Blaze of Heroes

by C. J. Strange

  Alfie, who I can now see has Tesla sprawled awkwardly across his lap in a way that doesn't not remind me of Duncan with Rhys back inside the van, looks both skeptical and intrigued in the flickering glow. But it's Oliver who speaks up first.

  “So, your faith is the only thing you can remember?”

  Juniper pulls a face, and is about to answer when my scuffing footsteps signal my arrival. I smile back at her upturned face.

  “Don't let me interrupt, I just came for the company.”

  I sink into a cross-legged position as our guest continues. But, guiltily, my attention isn't entirely on her. My eyes keep sliding across to peer through the flames at Oliver, who's avoiding my gaze entirely, as he's been doing most of the evening. Most of the month. Most of the past few months, actually, ever since he called me 'Captain' for the first time and I unloaded a stream of my own emotional baggage onto him. A lot of people would get off on being called a hero, being told we're only here because of them, but who knows. The sudden barrage of compliments and possible assumed added responsibility may have terrified him even further into his natural introversion.

  Or perhaps, I'm just being paranoid. Eye contact has never really been a forte of his.

  “—was a light,” Juniper is saying. “But it wasn't bright or harsh, it was warm, soft, almost like a sunrise. I don't know how to properly explain what I felt. But as I lay there, I knew it was Her. I knew Her. I knew Her name, Her image, Her song, and I knew what She wanted me to do.”

  “It's not a phone notification,” interjects a gentle voice, and to my surprise, it doesn't belong to Oliver. It's Alfie's. “It's a feeling. You aren't told, you just know.”

  I stare at him for a moment. Perhaps out of pride. It always catches me off-guard when he shows he has a softer, more philosophical side.

  It usually only comes out when he's tired and hungry. Or high.

  “Exactly,” says Juniper. “I was drawn to Her name: Nova, Goddess of the Sun. Somehow, my mother. That was how I ended up in Pocklington.”

  “You don't fucking say,” laughs Alfie. Tesla, who tailed after him when he first left the van to light the campfire, is prrt-ing about at his feet. She's learned by now that a fire means he might end up roasting something at the end of a stick, typically something she'll be interested in. “Talk about slumming it out in the boonies, love.”

  Oliver has been listening, chewing feverishly at his thumbnail. A while back, I would've poked fun at him in a tender attempt to get him to stop self-harming, but these days, I'm honestly too worried about hurting him further. With his newly-acquired Magicks, which he still hasn't fully gotten a handle on, his anxiety is probably off the bloody charts.

  “The Northern Fringe is a very Nova-centric region, especially close to York,” he muses around his thumb, staring into the flames. “It's sort of the birthplace of it all, and the closest thing we have to a haven for Anomalies these days.”

  “I was planning on getting a lift to another apparent haven in the Southern Fringe,” Juniper says ruefully. “Or raising enough sterling for a train ticket. That's why I was working down the pub.”

  “Whereabouts?” presses Oliver. “We've spent a fair amount of time down there recently.”

  Juniper perks up. “Arundel?”

  “That big fuck-off castle in the South Downs?” Alfie asks. He's charring the end of a branch in the fire, and Tesla doesn't know any better that there's no meat at the other end of it. She's still pacing anxiously about his ankles as he scratches her absent-mindedly with one hanging hand.

  “I think I remember you telling me about that one,” says Oliver.

  “Really?” squeaks Juniper, practically bouncing. “Have you heard of Elder Beaumont? Do you know anything about him?”

  Simultaneously, Oliver and I glance toward Alfie. While you wouldn't believe it until you knew him intimately, our resident active volcano is our go-to-guy when it comes to anything even remotely related to Novanism. He doesn't seem overly shocked by it.

  “Not at all, nah. But I heard there's a brigade there what takes care of travelers, helps out the local Anomalies, that sort of what-have-you.” My fiery-haired fiery-tempered childhood friend looks up at me, and I can read the spark in his eyes like a subtitle.

  “South Downs is what, a seven- or eight-hour drive?” I finally pipe up, hooking my arms around my knees to hug them closer to my chest. “We'd have to do a bizarre wide-berth around Sovereign territory from Boston to Oxford, but it's been a while since we did a good cross-country drive.”

  Several seconds of silence pass between the four of us (five, if you include the cat) as they slowly decipher what I'm offering.

  “I… I would find some way of paying you back…”

  It's Juniper who speaks up first. She's staring up at me with huge, round eyes, as if terrified of what I may request in return.

  It's a look that stabs me in an open wound I wasn't even aware existed. I've worn that same expression myself, when I was about her age. In the transitional period between my father disappearing at seventeen and falling in with B.L.A.Z.E. at nineteen, I stooped to a whole new level of low I never, ever dreamed I would. You do what you must in order to survive, and by design, it's not easy. Especially for a young Anomaly on the run.

  I'll be damned if I'm walking away from this scenario if there's anything I can do to avoid her enduring a similar existence. That is, if she hasn't done already.

  “We have friends on the south coast,” is my nonchalant answer. “Diesel's got a bit on the side down there.”

  “She ain't my bit on the fucking side,” scoffs Alfie as he stands up. “She's a mate. If I end up getting my dick wet, don't worry, I'll make sure I send a messenger pigeon or a text full of those big purple… dick vegetable emojis.”

  “Auburgenes, love,” I choke.

  Juniper and Oliver are giggling between themselves, either at Alfie's overreaction or the meme-worthy smirk my entire face has twisted into. The bloke in question just scowls and steps around me. As always, Tesla is a ball of fluff and puffy tail following right in his footsteps, reminiscent of an old SEGA platform game.

  “Long story short, I'm up for a bit of a road trip,” I say as the camper van door clatters shut. He's likely only gone to the refrigerator for hot dogs, but he won't announce that. He likes to make a big fuss over small things. “The idea of spending some time in an Anomaly safehouse, maybe even having a proper bath, it all sounds grand to me right now.”

  Not that I'm in any mood to explain the gravity of exactly why it sounds so grand.

  Though I'm learning as time goes on, it doesn't have all that much to do with my mood. I just don't want to discuss it. Full stop.

  For reasons I've not told any of my lads yet, with Hallowe'en and Winternights fast on the approach over the next couple of days, I could do with disappearing off the face of the earth for a short time.

  And while I use the term 'yet', I've seen no evidence in my own actions that I'm ever actually going to.

  3 Penny's Cross-Country Drive

  The route that runs between Boston, Lincolnshire and Oxford is known amongst Anomaly communities as the Bottleneck. At its narrowest, the separation between ground radar on either side is a mere five miles. It's favorable to remain at least eight miles from any Sovereignty security system whenever we're on the road. But with good technique and monitoring and a whole lotta gusto, this little pass can be executed with little to no ado.

  While undesirable, it's a far easier path than the one that stretches around Cambridge, which requires going through multiple checkpoints between the famous university, Dover, and Greater London. The southeast of England can be as dangerous and heavily-patrolled by law enforcement as the southwest. Given the option, we'll always take our chances with the Bottleneck.

  The journey itself is, for the most part, uneventful. We've gotten the hang of traversing the country undetected. And, despite Alfie's complaints of it being the 'right proper boring way' to do things, the ma
jority of us appreciate a peaceful day of driving.

  As we rattle through the fog-swathed hills and valleys of the Midlands, I can't help but think back to a time, only months ago, that wouldn't have seen everybody in the van so engrossed in their own activities. Total alertness was priority, even to the point of complete ridiculousness. Nowadays, with Oliver's intensely-modified laptop open on the desk running constant diagnostics, we all feel confident sitting back and relaxing for most parts of the long drive.

  It means continuously losing to Rhys and Oliver at gin rummy for the hour Duncan relieved me from driving. But just to have Oliver sit and chat to me makes that worth it. Other than morning teas, which seem to be becoming shorter and more infrequent, our time together these days is sporadic.

  I miss him, I'm not going to lie. But every time I tell myself I should confront him about it, be honest about my concerns and how I feel, my nerves fail me, and I'm back in that schoolgirl mindset.

  Anxiety's a right wanker at times, I tell you.

  The A27, probably once a major road, runs parallel a mile and a half from a length of railway track B.L.A.Z.E. utilized once or twice in the past to move supplies along the south coast. The area is everything one would imagine when thinking of the English countryside: the shallow curves of chalk cliffs and sweeping dry valleys, alternating between turf and wild thicket.

  Juniper is the first to notice the castle. Or at least, the first to speak up about it.

  “Oh my gosh,” she murmurs, as she and the lads gather on the north-side of the vehicle. I lean across Duncan's lap to peer out his window, eager to catch a glimpse of what has them all so spellbound.

  I'm on board right away. It's breathtaking. On the far tree line of the horizon, soaring high above its surrounding landscape, a cluster of huge towers and turrets and chimney stacks cut from pale stone, vignetted at the edges with age. An enormous, circular keep at the center is topped with a familiar flag, a bastardized version of the designation pins the Sovereignty requires Anomalies to wear by law. Our flag.

  I can see why now this is considered a stronghold of the Anomaly community in Britain. Even approaching as a guest, likely to be welcomed with open arms given the colors they're choosing to fly, I'm intimidated. I wonder for a moment if the Sovereignty care enough about the outlaw activity in this area to challenge it, or if they don't want to chance cocking it up.

  “Fuck me,” breathes Alfie. There's an honest sobriety to his tone that we aren't often treated to, but even that doesn't stop Rhys from ribbing him in return.

  “Oh, you should be so lucky,” he jests, still staring out the window at the stunning sight beyond the glass. “Maybe later, old boy, when we have a touch more privacy.”

  The castle only grows more imposing in its sheer grandiosity as we near it. The sun is starting to sink into the tops of the trees as we exit the A27 via the roundabout and drive gingerly down the main street, and immediately, we become aware that Arundel itself appears something of a ghost town.

  “Is it abandoned?” Alfie asks aloud as I roll down my window. Duncan follows suit.

  “I don't know,” I finally mumble back, my eyes darting from the road itself to our surroundings. “Keep 'em peeled for anything that moves. OP, can you run some scans, see if there's anything you can catch on to?”

  “Already on it,” is the quiet but confident assertion from deeper within the van.

  Juniper nestles between our seats so she can look out through the windscreen. “I wonder where everybody is,” she asks, chewing the sleeve of the hoodie I offered her. “Perhaps they're all inside?”

  “Or they just use the castle,” says Duncan gruffly. Despite sleeping more than any of us last night, he probably woke up the grumpiest. “I would.”

  As a driver, actually delivering us to our desired location is a stressful responsibility, which is why I'm so pleasantly surprised at how easy one of the castle's entry points is to find. The top of the main road we've been following delivers us right at the exterior wall; beyond it, the buttresses and battlements of the castle tower into the darkening sky. A quick glance left and right, and we're rolling down toward what I suppose could be described as a gatehouse at one corner.

  Well... here goes at least something, I hope.

  I pull the van to a very careful stop, and put the brakes on. It's worth burning the petrol to leave her running in case of the need for a hasty retreat.

  “Is there a bell?” Rhys pipes up, gripping the back of my seat. “Or should we perhaps knock? Oh!” he says suddenly. “Let's knock and run away. What a hilarious first impression.”

  Alfie scowls. “Are you new, mate, or what?”

  “Oi, numpty,” grunts Duncan, probably so that I don't have to. “You ain’t put down enough roots here that we could'nae get over the empty seat.”

  The look on Juniper's face reflects uncertainty, likely over whether the threat is valid. But Rhys just blinks at the two of them, then laughs.

  “No sense of humor, any of you boys.”

  “You kids be good and wait in the car,” I'm saying as I unbuckle myself and reach into Duncan's footwell for my baseball bat. I avoid using the word 'trusty', because as an avid reader myself, I'm aware exactly how cheesy that comes off, but imagine a relationship between girl-and-weapon of a synonymical kind.

  “If this goes entirely to shit, back up and get out.” It's Alfie and Oliver that I twist to pin my eyes on, staring hard at each of them for several seconds in turn. “Dee and I will meet you back on the A27.”

  Alfie just grins at me. “Responsibility? Wow. I feel right validated.”

  “Don't be a total and utter wankfuck, and there'll be more of that for you in future,” I shoot back, unlocking the van doors with a low, shifting click.

  The lads slide into our freshly-abandoned seats as Duncan and I exit the vehicle, dropping down onto the tarmac. It's gritty and rough, potholed from decades of neglect, though as we near the gatehouse itself, the ground becomes noticeably more kempt. It appears to have been re-paved with smooth, pale slabs, a path leading up to the massive wooden gate itself.

  I exhale, fastening the grip of my bat into its sheath between my shoulder blades.

  “I’ve got yours, lassie,” is the deep baritone sentiment from my right. Whether or not I expected it doesn't seem to cast much of a dampener on the warm bubble of adrenaline that opens my chest up whenever I hear it.

  Sometimes, it means shit is about to hit the fan in a gargantuan way. Sometimes, it's just for reassurance. But, regardless of the scenario, it always means Duncan is honed and focused on nothing but me.

  I throw him a smile, one I hope is both confident and calm.

  “You’ve got mine, love.”

  And then, I knock.

  4 Penny's Temporary Haven

  I'm cycling contingency plans A through G in my mind as we wait with baited breath for some sort of response from within. With G standing for Get The Fucking Hell Out Of Here, These People Are Clearly Insane.

  Beside me, Duncan is tall and big and impassive as any castle wall. His presence is reassuring in many more ways than just the one. There's nothing more reassuring than being safe in the knowledge I can be slung over his shoulder and five miles from this spot before I even realize my boots have left the ground.

  Which is why in all honestly, when my boots do leave the ground, that's exactly what I assume has happened.

  It isn't until my back's against the wall and the heels of my boots are scraping the rough stone that I understand things may have gone, as we say in Britain, 'tits up'.

  “Dee—!” I bark.

  My tone is sharp, a blatant command, though not the one that might be expected. It's the command to stand down.

  I may not be able to see him all that clearly, restrained by some invisible force that's clutching Duncan's oversized jumper at each shoulder to pin me in place, but I already know he'll be resisting. It's his way, what's kept him alive and breathing for close to thirty years.

&nb
sp; I hang limply, uncomfortably, twisting to see the struggle I can clearly hear. Until Duncan heeds my order, and reluctantly allows himself to be subdued by his assailant. The other man, several inches loftier than Duncan but not as heavy-set, manhandles my friend into a crossface chickenwing-style hold, immobilizing his arm and forcing him forward onto his knees.

  The trust he shows in me momentarily stuns me, even more than the ambush. My stomach wrings itself into a knot, squeezing out a little of my self-confidence.

  I really hope I just made the right call... or he's going to WRECK me about this while we're in line at those Pearly Gates they all bang on about...

  “We have Novanites with us!” I announce, raising my voice to ensure the huge, tanned blond wrestling with my mate hears me. “At the risk of sounding like a bad movie cliché, we're here as friends, not enemies.”

  The blond snaps his head up, glaring silently at me. His looks are striking—and not only in a way Rhys would comment on that would once again make me question his sexuality. Every ridge of his alabaster face is so whetted, his nose so broad and flat, it doesn't seem fully human. Especially when coupled with the dark lines tattooed from the corners of his eyes to the hinges of his jaw.

  Still grappling with Duncan (who, while not directly resisting, isn't making things easy for his captor), he continues to stare at me wordlessly. I stare right back.

  “So,” I add, once he's made it clear he's not planning on responding to me, “while this is a right fancy party trick, I'd really appreciate it if someone explained it or let me down.” I wriggle slightly, my boots dangling six or seven inches above the pavement. “It's mucking with my head, and also, this isn't even my jumper. I have to give it back at some point…”

  Again, the blond doesn't reply. Because he isn't the one who's decided to. The air in front of me thickens and densifies, forming a shape. No, a silhouette. A pair of robust arms are extended, muscles bulging, crushing veins up against dark skin. Fists twice the size of mine are balled up in the front of my borrowed jumper. Blood-red eyes search me all over, assaulting my prone frame, and brilliant white teeth are bared as his predatory grin sharpens into opacity.