by S. T. Boston
Hand stretched in front of him, the inspector holding onto his belt and with the gun in his other hand, Sam crept his way back toward the wall, praying his feet would not find an abandoned wrench or paint tin. Any noise would surely give them away; this was a dangerous game of hide and go seek. Sam felt sure they hadn't gone that far into the hangar, eventually after shuffling for what seemed like miles in the pitch-black his outstretched hand found the cool metal wall. The darkness was both his best friend and his enemy. Every painstaking second that passed he expected to feel Asag's hand grasp him like a prize, somewhere off to his right he caught the brief sound of heels on concrete. Asag was here, and he wasn't far away. Heart hammering in his chest, his shoulder on fire with pain, and Ackhart's laboured breathing sounding like a steam train in his ear he felt his way along the wall, praying that the handle would meet his hand before Asag found them.
“I can hear you, Becker. I can hear both of you,” came Asag's torturous voice.
Resisting the urge to shout a string of obscenities back, Sam inwardly sighed with relief as his hand found the door frame, then the handle.
“I'm going to open the door,” he whispered as quietly as he could to Ackhart. “Follow me out as quickly as you can.” There was no reply, Sam imagined the inspector nodding his head eagerly in the darkness. Wrapping his hand around the cool metal, he counted to three in his head and went for it.
* * *
Asag paused in the frustrating darkness, trying desperately to see, but even his eyes, which were used to the gloom of Sheol's subterranean chambers, could not see in the darkness that enveloped the hangar. He cursed the door for swinging shut on him, he cursed himself for not opening it again, but he hadn't wanted to frame himself like a portrait, giving Becker a clean shot. Focusing his ears he listened, there was the definite sound of shuffling coming from his right, he raised the gun, trying to aim with his ears, but it was an impossible task. Gritting his teeth in frustration he spun his massive body round on the spot, trying to think of his next move. As he turned a full three sixty a single sound echoed through the hangar, it was the door. In an instant Becker and the inspector became framed in light so bright that he inadvertently looked away, losing any chance he had of getting a shot. As the door swung shut he broke into a run, the light receded into a small bead around the frame as it closed, he heard Becker slam the handle up, Asag raised the gun and fired, BANG, BANG, BANG, the sound echoed around the building, rebounding horribly off the walls . The rounds tore through the thin aluminium wall of the hangar, streams of light, like three small torch beams instantly cut their way through the darkness. Asag felt his body slam into the hangar door, right where the shots had carved their way through the thin metal. He clawed at the handle but it wouldn't budge, the door was locked.
* * *
Sam slammed the hangar door shut, throwing his body against the corrugated metal as he thrust the handle up, praying it would lock, and it did. Thanking his lucky starts he pulled the inspector to the right, just as three rounds punctured the door, Sam heard them whizz past on a trajectory to nowhere in particular. That door would not hold Asag for long, Sam had to get them to the plane, deal with whoever was piloting the damn thing and then hope that Ackhart could get his shit together enough to fly them both the hell out of dodge. It was a long shot, but he'd survived longer shots in the past. He felt the inspector shake off his grasp, turning he saw him frozen to the spot, gawping at the figure of Namtar who was picking his rapidly healing body up off the floor and looking at them both, an unmistakable anger burning in his otherwise stone cold eyes.
“Impossible,” he heard Ackhart mouth as he reached out and grabbed his dishevelled looking shirt. As he did the hangar door behind them shook violently, Asag was slamming his body into the thin panel, over and over. Sam released his grip on the inspector and levelled the gun at the door, aiming it where he guessed Asag's head would be. Not pausing for a second he discharged four rounds, grouping them closely together. The banging immediately ceased; either he'd taken a head shot and was out of the game, or he was badly injured. Either way it had bought them enough time, now they just had Namtar to get through. He was still some way off, lolloping toward them, his legs still not fully functional.
“I told you they were hard bastards to kill!” yelled Sam, grabbing Ackhart and shoving him toward the plane. Namtar was making the best ground he could on his damaged legs, he looked like a zombie from some low-budget eighties B-movie. “Can you fly the plane?”
“I d – don't know,” stammered Ackhart, “It's been many years.”
“Yes or no is all I need,”
“Oui, yes, I believe I can.” Sam could see doubt etched on the inspectors face, the closer to the plane they got the more it was evident. He very much doubted the inspector's flying hours were in order but he had a hell of a lot better chance at not fucking it up than him.
“They have a pilot on the plane,” said Sam as he reached the small craft. “I don't know if he's a charter or one of their own.” Sam reached the steps, which were set just behind the left wing. He turned to check on Namtar's progress, his legs had lost their zombie-like movement, and he was now heading their way with much greater fluidity. Sam raised the gun, he was still a way off and it would be a lucky shot, he fired, and, as he expected, missed. Namtar stumbled right, guessing which way to move to avoid the shot. Not wanting to waste a second bullet Sam climbed into the fuselage. Sat in the pilot's seat was a lone male, his dark hair spiked up at the front with far too much product.
“I'm just being paid to fly,” he said desperately, turning in his chair.
“Get your fucking hands in the air!” cried Sam, training the gun on his head.
“Please, don't shoot,” the pilot begged as he began to raise his hands, as he did Sam saw to his horror that the bastard had a pistol, the guy had his finger on the trigger, ready to let one fly. Instinct took over and Sam fired, but not before the pilot got a round off, it missed Sam but punched deep into Ackhart's gut, knocking him back against the fuselage door and making him scream in pain. Sam grabbed at him, his fingers gaining purchase on his belt loop and preventing him from falling out of the plane and onto the tarmac.
Turning his attention to the pilot he saw the guy's body, slumped over the plane's instrument panel. He was dead, Sam's single bullet had been right on target, just a painstaking fraction of a second too late.
Sam reached past the inspector who was clawing frantically at the circular pool of blood that was gradually spreading out like an incoming tide on his shirt, he grasped the door and slammed it shut.
“How bad is it?” he asked, dropping to his knees and pulling the shirt away.
“Hurts like hell,” winced Ackhart. “I should have worn my vest.” He looked at Sam with sad, regretful eyes.
“Can you still get us in the air?” Sam hated asking the question. The wound was in his stomach, it would hurt like crazy, and without the right medical attention he was doomed.
“I think so,” he smiled, looking a little crazed.
Sam reached the dead pilot and pulled his limp but heavy body over the back of the seat and deposited him in an expensive looking cream leather chair. Namtar could see what they were doing, he was now running, his body fully healed, heading directly for the front of the King Air, his gun drawn.
Wincing with pain, Ackhart climbed into the seat, Sam took the co-pilot's seat, hating the feel of the cramped cockpit. It wasn't much bigger than the front of a good sized family car.
Not bothering with any of the pre-flight checks that would normally be carried out, Ackhart grabbed the throttle and punched it forward, causing the small eight seater craft to shoot away from its parked position. Namtar was closing ground on them, the gun raised in his sturdy hand. Sam knew what was coming, “Duck!” he screamed as Namtar discharged the weapon. Instinctively they both stooped low, using the instrument panel for cover. The sudden movement caused Ackhart to scream in pain and his foot hit the left rudder peddle
, sending the small plane lurching to the left as the shot pinged off the cockpit window, it cracked like a spiders web, but it held. The sudden turn of the King Air caused Namtar to dive to the floor as the wing, with its deadly, spinning propeller, narrowly missed his head.
Sitting himself back up Ackhart grabbed the yoke, and using the pedals steered the plane back on course. With no radio and no idea if he was about to join the single runway as another plane was landing, he careered onto the long ribbon of tarmac. Two more shots pinged off the rear of the fuselage, if they found just the right spot they could prove fatal, causing the craft to crash before it even got off the ground. With no time to check, Ackhart threw the throttle open fully. The twin engines sung with delight as they received a blast of aviation fuel. The small plane built up speed quickly, bouncing down the runway. As they hit eighty knots Ackhart pulled back on the yoke. The nose lifted and hung in the air for a split second, as if the plane were deciding whether it wanted to fly or not.
* * *
“Fly, fly, fly,” Ackhart begged, his head spinning with the loss of blood. He glanced at Sam, he had hold of the yoke on his side of the cockpit, helping him pull the craft into the air. There was no time to ask Becker if he'd ever flown before, he was weak and needed all the help he could get. Then it came, a feeling that Ackhart had not experienced in over twenty years, the King Air lifted gingerly into the air, reaching forward he hit the landing gear tab, folding the wheels up into the wings, just below the engines. He put them on the steepest ascent that he dared, whilst being careful not to stall the engine. Satisfied they had gained enough altitude he banked left, swinging them level with the apron that they had just escaped from.
* * *
Sam peered at the tarmac below and saw Namtar, now no bigger than a child's toy soldier, fruitlessly firing his weapon at them. He had two hopes of hitting them from that distance, but in his frantic frustration he was trying nonetheless. “Yesssss,” cried Sam, thumping his fist against the side of the cockpit, in his moment of euphoria he'd almost forgotten that Ackhart, without whom he would certainly have failed, was now sporting a terminal injury. Feeling guilty he looked at the inspector. His face was pallid and dripping in sweat, the only colour in his completion was the purple and slightly swollen eye that Sam had dealt him only an hour ago.
“Where are we going,” the inspector croaked in a voice racked with pain.
“Point us toward the English coast.”
“I'm not sure how long I'm going to be able to fly this thing,” he said through gritted teeth. “I fear I'm going to die with so many questions unanswered.”
“You're going to make it,” lied Sam, he'd used a similar line on one occasion in Afghanistan, comforting one of his squad who'd strayed off a cleared path and stepped on an IED. “As soon as we reach the south coast we will land, maybe at Bournemouth, and get you some medical attention.” Deep down Sam knew that the chances of Ackhart even making it that far were slim. He hoped beyond hope that he would, as he had no idea how to get the King Air on the ground. One thing at a time Sammy boy, he told himself in his head.
“Well, for your sake, monsieur, I hope I make it, as I'm guessing that you don't know how to land this craft.” Ackhart managed to half-cocked a smile and Sam could see that it was a façade, hiding behind a wall of pain. “You weren't lying, were you, monsieur?”
“No,” said Sam bluntly.
“Que Dieu nous aide,” muttered the inspector.
“I'm sorry?”
“I said, God help us, monsieur Becker. God help us.”
* * *
Namtar watched in rage as the King Air banked mockingly around the airfield, they were out of range but he fired until the gun clicked empty, then threw the weapon across the apron in frustration. Eyes fixed on the blinking red tailfin he stood, smouldering in anger and watching until it vanished into the early morning darkness, before heading to the hangar to get his brother. As he approached he felt dread sweep his ancient body, there was no sound coming from within. He looked in horror at the four closely grouped holes that decorated the top of the door. Grasping the handle he tried the door, it was still locked. Cursing himself for wasting his bullets, he grasped the cold handle and in a mixture of rage and anxiety and ripped the door open. It gave easily in his adrenalin fuelled rage, and as it swung open his worst fears came to fruition. Asag's body followed the momentum on the door, spilling out over the threshold. Two of the rounds had torn the side of his skull away, just above the right ear, while the other two rounds had torn open his throat. The two headshots were the ones that had killed him, instantly shutting down his tiny nanobot maintainers as the electrical signals in the brain died.
Feeling his usually sturdy legs go weak he fell to the floor beside his brother's body. Grasping his bleeding skull, he let out a cry of pain and anger that echoed across the small airport and out into the night.
Chapter 17
“I think it's best if you tell him as soon as you can about the length of time you've been here on Earth,” said Lucy, turning toward Oriyanna who had her eyes fixed firmly on the narrow, dark country lane. Inadvertently she ran her palms over her stomach, still not quite able to believe there was new life growing inside of her.
“I would appreciate that greatly,” she replied. “Then we need to figure out just what's happened to Samuel.” The mention of his name caused Lucie's heart to skip a panicked beat in her chest as the icy tendrils of worry crept over her, she left her hands on her still flat stomach, as if to cradle the tiny foetus. “I'm sure he is just fine,” she reassured, sensing Lucie's worst fears, but at the same time not quite believing it herself. Lucie grabbed her phone from the small storage cubby-hole near the dash and brought the device to life. “Still no news?”
“Nothing.” She replied soberly. “The network coverage is never great out here,” Lucie squinted into the road ahead, making the most of the Juke's powerful headlights. “Go straight across this roundabout,” she instructed. “We are very close now.” It had been a good few years since she'd last visited the old cottage but the route in was imprinted into her brain. Adam always took a right at this point, preferring to drive through Pewsey, it was slightly more picturesque but she wasn't on a sightseeing tour. Lucie noted that The WoodBridge pub, which she'd often eaten at as a child, was looking a little worse for wear. Two of the ground floor windows were smashed, and the old tatty net-curtains hang limply through the jagged gaps, fluttering in the light breeze like a pair of spectres in the headlights.
Oriyanna guided the Nissan across the roundabout and picked up speed along yet another dark and impossibly narrow lane. Lucie peered out of the window, trying fruitlessly to take her mind off Sam and the terrifying thought that he may never get to tell him the news, and even worse, he'd never get to meet his son or daughter. The large, looming tree-lined top of Woodborough Hill passed them by, completely unchanged in all the years that she could remember, it sat like a bloated shadow against the darken sky. “Slow it down a little,” she commented a few miles later as they passed a sign that read, Honey Street. “It's just on the right before the canal bridge and sawmill.
“Sawmill?” questioned Oriyanna, “What's that?”
“Never mind,” smiled Lucie. “Here, turn right.” Oriyanna slowed the stolen Juke to walking pace and swung them into the gravel drive. Lucie was relieved to see Adam's quirky little RX7 parked at the far end, close to the gate. A dull orange glow flickered in the front window, a welcoming light after their long and danger fraught journey. “Well, he made it, that's one thing,” she sighed, feeling a little of the stress leave her shoulders.
“This is a good place,” Oriyanna commented, killing the engine. “I think we will be safe here, for now.”
* * *
“It won't make her get here any faster,” groaned Maya, as she watched Adam cross the small lounge for what seemed like the hundredth time. She tried her best to stretch her legs out on the cramped, floral two seater sofa. The piece of furniture
was well worn, and she could feel the springs pushing against the bottom of the cushion, biting into her bum. Making his way to the grubby window, one pane of which he'd wiped clean, Adam peered out into the darkened driveway, cupping his hands around his face to block out the candle and fire light.
“It's easy for you not to worry,” he snapped. “It's not your family is it?” He turned away from his vantage point and fired a terse look at Maya, immediately feeling bad for the way he'd spoken.
“I'm sorry,” she sighed. “It just might be better if we both try and get some rest. Your sister will be here as soon as she can.”
“Yeah, unless she's been…” he couldn't bring himself to say it.
Since arriving at the cottage around half an hour ago they'd checked the building thoroughly, moving from room to room, the flashlight app on Adam's phone guiding the way. Spare from a few spiders and other house-dwelling creepy crawlies who'd scurried away when the light from the phone had found them, the cottage was empty. Having cleared the building Adam had found some old candles and matches in the walk-in pantry in the kitchen. The once brightly glossed white door had succumbed to three years of human absence and damp, the paint was peeling away in strips and revealing the aged pine beneath, it felt powdery to the touch. It made Adam feel sad, and at the same time guilty, that he'd not taken time to come out here and give the place a once over. His grandparents had been very house proud and it would have broken their hearts to see their life-long and beloved home in this squalid state of disrepair. However, in the days after the virus things like property were not the prized possessions and investments they had once been, so like his Aunt and Uncle's, it had sat empty.
The matches that Adam had found in one of the kitchen drawers were, like most things, a little damp and frustratingly hard to light. He'd broken more than a few trying to spark a flame. As the box grew dangerously low, one that had been buried nearer the bottom had fired, crackling and popping reluctantly to life. Once he'd got the candle wick to take he'd used the flame to light a further four candles. In the crockery cupboard he'd taken four of his grandparents' old saucers and dripped a little wax into each, making a safe base for each candle, then positioned them around the lounge. Having done that he'd scavenged through the pantry and cupboards looking for any tinned food that might have been left behind after he and Sam had last used the place. That had been not long before he'd headed off to Malaysia to cover the World Summit, if memory served him correctly. Thankfully they'd left two tins of beans and sausages as well as a tin of orange segments. It hardly qualified as a feast but it was better than finding the cupboards bare. The dust covered tins were a welcome sight, and although now a few months out of date he felt sure they'd be safe enough to eat, his stomach had rumbled at the site of the food. If it was no good they'd have to go hungry, it was a good five miles to the nearest shop unless the village's pub, The Barge Inn, was open for business in the morning, but he doubted it. Times had changed, the days of people taking nice morning canal walks then stopping at their local for a bacon and egg sandwich were gone. Normality was gradually returning but it would still be a good few years, if not decades, before life was like it had once been.
