Spiral

by Andy Remic

  They halted. Jam threw a glance back down the alley –

  ’Get off the fucking car, man,’ came a heavy drawl reminiscent of a Hollywood gangster movie –

  ’Where am I, the Bronx?’ Jam smiled easily –

  as -

  machine-gun hell broke loose.

  Bullets screamed, slapping at the flanks of the Mercedes, and Jam hit the floor hard, rolled, dodged the body of a black man who was picked up and spat backwards in a series of heavy-calibre punches. There were shouts, the black men produced pistols and a gunfight ensued with the Mercedes taking centre stage—

  ‘Motherfuckers...’

  Jam backed into a doorway, heeled the heavy door open and spun into darkness -

  Screams and the smack of bullets into flesh followed him.

  Blood splashed up the back of his long leather coat.

  Jam ran, dodging huge cold machines that loomed suddenly from the gloom. The machine pistol did not feel so comfortable now and he switched hands, wiping sweat from his palm. Six followers, the DP had relayed to his ECube - buzzing at him as it logged each pursuer ... could he rely on any of these mysterious figures - assassins? - being taken out by the gangstas?

  No. Assume the worst; assume six to follow; and all six at least as heavily armed as himself.

  He took the stairs in threes, long powerful legs pushing him up into the light. He was in a narrow stairwell that wound its way up as far as Jam could see. He ran on, producing a small dull silver ball from his pocket. A HPG -high-pressure grenade, working on chemical reaction instead of gunpowder detonation. No loud explosion ... a covert weapon, near-silent and utterly deadly...

  Jam paused. Listened, head cocked. He pulled the tiny pin and allowed the ball to drop into the gloom below. He ran.

  There was a muffled crack, and a hiss.

  A wave of pressure rocked Jam from behind and below, a bellow of angry and silently screaming air, rushing past him like the close passage of a train - he didn’t wait to see if the HPG had caused a death toll: if nothing else, it would have made his pursuers more cautious. His head snapped left at the sounds of people, chattering, laughter.

  He changed direction, opening a door and closing it behind him.

  People are good, he thought.

  People make good cover ...

  Nasty though that may seem.

  He passed through a series of extra doors, through some kind of thin-carpeted sparsely furnished smoke-stinking office with yellow walls and a pyramid of cups sporting tar-brown stains. An untidy pile of discarded beer cans, errant tangles of streamers and distant music intruded on Jam’s immediate pain. Office party? Jam stowed away his weapon and broke into the—

  Dull light, dancing with cheap strobes and the flicker of amateur coloured disco lights as bad boy-band music crucified the air.

  Jam strode through the group, past a stack of beer and decks and thumping speakers. Several office workers gyrated into his path and with the precision of whores on heat, tongues on wet lips, tight leather and glitter-spangled low-cut breast cups spewing tequila pheromones in a call for sweat-stained party sex.

  Jam swiftly sidestepped groping hands, glancing behind—

  To see the door open. Slow motion. Gaunt-faced men, anonymous in their cold professionalism, appeared: darkhaired and dark-suited—

  And followed by—

  Jam caught a glimpse of a masked figure, slender, with bright piercing eyes that seemed to connect with him as he stared, lips suddenly dry and the need to be free thumping in his guts.

  Which organisation? spat his brain, searching the files and folders of his mind without success. He did not recognise these pursuers; but then, this information was an irrelevant factor ...

  Jam broke into a run, bursting through another door. Bullets tore through the party, chewing plasma monitors and smashing partitions into sprinkler foam; Jam dived to the soundtrack of sudden panic screams, rolled, darted right and checked below. He kicked a hole in a window, wrapped his leather coat around him, and jumped ...

  His boots thudded against the roof of a red double-decker London bus, and he slid for a moment before righting himself. The driver of the bus climbed free of the cab and started shouting up at him: Jam slid to the rain-slippery edge and leaped lightly to the ground below.

  Ignoring the insect buzz of the annoying driver as he waved a shotgun, Jam approached a helmeted man sitting astride a large 2000cc Honda off-road motorcycle. Without time for conversation, Jam grabbed the man’s collar, hauled him backwards onto the wet tarmac, jumped aboard the machine and, with the clutch in, he kicked down. The Honda screamed, fumes exploding from the exhaust ... the bike kicked up its front wheel, climbing onto the boot of the Ford in front and Jam ducked his head as bullets howled from the smashed window above him, slamming metal thumps across the queuing traffic as the Honda’s rear wheel spun against the chrome bumper, then fought the bike onto the Ford’s buckling roof - the bike screamed and lurched, up and down over this impromptu corrugated road of bumper-to-bumper traffic.

  Wheels spun across the wet slick roofs and bonnets of waiting queuing cars; Jam slung the bike to the right, dropping from this hastily invented car-road and landing with dipped suspension on the narrow pavement to send cowering late-night pedestrians screaming for cover. The bike surged down the pavement and out over a small park, churning grass and mud and heading for the trees lining the opposite side. He hit the brakes, ending in a long mud-slewn skid, and jumped free at the last moment as the Honda collided with a wide-boled oak. Then, looking left and right, he jogged to a nearby van and climbed nonchalantly into the back.

  ‘Hit it, Nicky.’

  Bullets wailed from behind as the transit wheelspun and joined the snake of traffic, smashing holes along its flank. In the back of the van Jam and Slater ducked, scrabbling across the floor as shafts of light with ragged metal edges appeared between the racks of guns, bullets and neatly packaged explosives.

  ‘Holy fuck!’ growled Slater and his stare met Jam’s.

  ‘Get us out of here!’ bellowed Jam, eyes wide, mouth dry with understanding as he eyed the punched metal holes.

  Nicky dragged the van right, mounted the kerb and smashed a series of parking meters into oblivion; the van’s engine roared and the bullets fell behind.

  They sped from the busy streets.

  Jam, sweating now, slumped onto a bench and ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘Was I right?’ growled Slater.

  Jam met the large man’s gaze and nodded. ‘More than right. They wanted me - us - bad. Bad enough to mow down lots of innocent bystanders.’

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Nicky, her sultry tones for once edged with a kind of panic so unlike her usual well-trained stability that it brought a frown to Jam’s handsome face.

  He shrugged. ‘We have to warn the others.’

  ‘We can’t use the ECubes - I bet that’s how the bastards have been tracking us,’ said Slater with a snarl. ‘You remember the Battle of Belsen?’ He cocked the Heckler & Koch MP5 A3 9mm sub-machine gun in his huge hands and grinned nastily. ‘We could try the phone.’

  ‘We’ve no fucking choice. Get a message to Spiral_H that some fucker has set us up - the cunts were lying in wait. And the fuckers messed up my hair and my new coat. The bastards. Nicky, get us out of this fucking dangerous fucking city. Then we’ll ditch this van - it’ll be tagged.’

  Slater pulled free an ECube. He squeezed the small electronic device and it came to life, blue digits flickering; but as soon as it lived, it died, and the blue digits faded. Slater frowned. He squeezed again.

  “S not working, Jam.’

  ‘Give it here, big guy.’

  ‘I didn’t do nothing,’ complained Slater.

  Jam tutted. ‘You’re a fucking technology gimp. Remember China? The dam? You were in charge of the fucking det?’

  ‘That was an accident,’ moaned Slater.

  Jam played with the ECube, and frowned again. ‘I thought these thi
ngs were supposed to be practically unbreakable?’

  ‘They are,’ Nicky called back from the front seat. ‘I doubt whether Slater’s huge fists could have damaged it. I’ve seen them survive much worse than that.’

  Jam tutted again, as Slater took hold of Nicky’s battered and bruised ECube. Slater fumbled with the machine for a moment, but it refused to spark into life. He shook his head, growled, ‘Where to next?’

  ‘We need to contact Spiral, and we need to pay a visit to an old friend,’ said Jam, lighting a cigarette and lying back, staring at the panelled ceiling, the shafts of dull phosphorescence creeping between the torn bullet holes making him feel a tad wary. Explosives and spinning bullets did not marry well. A cold draught whistled in through the holes. Slater started to clean his Heckler & Koch.

  Jam closed his eyes, thinking back to Iran and the rebellion.

  And the bullets.

  And the torture...

  He shivered. And welcomed his drug-induced sleep as the van rumbled through the rainswept war-spattered streets.

  Spiral_Memo2

  Transcript of recent news incident

  CodeRed_Z;

  unorthodox incident scan 554670

  Between the hours of 2:00 P.M. and 5:20 P.M. the entire city of London and the surrounding Home Counties were left without electricity.

  Millions of homes and businesses, including schools and hospitals, were left electrically stranded or relying on emergency back-up generators. Prior to the power cuts, monitoring equipment registered great surges of energy, which are being blamed for this occurrence, although no real cause for these freak power surges has been discovered, and UKLocalPower Corp. spokespersons are unwilling to make any comment.> >#

  CHAPTER 6

  TAG

  It felt like a million years later, a million miles away and a different planet. Carter stood in the shower, the hot water flowing over his shoulders and back, easing the tension in his muscles, washing away the speckles of blood. His eyes closed, his face down, he reached out and placed the flats of his palms against the steam-frosted tiles of the cubicle. It had been a long journey and his weariness had consumed him, eaten him whole and spat him out of the other side of oblivion—

  He stepped from the cubicle. The towel had been warming for a half-hour, and he dried himself in slow motion - automatic movements, machine movements. Then, naked, he walked through to the bedroom and collapsed on top of the rich duvet, sleep claiming him and leaving no prisoners.

  Carter tossed between the sweat-streaked sheets ...

  Maria –

  screaming

  crying

  An explosion; a bullet, slow-motion, spinning from the barrel of Kade’s gun, impacting with her flesh—

  a scream, saliva drooling from blood-speckled lips

  cloth tearing

  flesh parting

  a metal parasite burrowing into muscle,

  kicking aside bone

  Feuchter, face stark, smashed with pain

  Carter leaped and took the bullet in his own body, felt the impact and looked up from a thick pool of red, could see Maria’s face staring down at him as he was lowered into the hole in the ground and they threw flowers on top of him and started to shovel in the dirt and he wanted to scream -

  scream, I’m not dead yet

  I’m not dead...

  He awoke in the darkness, shivering and remembering the past. He could feel warmth against his back and, groaning, he rolled over, hand reaching out to stroke soft fur. There was a noise, a decline of sound like a reverse turbine. Carter laughed, and patted the Labrador’s head with a sigh.

  ‘You OK, pal?’

  Samson panted, tongue flicking out to steal salt from Carter’s cold back.

  ‘Cut it out, you mongrel.’

  He rolled from the bed and pulled on grey combats and a thick jumper, much too large but soft and comfortable and the way he liked it. Samson watched him dress, then jumped off the bed and followed him out and down the stairs to the kitchen. Carter fed the Lab as the grey rays of weak sunshine filtered over the mountains and he crouched, watching Samson eat.

  ‘You eat like a fucking animal,’ he said soberly.

  Sam cocked a single beady eye at him, and continued to shovel.

  Leaving the dog, Carter returned to the living room and stretched his spine, then unlocked the door and stepped out onto a narrow balcony. The cold hit him like a brick in the face and he gasped, smiling at the shock. Wind lashed his short hair and he leaned over the balcony, gazing out over the snow. In the distance he could see woodland, snow-laden and picturesque. Roads snaked into the distance, between hills, and beyond it all squatted the mountains, old Grey Gods watching over these Minor Petty Mortals.

  ‘A damn sight better than fucking London,’ he muttered. The phone rang. He stepped back inside and picked up the receiver. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Carter, it’s Natasha.’ She sounded serious.

  ‘Natasha - I need a fucking serious word with you, my friend ... Have you any fucking idea what happened to me in Germany—’

  ‘No time, Carter. Bad shit is hitting the fan. I’m coming up.’

  ‘Here? Now?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll be four to six hours. Don’t use your ECube. In fact, I don’t think you can use your ECube.’

  ‘Why—’

  ‘It’s the DemolSquads. One of them has been wiped out; fucking assassinated. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  The line went dead. Carter scanned the signals on the phone; the line was untraceable and had, by all accounts, never existed. Nats had used an advanced descramble signal only issued to the TacSquads.

  She obviously wanted nobody to hear the call...

  Carter scratched at his stubble, her words troubling him. He shrugged to himself, trying to push the worries from his mind. Now: now there was nothing he could do. He could merely await Natasha and wonder at her brisk words - and warning - but it wasn’t that simple, it was never that simple. Why hadn’t he heard from Spiral? What the fuck was going on?

  Realising that he always thought better when exercising, he called, ‘Samson, we going for a run?’ as wariness and bad images concerning Natasha, the assassinations, and the lack of communications from Spiral flickered in his mind ...

  The dog was there in two seconds, jumping up, tail wagging, eyes bright at the promise of exercise and a few cheap sniffs.

  Carter pulled on his running shoes, battered old Nike Airs, and trotted down the steps from the living quarters to the front door - the price of having a house built into the side of a steep hill - and with Samson panting eagerly at his heels, jostling and pushing as if to send him cart-wheeling down the steps. With a cursing ‘You trying to kill me?’ - a traditional pre-run invocation - they spilled out untidily into the snow.

  The morning was extremely cold, a frost having made the snow hard and slippery. Carter, with the sniffing Lab at his heels, set off up a gentle incline towards the woods. The silence welcomed Carter into its embrace and he groaned internally at the strain of such early morning exercise—

  And yet he felt the need. The need to work, to feel the exhilaration and power that only came with hard exercise; to feel the trail beneath his running shoes, to feel the burn of lactic acid, the strain of muscles, the tearing of strained lungs ...

  Soon, calves burning, he crested the first rise and entered the woods. A frozen stream cracked with a gunshot sound under the immense mass of Samson jumping from the top of a gentle rise. The dog rolled in the cold water, then sprinted around in circles with his tail between his legs before rejoining Carter further up the trail between the sparkling trees.

  ‘What was all that about?’

  Samson panted with a wide dog smile.

  ‘Well, come on, tell me what’s going on in your dumb canine brain?’

  Samson looked up, head tilted. Carter patted him and increased the pace, watching bemusedly as the dog suddenly sprinted off to the left, flashing between the trees, legs heaving,
tongue almost on the ground, nose occasionally touching a smell and then veering off at random angles at some stimulus that Carter was - thankfully -immune and blind to.

  Carter frowned, his run slowing, his pace faltering. His head snapped to one side, breath pluming in front of him, a spray of sweat stinging his eyes. He halted, breathing deeply, and Samson cantered round and gazed up at his Master.

  ‘You hear it too?’

  Samson grinned - a dog grin.

  ‘Come on.’

  The distant engine noise indicated a large vehicle. It could just be passing by but Carter had a bad feeling gnawing his stomach - ever since the events in Germany only hours before and the low-flying race back home to Britain ... The pursuit had ended without event but Carter could still feel weariness, a sense of being drained after those bloody unexpected events at Schwalenberg—

  The engine changed pitch. Carter ran along just below the tree line as he heard the vehicle turn up towards his house. He reached the rise and gazed down at the old van, rattling and pumping diesel fumes from an engine that had seen much, much better days.

  A van? It had to be...

  Jam, smiled Carter. ‘Come on, Sammy!’

  They ran back towards the house and, ever careful, paused to watch the visitors disembark. Jam, Slater and Nicky, all grumbling and stretching after the obvious ill effects of a long journey. Carter checked back down the track - nobody following - then stepped out and jogged slowly down to his three old friends.

  ‘Carter!’ yelled Jam, and embraced the sweating man. They clasped hands, patting one another on the back. Slater grinned gormlessly, and Nicky smiled warmly. ‘Any chance of a party, my man?’

  ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? I remember the last one!’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault Slater got thrown from the bedroom window!’

  ‘You threw him!’

  ‘Hey, just our little tiff! It’s good to see you again.’