The vehicle pitched again and metal squealed as the jeep was forced harder against the rail, tilting onto two wheels.
‘No, no, no, no, no…’ Aaro muttered, grabbing the pistol as it began to slide off the dash. The car righted itself and then was pushed again, tilting more. The sound of the bolts shearing on the rail was blood-curdling. It bent. The vehicle shifted and skidded. The Varas knew. It dropped a wheel off the side of the bridge, bowing the rail.
Aaro scrambled into the passenger seat. If the jeep was going over, he wasn’t going to be in it this time. He was not going back in the river.
The Varas pushed again and the car was half off the bridge, held only by the broken rail stretching around the bumper like a strap. Aaro crouched on the passenger seat, on the opposite side from the river, with the Vara against the window no more than three inches from him, pistol in one hand, door handle in the other. Counting, waiting, poised.
The jeep’s undercarriage scraped on the edge as it moved closer to tipping point, and then Aaro felt the telltale shift of momentum as gravity took hold. The rail snapped with a loud twang and they all jolted.
He threw the door open, much to the surprise of the Vara on the other side of it. In that split second, he jammed the pistol under its jaw and fired three times. The noise and shower of skull fragments startled the others and they reared back. Aaro kicked out of the seat as the jeep toppled off the edge and for a moment he was suspended in the air, between the jeep and the bridge. And then he started to fall. He came up short of the lip and sank below it.
The Varas regained themselves and rushed forwards to where their brother had been shot, but as they peered over the edge, all they saw was the plunge and crash of the vehicle into the water below.
They cried in anger at the escaped meal and writhed and pushed impatiently, waiting to see if it would surface, so they could continue the chase down on the river banks. But it didn’t, and for all intents and purposes, to them at least, Aaro Emmerson had gone into the depths with the jeep and drowned.
But Aaro wasn’t dead. He hadn’t followed the vehicle into the icy choke-hold of the water. In his brief flight, he had pumped three slugs into the soft palate of flesh under the monster’s jaw, listened as the skull exploded, the bullets flying skyward, and then succumbed to physics, beginning his fall. But as he did, and as he’d hoped, he was close enough to the bridge to reach for it. The odd angle of his descent carried him under the Vara filled asphalt top and diagonally towards the undercarriage of the bridge, into the maze of girders and struts.
Aaro stretched out, his shoulders aching under the extension, knuckles still white around the grip of the smoking pistol. With a painful thud, his forearms connected with a horizontal beam. He bit his lip to quell the shout of anguish and tasted blood. He didn’t doubt the ingenuity and agility of the Varas and he didn’t want them even attempting to climb down after him. His only hope was if they thought he was dead. So he clung on for dear life, his legs swinging wildly over the void.
He waited for the sway to stop and locked his free hand over the other wrist, bracing his weight against his chest. Rust flakes cut into his elbows and forearms like razors. He breathed through the pain and hauled himself up, hooking his foot over the strut and then straddling it. He caught his breath and listened for any movement above. They were definitely angry. He smiled. Fuck you. Fuck you all. He took the gun and popped the round out of the chamber and into his palm. He released the magazine and reloaded it before wedging the pistol into the back of his belt. He’d seen a movie once where a guy had put a loaded gun into his trousers at the front and inadvertently fired by accident, blowing half his leg off, as well as his testicles. That image stuck in Aaro’s mind as he thought about where exactly to holster it on his person.
He tried not to look down as he placed his palms on the girder and pushed himself to a shaky stance, balancing like a filthy high-wire artist. He steadied himself on the one overhead and then began edging forward. The formation was set in triangles, but it was walled on each end by concrete with no way to get to either bank. He chose his path carefully, stepping cautiously towards the far side of the bridge, making no hasty decisions or taking any unnecessary risks. If he fell it would all be for nothing.
When he neared the end he took to the outer edge of the trusses and leaned over the drop. He had to reach, but just about came within a finger’s reach of the bottom of the support rail on the roadway above, but only with one hand, and only on his toes. He cursed under his breath and tried to get settled. There was no time to waste.
He flexed his feet and jumped, it was a terrifying instant of weightlessness while he moved from under the bridge, relying only on his fingers to keep him from death. But they caught, and clamped down on the rail and once again he was hanging over nothing but space and the river twenty meters below. He swung once and then grabbed the rail with his other hand.
His wounds twinged horribly as he pulled himself up the barrier, shimmying up the vertical rails, his skin burning, and swung his leg up. He always tried to stay fit, and now was thankful he had. He stared down the bridge, now full on the outer rail, to where the frenzied mess of Varas still writhed, growling and barking in frantic tones at the space where the jeep had gone over. But they wouldn’t wait for him to surface forever. Soon they’d move off, spot him, and he’d be cornered once more.
He skulked forward in the opposite direction towards the open side of the bridge, searching for some means of escape.
And then he saw it.
A bike.
It was laying on its side, stalled and scratched, but it was perfect. He ran over and righted it, swinging his leg over the saddle. He flicked the key and the dials lit up, but the electric starter was dead. He pushed it again and the dials dimmed as he did. The battery was low. Nearly dead. The ignition and headlight had been left on and it’d run down. He’d have to kickstart. He did. The engine fired twice and then died.
‘Come on,’ he mouthed, kicking it harder. It chugged like an old lawnmower and then sputtered out. He kicked it again and it coughed and cut out. And then in the second between kicks, he noticed a horrible sound.
Silence.
The growls and barks echoing behind him had ceased. He swallowed and turned his head. Behind him, still for the moment, were the Varas, all craning their necks to see this new source of sound. They looked, all together, two dozen sets of mottled yellowed eyes, zeroing in on him.
And then, one did.
It let out a low, bone-chilling howl. And then the others joined in the chorus one by one until the sound echoed through the hills and forests for miles around. The hunt was back on.
‘Come on, you bastard!’ Aaro yelled, shunting the peg down again. There was no time for subtly now. It chugged futily and he jumped, landing on the starter with all his weight. ‘Start, you piece of shit!’
He rolled forwards, pushing the bike between two cars and towards an open space as the beasts started to run behind him. He had maybe ten seconds before they were on him. He flicked the key again and twisted the throttle, dumping petrol into the engine. He gripped the clutch and kicked down hard.
The bike misfired on the petrol and then spat into life.
He pushed the gear changer down into first and dumped the clutch.
The wheels span and he took off, the sounds of thunderous stampeding paws behind him. He swiftly cranked through the gears, up into second, then third, then fourth. He stuck to the shoulder, hugging the line between dirt and road, avoiding the abandoned cars while the howling of the monsters behind him slowly died away.
And then, things were quiet.
TWENTY-THREE
PLAYING GOD
2082 AD
Berlin felt clinical. Gertlinger always thought so. Everything was clean and neat and robotic. The city was like a pressed and starched white shirt.
He smiled a little to himself, thinking how much that suited Angela, the cold bitch that she was, that she’d become. He stood out
side a grey apartment block, leaning against the town car. Felix stood next to him, hands clasped in front of his stomach. They’d shared a table at breakfast, but nothing in terms of conversation. After this weekend Gertlinger wouldn’t ever see him again and as such, wasn’t going to bother to learn anything about him. He was paying him thousands for his service, and that was respect enough.
Gertlinger checked his watch. They’d been there for ten minutes now. He’d called Angela twice and both times she’d said that they were on the way down. He pursed his lips impatiently as the doors to the block remained closed and translucent, obscuring any view of the interior. Another few minutes rolled by and still nothing. Could he call again? He could, but should he? Did he really need to rush her, or would it just be fun to annoy her by calling? He went over the options a couple of times and when he was almost to a decision, a pair of shapes loomed behind the frosted glass.
Gertlinger straightened and drew breath, but unfortunately, it wasn’t Max that appeared next to his mother in the doorway.
Angela exited briskly and headed down the steps towards him with a hard look painted on her face. She was still beautiful, but she was a bitter sight to see. Her cheeks were pulled taut — from the first facelift she’d bought with Florian’s credit card. Her eyebrows were higher than he remembered and her forehead was tighter than a new bed sheet. A second facelift, then. And her lips looked plumper, like she’d been socked in the mouth. She’d had more work done it seemed.
Her “enhanced” breasts remained perfectly in place as she descended the steps. Gertlinger remembered paying for those too. She moaned that Max had ruined them and that they needed fixing. He relented. He always did.
She stopped in front of him, her hands hanging at her sides, the wrinkles on the backs of her hands the only giveaway of her true age. ‘Florian,’ she said sharply.
‘Angela,’ he replied, nodding with as much courtesy as he could force himself to produce.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ she said, shaking her head.
Gertlinger peered over her shoulder at the man with whom she’d exited the building. He was tall, with a shock of dark hair and swarthy features. He was Hispanic and looked miserable, as if unhappy Angela was even speaking to Gertlinger. He had to be at least twenty years her junior, no more than mid-thirties. If that.
‘Don’t know what to say about what?’ Gertlinger asked, looking at her again now.
‘About Max.’ She sighed.
‘What — you mean why he’s turned into a forty-year-old Spanish man?’ Gertlinger sniped.
She shook her head. ‘You never change. That’s Antonio. Max is upstairs.’
‘So what, you keep Max, and I get Antonio? You fucked me hard in the divorce, but that’s still a shitty deal, even by our track record,’ he snarled.
‘Max doesn’t want to see you.’ She hit back.
‘I have a right to see him.’
‘Yes but he doesn’t want to see you. He wants to stay with us.’
‘Us? What, you and Antonio? Playing happy family with my son?’ Gertlinger was rising, his fists clenching at his sides.
‘You chose not to be a bigger part of his life, it’s not my fault if—’
‘No, it is your fault. You got custody and you took him from me,’ he said cutting her off. ‘You moved to another country with my son—’
‘He’s my son as well!’ she yelled.
‘You can’t do this you heartless… I don’t even know what to call you. Bitch doesn’t quite cut it,’ he spat.
At that moment, Antonio started down the steps, rushing to Angela’s aid. Gertlinger clocked him as he did. ‘Don’t,’ he snapped, pointing his finger over Angela’s shoulder. He wasn’t a tough man, but he wouldn’t be walked all over. Especially not by the stranger raising his son.
Antonio stopped. ‘Hey,’ he shouted. ‘You can’t speak to her like that!' He pointed back with the conviction of a lapdog protecting its owner. He was a kept man for sure.
‘She was my wife, and that’s my kid up there, so I’ll speak to her however I damn well please,’ Gertlinger sneered.
‘She’s moved on! And so should you. You’re not wanted here!’ He had a smug smirk begging to be slapped off his face.
‘Yeah, sure. Fuck you, Antonio, you’ll be gone soon enough, so shut up and let the grown-ups sort this out. This is a family discussion, thanks.’ He finished and turned back to Angela. ‘Let me see him.’
‘No.’
‘You can’t do this.’
‘I’m not doing anything. I asked him to go with you. He pleaded to stay. He doesn’t want to see you. Not now, not ever. He’s upstairs crying because he thought we were going to force him,’ she said with what Gertlinger had to admit looked to be sincerity.
He was sideswiped. Lost for words for the first time in a long time.
‘No, I don’t believe that,’ he muttered.
‘Believe it, Florian. It’s the truth,’ she said, welling up. ‘It makes me sad to hear it, and even sadder to say it. I loved you once, and so did he. But things have changed. It’s too late. Accept it.’ She paused, swallowed, and then sighed. ‘I have to go. I’ve got to get back to him.’
Gertlinger watched her turn and leave, wiping the tears from her botoxed cheeks with the sleeve of her designer blouse.
Antonio waved him a cocky goodbye. Gertlinger fired him the middle finger. ‘Enjoy her while it lasts. She’ll trade you in for a younger model in a couple of months!’
‘Then I guess I’ll have to make the most of the time we’ve got together, huh?’ he jeered, turning and grabbing Angela’s ass roughly as she moved past him. She stumbled a little as he did but did not turn back. Gertlinger could see the look on her face anyway, she didn’t need to turn her head.
‘Great choice Angela, a real gentleman!’ he bellowed after her.
He knew how to get at her, and though he knew he had, he wasn’t proud of it. He’d baited Antonio and he’d bitten. He’d lost the war but won the battle. Angela would dump Antonio for that show of crudeness alone. For that show of weakness. He knew she would. She was ruthless like that.
It was something at least.
In seconds they were back inside the building and the early morning street in Berlin was once again empty, except for a wounded father and his driver.
Gertlinger sighed and reached for his cigarettes, throwing one into his mouth. He wouldn’t have dared show it to Angela, but that exchange cut deep. He took three long drags and turned to Felix, who looked saddened himself.
They looked at each other for a moment and Gertlinger opened his mouth to say something.
After that, there was nothing.
Just darkness.
And then light.
2096 AD
Gertlinger stirred from his dream feeling as terrible as he had at that moment in Berlin fourteen years earlier.
He’d not seen Angela or Max since that day, but it was still vivid in his mind.
The tone of a morning alarm was, as always, grating. But as grating as it was for him at six forty-five, when he usually woke up, it was even worse at ten past four. Except, as he gained his senses, he realised it wasn’t the alarm. The high pitched bell that was filling his apartment wasn’t emanating from his bedside clock, it was coming from his phone. He swore, double checking the time, and reached for it.
He picked up, squinting at the blindingly bright screen, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The number flashed up as unknown and he answered it.
‘Hello?’ he croaked, not moving from beneath the covers.
‘Hello, is that… Um…’ the voice paused as if searching for a name on a piece of paper. ‘Doctor Gertlinger?’
Gertlinger sighed. ‘Yeah, what is it?’ he assumed it must be someone with another job offer for him. Someone in a far away country, where it wasn’t four in the morning. He should just retire, he thought every time someone called him like this. One day, he was sure he would.
‘My name is Caleb. Y
ou were on the call list, and—’ the slightly nervy voice came.
‘Look, it’s four AM here. If this is about a job offer, can you call back in a couple of hours?’ Gertlinger mumbled, rolling back onto his pillow.
‘Sir, it’s a matter of urgency. I was instructed to inform the people in this list immediately when—’
Gertlinger shut his eyes and moved the phone from his ear. He pressed the end call button and dropped the phone into the quilt. Whatever it was, it could wait.
But then, it rang again. He groaned and lifted it up. Same number. He answered. ‘Hello?’
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