Blaze of Heroes

by C. J. Strange

“What did I miss, what's occurring?”

  Beaumont grunts irritably to himself; I hear it from several feet away. “The Tenets of the Sun Mother,” he answers snippishly.

  “Oh, mate, my favorite.” Alfie squeezes me again, then blessedly lets me go. I don't know if I've ever been so grateful for my own freedom in my life. “Keep it rolling.”

  “Quite.” Beaumont takes his time straightening out his robes before clearing his throat to continue. “I believe we were at the fifth tenet, Keep Your People Kneed.”

  Alfie's rusty brows knit together as he visibly recoils. Then, he snorts, not quite a laugh. “You mean Freed?"

  “What?”

  “Freed,” repeats Alfie insistently, matching our pace with no apparent effort. “Keep Your People Freed. Kneed kinda has,” he hums in what some may call derision, “the total opposite meaning, don't it?”

  Beaumont twists his head to glare at my brigade mate, programming the image into my head of an owl. An angry owl.

  “Boy, are you insinuating I don't know my own holy literature?” He scowls, and turns back to me, content to ignore the fire Anomaly. “And the sixth tenet encompasses every single aspect of one's existence, which is why many of us argue it is the most important: Keep Your Life Full Of Love.”

  Not even a single beat of the dramatic silence Beaumont clearly wanted to leave us with passes before Alfie has scoffed and snorted again, shaking his head.

  “And Light.”

  “What was that?”

  “Light. Full Of Love And Light.” Alfie whirls on the heel of one fake Converse shoe, shifting gears into reverse so that he can face us as he talks. “Come on, catch up, mate. Or they're gonna start asking me to wear that funny little robe and be the Elder 'round here, seeing as how I apparently know more than—”

  Beaumont stops, abruptly. And with such presence that I find myself stumbling to a halt next to him, too.

  “You DARE to question my teachings!?” The voice that comes out of his mouth is not the same kind, albeit nasal tone we have become used to. It's harder, colder, and has a merciless edge of malice.

  “You impudent whelp! You uncultured, uneducated little Botch-job! The day a worm such as yourself would be caught wearing my robes, would be the day you are devoured from the inside out, piece by piece, the fate your hedonistic and heinous soul deserves!”

  Even Alfie is speechless as the Elder storms forward, abandoning the three of us on the roadside to gape after the tails of said bright purple robes.

  Line Five: … never scream at any of my family. Especially not right in front of me.

  13 Penny's Moral Dilemma

  It's as if the entire weight of the world has dissolved from my shoulders the moment we're grounded and stationary. And while I know the worst is yet to come, the fact we've made it this far and are still willing to go further is a success in and of itself.

  The convoy are getting settled in a glade a half-mile west. Some have tents and shelters, but most are sleeping exposed to the elements of late autumn. The warriors of Nova and members of my own brigade are planted in strategic positions on the camp's perimeter, and will remain there throughout the night. Sleep will be in short supply as we take turns standing watch, using Duncan to send reliable, rapid messages between locations. I'm fully ready to settle down somewhere the festival of Vetrnætr isn't able to find me.

  Oliver and I are stationed together with the camper van, so that he can continue to run electrical and communicative diagnostics. I've given him the evening off to decompress after a stressful day on the road. Which is probably why I nearly leap out of my skin when someone says my name from behind me.

  “Jesus to fuck!” I exclaim, panting hard. “You're right lucky you didn't get the tip of my steel-toe in your nuts!”

  Alfie is laughing, but I expect nothing less. The wanker finds everything funny. “What, you think I was some Basher?”

  Despite the tone, I'm grateful for his company. My own little camp feels lonely without not only my brigade mates but the heat and crackle of a fire. We've banned them site-wide to avoid attracting unwanted attention. The last thing we need is for the Sovereignty to track us here and send Branch 9 down in the middle of the bloody night.

  “Or some vigilante nutter,” I scoff at him.

  “Eh? What's this now?”

  I sigh heavily and motion for him to follow me, hauling myself up into my camper. Tesla, asleep on one of the shelves in the wall unit, doesn't even acknowledge our presence. Oliver's WrightTech laptop is still sitting open on the table, and I spin it around so that Alfie can read the KING News story currently displayed.

  COWARD CONVOY LAST STRAW FOR VIGILANTE WATCHDOGS, the title boldly proclaims, AS NEWLY-FORGED MILITIA GROUP "M.O.B." ANSWER P.M.'S CALL FOR HIS COUNTRY'S LOYALTY.

  “That title's too fucking long, who the fuck let that go to print.” Alfie scowls. “So, wannabe Call of Duty re-enactors?”

  “They're calling themselves the Militia of Britain,” I tell him with a poignant roll of my eyes. “Or Men of Britain, depending on whether you read the disgusting version of their biography or the absolutely abhorrent bigoted one.”

  Alfie folds his arms over his chest. He's not reading the article, he probably doesn't care to. He makes a point of avoiding KING News at all costs, even for research purposes. “Ew,” he remarks. “So what, they're coming after us now? Coming after a band of like, mums and little kids and their nans and shit?”

  “They believe we're aiming to cross at Hastings and they're already on their way down from the Sovereign North.” I drum my fingers against the tabletop in no particular rhythm. “They'll arrive before dawn. We've already given the chaps there the head's up, but…”

  The silence is in no way comfortable, which is a rarity for the two of us. I blame the content over anything else. The thought of our friends in Hastings, who we've visited on several occasions over the last few months and countless times before that, facing an onslaught of self-assured violence even with warning is a painful pill to swallow.

  “Wait, PM's call for support?” Alfie suddenly recalls, his face twisting in thought. “What call for support? I thought Wankworth's whole MO was to stay completely schtum about the whole affair, let his sheep 'read between the lines' and be cunts of their own accord, and all that shit you and Rhys was talking about a few nights ago? Keep his hands clean of all the blood?”

  “Apparently, he had a change of mind.” I feel bad for Alfie when I have to catch him up like this; he hates political optics and bureaucratic bullshit. “He held some whiney press conference at Downing House and bitched for an hour about how no one takes patriotic loyalty seriously these days anymore, and how each and every one of us needs to take action, and all that crap.”

  With an over-exaggerated groan, Alfie slumps onto the couch at my side.

  “And people buy that dodgy fucking wankfuckery?” He drops his forehead down onto the table and lets out a strangled, angered noise of frustration before closing his eyes.

  “What can they expect?” he mumbles against the cheap veneer. “Or what can we expect, if they realize where we are and turn 'round?”

  I lift my head a bit to look over at him. My heart aches for his, knowing well the anguish that must be burning inside of it. It's never a pleasant experience watching others debate your right to exist, or suggestions for dealing with you swiftly. No one appreciates the reminder that some view their lives as less valuable than a wild animal.

  My stomach writhes anxiously. Just another day where it feels like we are marching into the jaws of death. And it's coming, no matter how much we resist.

  “Some may have hunting rifles or shotguns,” I say as mildly as I can. “Most will likely be armed with knives, bottles, rocks, tools, anything they can get their hands on.” My mind flashes back to once instance that saw Duncan narrowly avoid losing his arm to a half-rusted machete. “There's a good deal of farmland up north and even more on the drive down here, so, yeah. Use your imagination, I gues
s. That's what they're doing.”

  “You know, I think I'd rather imagine what I'm going to do to them in return,” is the nearly incoherent response. On any other day, I would've laughed it off as Alfie being Alfie. But today, it cuts me a great deal deeper than it should.

  “... does that make us any better than them, though?” I ask, and I'm shocked at how weak and unsure I sound. So shocked that I'm not able to finish my thought before Alfie jumps in and interrupts it.

  “What!? Are you broken?” Alfie's reaction is more on par with if I had just suggested we run for membership to the Sovereignty itself. “Jog on, love! We're talking about people who arming themselves with anything even remotely deadly and hunting down people who want to do nothing but run away! Find a better fucking life, where they won't constantly be exposed to violence and poverty and rape—!”

  “But they're doing what they think is right,” I argue, though I'm having trouble believing the words I've been struggling with for weeks are finally coming out of my mouth. “If we resort to using physical violence, to maiming them and killing them the way they do us, how can we hold our heads up high and claim the moral high ground? How can we state ourselves to be the good guys?”

  “Pen', I got news for you,” says Alfie, shifting around to face me head-on. “Even the good guys kill people. Everybody kills people. It's part of being human.”

  “But we're not human,” I press on, insistent. Tenacious. Fatalistic. “We're Anomalies.”

  “So, what, you're a segregationist now?”

  “No,” I state firmly, interlocking my eyes with his and refusing to release them. The electricity between us, the heat, is palpable. I can feel it touching me all over. “I'm just sick of stooping to their level, Diesel. I'm sick of pretending to uphold principles that I fail to execute in action. I'm sick of washing blood off my hands and telling myself it's all well and good because they started it.”

  I catch myself at the climax of my own explosion, slamming on the brakes and back-pedaling only slightly. Only enough to rearrange my thoughts, to ensure the most important and most validating are given their freedom.

  “I'm sick,” I utter, so hushed it can barely be heard above the ragged rhythm of my own breath, “of laying awake at night wondering if any other little girls' daddies won't be there when they wake up in the morning.”

  Alfie drops his gaze to his knees. He's quiet for a long, long while.

  “Oi,” I pipe up eventually, wanting to lighten the atmosphere. It wasn't my intent to mess him up or cause a big row between us, especially given the night we just had. “Do something about that long face, son. Or I'll have to think up some terribly creative way to put a smile back on it.”

  “I could think of a thing or two,” he replies, quick as a whip. He almost always is, though the times he stumbles over his words are precious.

  “Oh, really now?”

  “Yeah. One or two little things.” He grins at me, a sly and wicked grin. I've never admitted to him how much that grins turns me on, and with how much he'd use it against me, I don't know if I ever want to.

  I suddenly become acutely aware of how small a distance currently exists between us on the couch. The outside of his thigh is pressed tightly against my own. His sweet, smoky scent is warm and inviting on the familiar must of the air. His hand is inches from mine on the tabletop, his wrist naked and vulnerable. I could seize it in a second and, with a few quick twists, have him at my mercy.

  I shiver.

  “I'm not entirely sure about those.” I'm doing my best to be coy, to be sexual, and while it sounds as sensual as crisp, unbroken leather flowing out of my mouth, the whole idea of flirting with Alfie is just awkward. What if he rolls his eyes at me? What if he laughs?

  But that's the beauty of it, I realize. It's the ultimate game of bluff. The sublime match-up, the rivalry of the century. The challenge, the competition, the danger—that's what makes it so much fun.

  “I don't know if I'm interested in the sequel. The original was, eh. It was all right, I guess.”

  Alfie scoffs, feigning offense. “Er, hang about, hang about, hang about—!” he gushes, waving a hand in my face. “Are you seriously telling me you didn't appreciate that sensational opening night? What about the glowing review, the hordes of raving fans?” He winks. “The encore?”

  “Yeah, but the matinee's never as engaging,” I say boredly, propping my chin up on one fist. I have to admit, despite my initial uncertainty, I'm enjoying the playful banter.

  “Well, I don't know what you tell you, mate,” huffs Alfie, shaking his head. He seems to be having as much fun going along with this scene as I am. “Really, I don't.”

  “I suppose the Magick has gone somewhere else,” I chuckle.

  “Yeah.” There's a twinkle of knowing in Alfie's eye, a phenomenon that I only half-trust. “Down to pitch a tent with muppet, I reckon.”

  I find myself staring at him. And not just because of how scruffy-handsome he is in all his ginger glory. There's no way he can know how I feel about Oliver, surely…

  “Juniper,” he answers, sensing my silent question. “They've been stuck to each other like glue since we temp-adopted her.”

  I burst out laughing. I can't help it. “Oliver and Juniper?” Oh, Alfie. While his intuition is often an irreplaceable tool when we're out active on a mission, when it comes to matters of social interaction, he's usually got the wrong end of another stick entirely.

  “They're friends,” I continue, still chuckling. “Juniper's, what, seventeen? Eighteen? They're not even going down that route, mate, trust me.”

  “But,” he argues, “they're always—”

  “Yeah, and?”

  Alfie snorts. “They're way too close, innit.”

  “A bloke and a bird can't be close without it being romantic?” I continue, a sassy smirk taking over my face. “Does that mean you lurrrve me?”

  “Fuck off,” Alfie snaps, which is peculiar, because Alfie is never the one to re-right us when we wind up inevitably derailing a serious conversation. Perhaps that was too cold a joke, and too soon. We both clearly have some unresolved feelings we weren't aware of until last night.

  “All I'm getting at,” he says, “is that they're clearly hitting it off. And maybe I saw some of the two of us in them. Even if it ain't romantic, they're getting close. And if she wants to stay in Arundel with the Novanites when we're done with this mission…”

  The warm tenor of my friend's voice trails into oblivion, but its intent conveys itself well enough regardless. I allow myself a slow, shaky, cleansing breath before committing to an answer.

  “I've been thinking about that a lot recently,” I admit, with weakness as well as strength, uncertainty as well as resolve. “About what might happen if it comes time for us to part ways with a member of this brigade. And as much as it might hurt, I honestly feel that knowing one of us has left the life we lead to do something that makes them happier? We're a family. We fight as a family, and we'll endure our losses as a family, too.”

  My next breath comes out shakier than I'd intended it, and I grip the couch to steady myself. “Even if the person we have to part ways with is Oliver.”

  “Wait, so—so you're leaving me behind!?”

  While I know the voice that speaks up, it isn't Alfie's. It's younger and higher-pitched, and its owner is standing in the doorway. We both whip our heads across, but we already know what we're going to see when we do.

  Oliver stands over the threshold. His skin is sallow, his eyes red and heavy with bags. He's already heard us, and heard enough to misinterpret our remarks as something other than loving and kind. Our fate is already sealed.

  “Oliver—”

  It happens in a heartbeat. His hoodie, hat, and jeans crumple to the floor, and in a flash and flurry of orange fur, our brigade mate is gone.

  14 Oliver’s Hitchhiker

  I'm running.

  I don't know where. And I don't know why. All I know is that it feels soothin
g, it feels good, it feels right.

  Trees rush by me on either side as I dart through the forest, springing from clearing to clearing. I've never unleashed this much energy all in one go before. I've never gathered up those taut threads of sanity, bare seconds from snapping, and used them to propel myself forward with quite as much gusto as this, or quite as much freedom.

  But it feels right.

  And so, entrusting myself to all the superhuman senses I've never fully allowed myself to explore, I keep on running.

  I don't know where I am when I stop. Or why, but I'm tired, and my nose brought me back in this direction. My paws, wet from the rain that's starting to fall in sheets, collapse underneath me, and I slump to the mud and grass in a miserable, exhausted heap.

  Hungry.

  Lonely...

  I lift my muzzle, scenting something through the heavy petrichor. Something familiar, but new. Something I'm supposed to be guarding.

  Noise?

  I strain my ears. Somebody's singing.

  Up.

  All the muscles and joints in my body protest vehemently, but primal instinct forces them to cooperate. I pat forward. Each additional step causes my legs to wobble underneath me until they finally give out again.

  This time, I hit the ground in human form. Wet, cold, and very, very nude.

  “Ugh.” Pain blossoms in my temples, tantalizingly faint as it crawls leisurely through the veins in my head. I've never given myself over so wholly to my Magicks before, and ergo, I probably deserve whatever sort of awful migraine I'm about to get.

  “OP?”

  My eyes snap open. Who— I panic, but I already know the answer to that question.

  “Oh my dawn, you're naked, and soaked! Are you okay?” Juniper drops to her knees next to me without care for the wet mud, wriggling out of the hoodie Penny gave her.

  “Here.” She drapes the warm fabric around my shoulders and I shiver gratefully. “You need to come dry off in my tent, it's pouring out! You'll catch your death!”

  I'm still trembling from a combination of the cold and the pain as Juniper eases me to my feet and helps me through the trees to where she and Rhys have pitched one of our three-berth pop-up tents. I hesitate, but Juniper urges me on.