"This is one weird place," Spartan said, glancing around him at the club. "What is that thing by the door?"
"This is the Fab Cafe," Zeiss19 said, handing Libra his drink. "Famous sci fi cult TV club. And that," he said, pointing to the round, green, scaly, hollow mannequin standing guard just inside the door, "is an Ice Warrior."
"A what?"
"An alien from Doctor Who," Zeiss19 replied. "There's an original Dalek over there, too." He pointed to a shadowy corner of the bar, where indeed there lurked a Dalek.
"They still making those shows anymore?" Spartan asked. Zeiss shook his head sadly. Spartan shrugged.
They found seats near the far wall, sitting under a model of some sort of spaceship from some obscure TV show from the Sixties. Libra and Spartan had pints; Zeiss, a lemonade with ice.
"I've got an exam," Zeiss ventured.
"So anyway, how's things?" Libra asked.
"We've basically wound up our investigation," Spartan said. "Those nutcases are lying lower than whale shit, but our obbo paid off. We managed to identify two of them, so it's a matter of time. They stick their heads up from under whatever rock they've crawled under, we'll have them." He looked at Libra. "What about you?"
"I managed to chat with Blaster," Libra said.
"Really?" Spartan said. "What did he say?"
"He's coming back," Libra replied. "He's done what we couldn't do. He located one of the three rogue hunters. The one you couldn't get a description of." He sipped his pint. "You get what you wanted?"
"I did," Spartan said. "Information on the arms dealer who supplied those weapons to the gangs in the first place. The leads I've got from my search will put me years ahead."
"That's great," Libra said.
"What did you do while you were here?" Spartan asked.
"I really came here to sort out Arjuna in Oldham," Libra replied. "And I hope he does well here. It seems he's now the head of his uncle's business empire, now Mr Singh's retiring."
"So that means ..."
"Arjuna may have to retire from the hunt," Libra replied." He sipped his beer again. "He's a good hunter. The Liverpool Posse are going to miss him."
"And what about you?"
"Look, it's not as if I can do much for the hunt over the next few weeks now," Libra said. "What with the opening of the new branch of Herald Recruitments ongoing in Liverpool and all. The obligations of my business are going to keep me out of sight for a time."
"And I've got exams to sit," Zeiss said. "And there's someone I want to ask out to the end of term ball next Friday ..."
"Oh aye?" Libra said.
"Yeah," Zeiss said. "Her name's BC."
"You want to talk about her?" Libra asked.
"Okay, yeah well she's in the same course as me, the same year," Zeiss began, "and she is totally gorge ..."
The officially unoccupied warehouse sat in a quiet business park south of Manchester; a sad, abandoned monument to the Dotcom Failure of the previous year. It had been a thriving e - commerce venture in May 2000: by September, 2000, the bosses had absconded with around half a million pounds - all that was left out of three and a half million pounds' worth of funding from seven different Business Angels.
Now, suspicious firelight flickered in the top gable windows at either end, from braziers lit by the squatting gang within.
The firm next door, Techrite, was a thriving ISP, in contrast to its flash in the pan neighbour. When the gang'd moved into the abandoned shed adjacent to theirs, they'd had to beef up their own security and hire guards, especially night guards.
Eric Morton, the duty night guard, sat at the reception desk in the lobby, sipping at his third hot mug of tea since the start of his watch. He shifted in the chair to give his ample belly room, pulled up the visor of his peaked cap to scratch his forehead, wiped his nose with his finger. He shifted his shoulders and belched loudly.
All in all, a typical night, full of the expected fun and excitement. Outside, the abandoned shed was quiet; even the flickering firelight visible from the top windows had died down. Eric assumed they'd all shot up their smack or whatever and were lying around half dead. He began to turn away from the window. Nothing to do with him.
Three moving shadows caught the corner of his eye. Eric turned to look, convinced he was seeing things; but their movement confirmed his suspicions. Three figures were skulking over by the abandoned shed across the way. Eric thought of calling the police, decided not to. Instead, hoping his movements wouldn't give his position away, he got up very slowly, turned, strolled away from the open window. The less he saw, the less he'd have to worry about.
He was halfway down the corridor when he heard the faint, yet unmistakeable sounds of gunfire. He turned, began to make his way back to the lobby to gawk.
He'd made it halfway along the corridor when the gunfire was replaced by a screech, a crash and a dull boom which travelled through the ground and up through the soles of his feet. The lights flickered, then went down. The backup lights did not come on.
Every sprinkler in the building suddenly turned on, and water sprayed over Eric in the corridor, in the pitch darkness. Eric bellowed, followed the faint light that he could see coming from one end of the corridor. It turned out to be the lobby.
Behind him, screams arose from the confused and terrified night staff as they began to come out of the shock. Cries from people demanding to know what had happened to the servers clashed with screams from people, convinced that the building was on fire.
Eric smashed the glass of a fire alarm button in the lobby, pushed at the little metal button. Nothing. He made his way to the desk, to retrieve the torch underneath it (it worked, thank goodness, but the batteries were low) but as he straightened up, his brain finally began to register where the light was coming from.
There was a hole in the side of the abandoned warehouse. And the light was coming from the white hot flames inside the building.
As people finally began to emerge into the lobby from the corridor, guided by the barely visible luminous emergency strips set in the ceiling and walls, Eric found himself distracted by the need to tend to the evacuees to pay much attention to the explosion in the warehouse. Which was why the second explosion, this time out in the open air, caught everyone by surprise and knocked them to the floor, including Eric himself, who'd managed to turn to see what was going on outside, and who was the only person in the office to actually witness the event.
The deafening crash starred the glass of the lobby, blew the doors in. Glittering fragments rained down on the concussed civilians as Eric fought to get up onto his feet. Glancing at the woman who'd fallen on top of him, Eric clambered and staggered to the lobby, stared out at the shell of the warehouse wreathed in white flames, and swore.
Absently, Eric wiped his nose with his finger. It came away bloody. He looked at the people on the floor of the lobby behind him, and realised that his nose wasn't the only one bleeding. Eric coughed: the smell of ammonia from outside was overwhelming, and brought tears to his eyes.
Eric swore again, and turned to look for any signs of movement outside. Nothing. Whoever had emerged from the warehouse had made good his escape.
"What happened?" someone asked Eric.
"Somebody took out the gang with a bazooka or something," Eric said. "Took 'em out completely. If there's anyone left alive in there, it'll be a bloody miracle."
"What do you mean, bazooka?" someone else said. "A bazooka wouldn't cause an EMP that fried all our servers."
"It wasn't no EMP," someone else said. "The bazooka guy must've blown a main line running under the warehouse, that's all. The bazooka took out our power when they took out the warehouse."
Murmurs of assent. "That's what it must be," the first person said. "Bloody hell, it gave me a shock ..."
As sirens became audible from approaching firetrucks, Eric shook his head, staring out at the gaping hole in the side of the warehouse, thinking about the dead gang members inside. He resolved to tender his resignation as soon as he got out of the hospital, and furthermore resolved to take his wife and kids as far away as they could from Manchester - maybe move to live with old Auntie Doris in Torbay, like the missus always wanted.
Because there was one thing Eric did agree upon. He'd seen the last explosion go off; caught the movement in the corner of his eye the instant before everything went up in a ball of fire. One of the figures had emerged from the ruins of the warehouse, followed - if Eric could believe his eyes - by something that looked like a gang member, on fire but seemingly walking about unharmed by the blaze. Across the street from this strange Thing, the trailing figure had turned, waved something that looked like a cross ... and then followed the explosion.
It wasn't a bazooka.
Eric resolved to keep what he really saw a secret that he'd take to his grave. After all, if he told them that he'd seen a column of light pour out of the cross like God's Wrath and snuff out the thing like a candle, they'd have no choice but to lock him up in a rubber room.
"It's déjà vu all over again," Libra said, stepping over blackened, crunching debris in the ruined shell of yet another burned out business premises. "Spartan, be careful over there."
"All right, Libra. Thanks," Spartan said, stepping away from a patch of something that looked like ashes in what looked like a rough human shape. This was near the wall in which the huge hole had been blown the night before.
"God, the stink of ammonia in here," Zeiss moaned. "I've never smelled anything like it!"
"It is a bit rich, isn't it?" Spartan said, approaching the group. "Any idea what happened?"
"I might have some idea," Zeiss said. "I need something to put my laptop on, though, because I'll need to try something I've only ever used once."
"Oh, aye? What would that be?"
"Let me set it up, and I'll tell you," Zeiss replied.
Together, Libra and Spartan found an empty drum, and hauled it across to where Zeiss was standing, near the pile of ashes on the floor. They placed it down on the ground, and Zeiss placed his laptop onto it, flipped the lid open and clicked on one of the screen savers he'd set up on the Office shortcut bar.
"Okay, then," Spartan said, not unkindly; "spill."
"Well, not long after I got the call - up by the Messengers," Zeiss said, "I found myself staring at a screen saver on my computer, and suddenly it was like I was reliving the night before, where I'd been reading this book in the very same chair. It was as if I was looking at me, doing the same thing over again; only I could hear it too.
"So I'm wondering if I can do this trick again," he added. The screen cleared, and a bizarre moire pattern appeared on the screen as tinkly music kicked in. "The music's part of it," Zeiss said. "The screen saver reacts to the sound, including my voice."
Zeiss stared at the screen, allowed his eyes to blur behind the prescription glasses ...
... and pitch darkness surrounded him, relieved only by the ghastly flickering of dim braziers.
Zeiss was inside the warehouse. It was the night before.
Zeiss turned, saw himself surrounded by leather - clad, languid figures lying around, clearly blissed out on something; some drug or something. Completing his turn, he saw what that drug was, where it came from.
The gang members were blood puppets. And they had been feeding from their master, a vampire clad in similar leather biker gear. There were two other vampires, clearly deferring to their master; some of the blood puppets were feeding from their hands, being clearly not good enough to sip the hallowed blood of the Leader. Zeiss watched as, satisfied, the blood puppets staggered towards the braziers, to lie down and loll around, radiant with sick pleasure.
"Hello," said a strange voice. Everybody turned towards the main entrance, on the left. Including Zeiss, who'd been as much caught by surprise as the vampires.
The gentleman stood near the entrance in a brown leather jacket, his long, angular face and brown hair making him look like a geography teacher Zeiss had once known in school. This figure stood unarmed before them, his hands outstretched to his sides. "I mean you no harm," he said.
"Oh, fuck you -" screamed one of the younger vampires, surging forwards to intercept the stranger.
"You look like you still remember your life as a person," the stranger said. "Do you remember?"
The young vampire was brought to a halt by the question. It stood before the advancing man, quivering, its expression agonised as it tried to wrestle with the unexplained emotions.
The elder vampire looked at the man, stepped back. The second young vampire followed suit. The older vampire hissed; the puppets lying about the fire opened their eyes, looked at the man, stood up as if their strings had all been tugged by one almighty hand and faced the man.
"Like I said," the man continued, "I really do mean you no harm ... as long as you still remember what it was like to be human." His face took on a beatific appearance. "Let all of you who remember, and repent, come to me."
The effect on the puppets was dramatic. The visage of the man was enough to bowl them over; screeching, scrabbling over the concrete and hissing in pain, they were forced back towards the retreating vampires until there was nowhere else to go, and they literally had their backs to the wall.
At this point, Mr Beatific placed his hands on his hips, scowled. "Well, look at the lot of you," he said. "Look what you have become. Don't you feel the slightest remorse?"
With a howl, torn from more than fifteen throats, puppets and vampires alike buried their heads in their hands and sank to their knees from the force of the Power. With shaking hands, the puppets took out knives and guns, and under the stern gaze of the Beatific hunter, began to turn the guns upon themselves.
A few gunshots later; a few gurgles and slices later; and the deed was done. Puppets lay dead or dying on the concrete, as pools of precious vampire blood spilled out from where the younger vampires had clawed and bitten themselves.
Only the oldest vampire stood, unhurt. He pushed off the body of one of his fallen comrades, stood up, looked at Mr Beatific and chuckled.
"You know," he said, "I kind of thought being human sucked anyway. I'm glad I got turned into a vampire: I feel so much better because of it." Its mouth widened, exposing long, saberlike fangs. The vampire crouched, ready to strike.
A deep, penetrating cloud of inky blackness suddenly seemed to come from nowhere, filling the room with dark, cloying smoke. Strangely enough, this was something Zeiss could see through quite clearly. He watched as the brown jacket man stepped to one side, as another person entered the fray at a run.
"What the f-" the vampire said. "I can't see! I can't hear!"
"I can," said a second voice. The second man was stocky, bald, in a black leather jacket, canvas trousers and brown shoes. He was carrying a large copper pipe, which he swung at the vampire. It connected, shattering its arm at the elbow. The vampire howled; the sound carried in the smoke cloud as far as the mew of a kitten.
"Let's get th'fuck out of here!" yelled the bald guy. The brown jacket guy joined him, and they raced for the wall.
"But there isn't a door there!" yelled Brown Jacket Guy.
The bald man yelled, took out a crucifix, waved it in front of him.
A vast column of energy seemed to leap from just in front of the cross, flash towards the wall and blast its way through the prefab corrugated iron, leaving behind an immense hole. Part of the blast caught the edge of some chemical barrels stacked against the wall; the detonation went through Zeiss' feet, even despite that he was only an observer, not a participant.
The stench of ammonia brought tears to Zeiss' eyes; or was that the stench from the present day? Zeiss could never be sure. Either way, Zeiss was amazed to see how it made Brown Jacket Guy's nose bleed.
Dodging the flames, Bald Guy and Brown Jacket Guy made their way to the hole, escaping into the street outside. As the smoke cloud inside dissipated, the vampire growled, wiped its bleeding nose on its sleeve, turned and raced for the hole itself, followed by Zeiss.
At the threshold of the hole in the wall, the vampire turned, saw the brown jacket guy making his way towards a 4 x 4; what the Australians would call a Ute, and the Americans would call a SUV. That left ...
... Bald Guy.
Across the street, facing the vampire.
Waving the crucifix in front of him.
Sensing that this was a moment for final words, the vampire stared at the little man. "Oh, sh-" it began.
Then everything was white light and pain.
Zeiss opened his eyes. He was staring out of the hole in the wall. It was daylight. A passing car zoomed by him; the driver spotted Zeiss, standing in the entrance, his hands in front of himself as if to ward off the blast. The driver beeped the car horn, gave Zeiss the two fingered salute, yelled "Wanker!" through the open window of the car.
Zeiss turned, looked at Libra and Spartan, who stood beside the laptop, staring at him.
"Did it work?" Libra asked. "It looked like you were rehearsing a play. Was that the effect?"
"Yeah," Zeiss said. "And now, I have something to work on. But I am so pissed off at the Heralds."
Libra and Spartan looked puzzled at Zeiss. "Whatever for?"
"Because," Zeiss replied, "I can only look back through bloody time, at what was. Why couldn't they have given me the ability to look ahead, like to next Saturday?"
"Why?" Spartan asked.
"What's the point of being clairvoyant if you can only peer at last week's winning Lottery numbers?" Zeiss grumbled, his arms folded across his chest.
From: [email protected]
To: hunter_list
Subject: Big boom
Date: 14/06/2001, 12:15:13.43 BST (+1)
Look, I know I'm not exactly in favour with the list right now, but there's this really big thing going down in Manchester. I think there's a hunter that can throw atomic blasts or something.
Okay, this is the description that I got: About ten metres range, huge flash of light, massive crashing sound like God set light to one of His farts, incredible reek of ammonia that lasts long after the blast. It's discoloured concrete, steel, glass; it ate a corrugated iron wall and load bearing column, and by the description, it's also responsible for wiping out electronic data in a nearby Internet business, as well as causing nosebleeds in everyone within a disturbingly wide radius.
Have you ever heard any imbued hunter using a force like this?
- Libra
From: hunter_list
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Big boom
Date: 14/06/2001, 13:37:23.75 BST (+1)
> Okay, this is the description that I got:
Got it.
I've only heard of something like this once, and even that was a rumour. Some crazy guy once came through my home town of Inverness, claiming he could "smite the unbeliever with lightning" or something.
I never saw him do it, but he did wear a sign for "chosen" on his jacket. That's all I've got. Good luck, Libra. If you're up against the same nutcase I had to face, and if he really can throw fire around like that, you're going to need it. He was one serious loon, and he won't stop for anybody, human or imbued. If you're in his way, and you don't get out of his way, you're seriously dead.
I called him "The Spilled Pint Killer." That's what he did to someone who spilled his pint.
- BonnyLass833
Libra looked at the hardcopy of the email from the list, looked up at Spartan and Zeiss. He leaned against the door of the people carrier.
"Is this the one?" Libra asked Spartan. "The one from the videofit?"
"Yeah," Spartan replied. "Bald guy, black leather jacket, shoes ... anything else?"
"Yeah," Zeiss said. "Piercings on his face."
"He's our man," Spartan replied. "Brown Jacket guy, too."
"Do you have their names?" Libra asked.
"I will, shortly," Spartan said. "If the report of Bald Guy's activities in Inverness are confirmed."
"Got them," Spartan said, over Libra's mobile. "At least, two of them."
"And they are ...?"
"Our Brown Jacket Man is one Thomas Warner, originally from Surrey," said Spartan. "Wanted on counts of multiple murder, and a highly charismatic confidence trickster to boot." Tapping on the keyboard. "The other guy, the bald one, is ... Sean Hoskins, from Neath, near Port Talbot, in South Wales." A pause. "Bloody Hell," Spartan said.
"What?"
"That lass in Inverness was right," Spartan said. "Someone jostled his elbow in a pub in Inverness, caused a little beer to spill. The guy offered to buy Mr Hoskins a fresh pint. Mr Hoskins, instead, rammed the broken edges of the glass into the guy's cranium. Killed him instantly." Pause. "Strathclyde Police want this man, badly."
"Yes," Libra said. "Well, sadly, it looks like the police are going to have a very hard time trying to take them down."
"You're telling me," Spartan said. "There's a name, as well, for the third man - Gene Steiner. There's a report of a hotel being fleeced in Carlisle. Three men, giving the names I have here, including the third man, Gene Steiner. Steiner claimed to come from Ramsgate, but there's no record of him. The name could be false. No official record of Gene Steiner exists."
Libra smiled. "Look, the fact you've got names means you can do something about it now," he said. "Hotel records, credit card and ATM transaction records, garage surveillance tapes, car hire rental logs, closed circuit TV streetcams ..."
Silence from the other end of the line. "Are you trying to tell me my job?" Spartan asked.
Libra grinned. "Spartan, the thought never crossed my mind."
Spartan laughed. "No, seriously, though, all that will need some digging through a shitload of databases, and probably take a lot of time. More time than we've got."
"Yeah," Libra said. "For me, too."
"But," Spartan added, "you know who's got that sort of access to databases like that?"
"Who?"
Libra could practically hear Spartan smile. "Only yer man in Manchester himself ..."
Libra found himself grinning.
"Blaster219," he and Spartan said, simultaneously.
By: Fiat Knox
Copyright © Fiat Knox, 2001