, I'm going to make sure this piece of Sovereign-sucking shit knows he’s picked a fight with the wrong geezer.
“Really?” I yell, staring back into the tinted visor of his mask. “I’m made of fire, you fucking spanner!”
I want to punctuate my point. I’m sure Nova would appreciate the gesture in her honor. Before his weapon can recharge, I draw both hands out to my sides, shut my eyes, and hone in on that searing, frenzied spark somewhere deep inside of me, tapping into an anger they always told me to control.
Get a load of these beans, mate. This is how you throw a flame.
Releasing rage never feels as good as you think it will, but it still feels pretty damn good. The buzz I get as a jet of flames spurt from my palms and strike the tactical tosspot in the chest, throwing him sideways. His body spins and my inferno streams across his back, engulfing the nitrogen and gasoline tanks strapped to him.
I’ve never really felt much mercy when it comes to the authorities, and Branch 9 are the worst of them all.
He’s squirming and fighting to get out of the flamethrower. Good. Then he can know what the guys back at the Switchboard probably felt like, as they were burned out of their home. With a loud crack and hiss, the cap pops off the nitrogen tank and it shoots back down the alleyway.
At the same time, pain punches a crater in my shoulder and my knees buckle, dumping me onto the ground. The flare of agony that follows is mind-blowing. My hand grabs at the wound site, igniting more pain, and comes away sticky.
Shitwankbiscuits, I’ve been shot—
“They! Are! My! People!” The voice is coming from above me, every single word punctuated. I instinctually roll to the side, and it’s a damn good job I do because a second bullet pelts the tarmac right where I was lying seconds ago. I can't even see who’s shouting at me at this point; I’m too busy scramblin
g across the road to find cover, my hand pressed into my shoulder to stop the claret coming out of me.
I slam into the van, half-falling against the bonnet before pummeling it with my fist. “LET'S GO, ALREADY!” At least two enemies with a gun and a flamethrower, likely with more of both ready to show themselves. And while I may be practically made of fire, Penny’s van is made of things that don’t go well with it. We need to make like a tree, and fast.
Another icy stab of pain—this time through my forearm. I cry out like a wussy. Despite how rare guns are, outside of the authorities, I’ve been shot twelve times before, and it never gets any easier to deal with. Actually, I think it gets worse.
There’s a third gunshot. I hear this one, and the bullet whizzes past my cheek close enough to ruffle the stubble. My bare knees scrape against the curb. I have to get to the door of the van. The engine’s already roaring awake, and they wouldn't seriously fucking leave without me, would they?
It’s starting to look like they would.
Maybe I’m just delusional from the shock and the blood loss. But the camper van appears to be moving. It isn’t until I’m watching it roll further and further away from me that I realize apparently yes, my new family would leave without me.
I’m too busy staring after them to even react when a pair of rough hands grab me from behind and haul my buck-naked body to its feet.
7 Penny’s Narrow Escape
It isn’t often that, if something’s going to go horribly and heinously wrong while I’m having sex, it happens after I come.
“Fuck—!” is all I’m able to choke before his hand, the one not currently pumping two thick, calloused fingers in and out of me at a speed nobody should be able to, clamps down over my mouth.
“Shh,” he whispers against the side of my head, kissing my cheekbone. He can feel my walls squeezing around him, tighter and tighter, the rhythmic pulsing that heralds my orgasm longing to tug and suck him as deeply and wetly into me as they can.
The hand he’s fucking me with, thrusting between the thighs he has spread and pinned by the points of his elbows, begins to vibrate with more intensity. The thumb he cruelly positioned right atop my clit when we first began this game buzzes faster and more ferociously against the sensitive little nub. Too much…! A scream wrenches itself from my throat, buried and lost in the palm of his hand, and my orgasm finally claims me.
Both of my arms are twined around Duncan, clutching him close to my chest. I shudder against his hand as it guides me expertly through the aftermath of a relatively silent but sensational orgasm, his hand more than familiar with my needs at this point. One by one, my muscles fall slack, and my entire body starts to tingle as if in danger of dissolving into his.
Oh, yes. This must be what bliss feels like.
I said before that I wouldn’t fall asleep. But lying in Duncan’s big, strong arms as he breathes gently against the side of my head, that’s not an easy promise to keep.
Then, for the second time in the same bloody night, all hell breaks loose again.
The first alarm to kick in is the one I like to call a Code: Oliver, which occurs fairly frequently and consists of my friend hollering my name at the very apex of his lungs. All of my muscles tense in the reverse order they relaxed; in the same instant, I sense Duncan’s frame stiffen against mine.
There’s no mistaking the tone of Oliver’s voice. He's horror-stricken.
Our eyes seem to fly open in sync. I’m already clambering off Duncan as he gently deposits me on the couch and uses his currently far more coordinated hands to fasten my jeans and pull my shirt back down.
“On our way!” I call down the galley. Duncan grips my hand and helps me up, and the two of us are tearing toward the front of the van within seconds, Duncan’s much heavier footsteps causing the vehicle to shake rhythmically with each pound of his gait.
To my surprise, the engine turns over and rumbles to life right as we burst through the second set of curtains and into the front. Oliver’s lanky body, still bundled in its blanket, is stretched from the passenger’s seat across to the ignition, his hand on the key. Always the perfect little copilot.
“We’ve got to go!” he’s sputtering, and upon raising my eyes to look beyond the windscreen, I understand why in a heartbeat.
“All right,” I breathe as I slide into the driver’s seat, adrenaline starting to replace the earlier warmth from my orgasm. “Duncan, grab Alfie. Oliver, belt up and shut off the beacon. I hope you’ve all said your goodbyes to Manches, ‘cause we’re officially leaving the building.”
Dramatic, yes. An overreaction, perhaps not. If we are unable to anchor ourselves to a single spot in Greater Manchester without Branch 9 tracking us down and launching an offensive, then fleeing the city—at least temporarily—may be our safest option.
Duncan disappears out the door from behind us, and my fingers wrap around the wheel. Looks like we’re hitting the road again, old girl. My boots locate the pedals. I release the clutch, and we feel that familiar lurching weightless sensation as the vehicle eases itself forward.
“Beacon’s down,” says a small voice at my left. Poor bloke still sounds terrified.
“Solid,” I reply, hoping to lend some of my confidence to my friend. “Map me.”
“Where are we heading?”
“South, but avoiding London. That’s all I’ve got for you right now.”
“Fair enough, we can revisit that later.”
Getting onto the A665 south is a bit of a kerfuffle, but I know this area so well from running drills for this exact type of scenario that it’s part muscle memory at this point. I particularly enjoy it because it throws off the Old Bill, who always presume you’ll take it north. Oliver’s guiding me over the recently expanded motorways as the side door opens and closes in quick succession, heralding the arrival of the other half of our party.
And Alfie, as usual, isn’t quiet about it.
“—’bandoning me to the fucking Bashing Squad! But no, this batty thistle-dick just wants to get his hands all over me!”
“Shut your hole, eejit.” I glance up into my rearview just in time to catch Duncan as he dumps Alfie’s naked body on the sofa with much less care than he did mine earlier. “How many times they get you?”
“Two. Fuck! They don’t teach you how to count up North?”
The strain in Alfie's voice is disconcerting. “What’s going on, Dee?” I call over my shoulder.
“Shot twice, lassie. I’m seeing to it.”
“He’s gonna try and finish me off, you know it, Pen’—”
“Shut your hole, eejit. Put your hand here. Tight.”
I cast a quick glance over at my copilot. “Still with me, mate?” I ask, and he meets my eyes and nods. “We’re going to get clear of the city, and get on the M56 west. We’ll find a quiet spot to pull off and do the change on the van. Just keep an ear to your scanners and let me know if any coppers are in the area.”
“Will do.”
“You doing all right?”
“Still pending assessment.”
I can’t help a half-smile. Oliver’s adorably hilarious without even meaning to be sometimes. While I feel awful for Alfie, I'm grateful he was alone outside when shit hit the fan. Not that I don’t care about Alfie, far from it—I’ve just run so many missions with him that I know he can handle a couple of bullets. He’s more than tough enough.
It only takes about forty minutes to get away from the Greater Manchester area, which is decent time considering it’s illegal to be out on the roads at this time of night. It’s concerning that we don’t hear my van’s number plate or description being aired through any of the local or national police radio waves, but we aren’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth when it comes to getting away from Branch 9 scot-free. I wait until we’re a fair distance past the city outskirts before pulling off on an unlit side road and throwing the clutch on.
“All right, let’s do this. Makeover o’clock.”
I u
nbuckle and haul myself out of my chair, with Oliver at my heels. Alfie is sprawled with his trainers up on the sofa, holding the flame of an ordinary Bic lighter to a nasty, gaping wound between his upper arm and his clavicle. A second injury on the same forearm is already bandaged neatly, my first aid kit sitting open on the coffee table.
“How’s the patient?”
“Your mate’s a shite nurse.” Alfie is the first to answer, because Alfie always makes sure he’s the first to answer.
“Is that actually helping?” asks Oliver, curiosity saturating his voice as he points at the flickering lighter.
“I dunno.” Alfie shrugs his good shoulder. “Just feels nice. Probably cleaning it up real good though.”
“One bullet went straight through,” Duncan tells us. He nods to the second, which is perched proud and bloodied on one of my coasters. We don’t see bullets that often, most of the time our weaponry is blunt, bladed, or improvised. I won’t be surprised if Alfie keeps it.
“Nah, it’s a scratch,” insists the patient as he finally shuts off the lighter, which is probably blistering hot in his hand. “Right? Isn’t that what Shakespeare’s buddy said? That MacBeth geezer? It’s just a scratch, innit, just like, a scratch.”
I just smile. “Yeah, Alfie. I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what MacBeth said at one point in the play.”
Alfie snorts; he’s starting to come off as more and more delirious, and I’m worried about how much blood he lost. I hope we can attribute most of it to the shock. “He was a Scotsman though, right? So he were probably a right pain wuss.”
“We’re going to re-camo the van,” I whisper, turning back to Duncan. As amusing and troubling as a woozy Alfie can be, we’re on a serious time crunch. “Can you keep an eye on him a tad longer?”
“Probably be simpler at this point to knock him out, lass,” is Duncan’s response, and it lacks a fraction of the humor that would’ve made me more comfortable with it given our current pressing predicament. I affix him with my best hard stare and he sighs. “All right, all right. Holler if you need the muscle.”
Blaze of Chaos Page 5
