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by Axel Widén, 27 Dec 2000
Ramona was happy.
Tonight she would please her Master, as she had so many times before.
Though the jobs themselves had long since lost their joy, the giddy sensation she experienced every time she fulfilled His wish was worth more to her than anything else. Daddy Alzis loved having little Rammie tidying up, didn't he indeed? Daddy A knew she was good; he knew he could trust her.
Daddy A knew she would succeed with this little affair as well, despite what the sheep had done to her Thingie. Poor, poor Thingie, ending up all ripped and torn like some mutilated infant.
Sometimes it was just better to do the slaughter personally.
Enjoying the feel of cold concrete under her bare feet, Ramona stepped out of her plated pink boots. There now; pale little Rammie, all alone in big bad Brooklyn. What would Daddy say? The wet roof of the rundown apartment building vibrated as a late night train rushed by, mere feet above her. Darting lights from inside the wagons flashed across her naked body, briefly turning her into some strobe-illuminated trance queen. For her eyes only, of course; tonight, Brooklyn was mesmerised. Ah-a, no naked Rammie-lammie-ding-dong for big bad Brooklyn boys to drool over this evening, no siree!
Ramona picked up a long curved razor from the pile of clothes and strapped it to her forearm with a thin leather cord. Tightly... tighter.
Yes, that was it. Tight enough to draw blood, right there. She licked the crimson drops rolling down the dark string, rubbing some over her white teeth with the tongue. Most of it she mixed with saliva, producing a reddish substance which she spewed out unto a small silver plate. There now, there now... and the words, don't forget the words Rammie! The mixture seemed to boil as it reacted to her low mumbling. She positioned herself sitting across the plate, spreading her curvy legs over it as she frenziedly rubbed her genitals with both hands. Fast tonight, aren't we? Indeed, always fast when doin' it for Daddy A! There... ah, there now, a few drops of that honey was all it took. Another train thundered by. Someone was playing Frank Sinatra in one of the apartments below her. She urinated upon the plate while uttering a guttural chant under her panting breath. Reaching the climax of the ritual, she crouched over the stained silver and left a sample of her feces.
There. Finished. Ta-daa.
After pausing for a moment to regain strength, Ramona quickly covered her glistening fingertips with the sickening purple substance and proceeded to draw curved, obscene patterns across her now sweaty skin. Then she ate what was left. She could feel it now, the power of the designs shoved brutally into her body. Yes. Yes, that was it. Stronger now, faster now.
Going to get that head now.
- - -
White became red.
The blood from the dead terrorists poured out in the thin snow, creating a pink slush. Hardigan watched as the camoflauged soldiers made the remaining three-four terrorists line up, hands on their heads, spreadlegged against the leaning 747. The Chinook lowered itself to the ground, whipping icy blasts of air against the passengers. Poor bastards. A few of the soldiers were ushering the civilians into the transports.
Two men in polar suits left the Chinook, crouching, one a lot taller than the other. He paused to study the scene, his face unreadable behind the goggles and hood. One of the soldiers exchanged a few inaudible words with him and pointed towards Hardigan and Torsten. Great, thought Hardigan. Just great.
Boswell left his three dumbfounded colleagues and hurried up to Jacobys small frame. "Hey sir... sir, what's going on?" Jacoby turned from the tall man next to him. "Boswell. You are to leave this area immediately. Take the Huey and head back to McMurdoch with your group." There was something unfamiliarly hard in his superiors voice. "But sir..."
"You heard me. Now. I will only tell you one more time." Boswell froze as Jacoby revealed a pistol. "Sir, yes sir!" Reluctantly he withdrew, waving his companions into the chopper. Something was horribly, horribly wrong.
As the Huey left in another blast of cold, the tall man walked up to Torsten and Hardigan. "The document." There was a distinct depth to his voice, even through the polar suit. Hardigan avoided meeting Torstens eyes.
A quick series of shots startled both of them. Glancing over his shoulder, Hardigan saw that there were no terrorists left alive. Four red stains covered the hull of the Boeing. Torsten was breathing rapidly. "I know where it is, just..." His eyes moved, taking in the soon-filled transports. "Just let me go with them." Fool, thought Hardigan. The tall man was immobile behind the circular goggles, calculating. "Fair enough. Now where is it." Torstens black eyebrows relaxed as he sighed with relief.
Watched by several soldiers, he climbed into the Boeing and moments later emerged with the brown envelope. The tall man folded it open and briefly studied the contents. He nodded and gesticulated towards the Hercules. Like a scared dog, Torsten hurried into the hold. The civilians visibly flinched.
Hardigans teeth were rattling and he felt like he was turning blue. The tall man studied him for a moment. He tapped a button on his headset and spoke. "Alright people, listen up. Red team, compromise the aircraft. Blue team, scramble. Birdie 1 and 2, spare parts." He released the button. "Now, Mr. Hardigan. I believe we have a lot to talk about. The chopper, now."
- - -
Red Thomas listened attentively as the Thing whispered again. About kinship, about killing. They were asleep now, the others so attached to Lee that they dozed off when he did. Fools. Thomas had remained awake instead, passively hearing the Thing. And now it was directing him to where the girl was, the girl with the razor, the invisible girl, the one here to kill them. But not really kill, said the Thing. Thomas felt her, but didn't see her. But the Thing saw her, oh yes. Defensive measures had to be taken. It was not yet time, the Thing said. And Thomas understood.
He let It come out to play.
- - -
The first thing Lee could think of when he started to wake up was that the Book, that accursed tome, had hit him in the head. Ever since Lepus produced it from his suspiciously big trenchcoat, Lee had felt sick. He didn't even want to look at it, and despite the objections of Bobbi and Harvey he'd stepped outside the room when Lepus started quoting it. At least, that's what it must have looked like. Inside him, the appearance of the book had caused a rebellion, a Black Plague of madness in the feudal kingdom of his psyche. He was barely able to maintain control, and far worse, he had felt a terrible hint of laughing darkness behind those internal squabbles.
That laughter had scared him more than anything else had in years.
He knew Bobbi and the other two were going by the Book now; they were on to something, and they dragged him along. So far, they had respected his unwillingness to study the tome. Bobbi even became apologetic. Inside, Red Thomas made himself heard for once, trying to get the others more interested in the worm-eaten manuscript. Mycroft was against it, of course. Cordelia sobbingly refused to touch it, and the others didn't even comment. Sleep had been a blessing, as his three associates had for some reason relocated to this cheap Brooklyn hotel during the day.
Right, awake. Lee opened his eyes.
Shock.
Running through cramped alleys. Dark greens and browns. Speed. Lights. Traffic. And blood. He was covered with blood. And-
GOOD GOD!
He couldn't have made that jump, never! Running over roofs. Usurped. Rain.
Slowly Lee accepted the role as spectator. Everything appeared hazed, smeared against him like simulated animal hunting vision on Discovery. He didn't even feel; he was just a passenger. Who...? Red Thomas. But there was something else, something unthinkable but horribly familiar behind Thomas ecstatic screaming, something... something godlike.
What was this? They were hunting! Trails of blood before them, something moving almost as fast as them over the polluted concrete. A lightning fist, smashing; contact. Something not seen, but... yes, a humanoid shape in the rain. Trying to get up... a girl. Strange tattoos... glowing? She ripped a chimney from the roof and lunged at them, too fast. But the Thing that controlled Lee's arms through Red Thomas blocked. A swooping kick sent her violently flying several yards. Brick wall; crash.
The rain fell in slow motion.
She got up; impossible! A blade in her fist, cruelly bent. Naked. Rushing, so quick! Everything was beautiful, every millisecond visible. Rush to!
Kill! KILL! HUNT!
Slam; they connect, crashing in low-g from the roof into the alley.
Gliding downward, passing lit windows.
SLAM: landing, cracked pavement. Wet newspapers, wet body. They all scream inside. There; the girl, naked, pale, breasts. Weakened now. Yes; grab her, TAKE HER! But... a bug, a man in rags in the corner. Filthy; so slow! They step up to him; his eyes don't follow. Go through him; DO HIM it screams, and there; a fist, a foot, a red mist slipping lazily down into the rain, flesh. Flesh. The girl. Yes. Turn around. GONE! Rage; SMASH! Wall smashed... yes, relief. Falling bricks, falling rain. Falling over, broken bodied, bleeding black bursts.
There... a man. Tommy? Tommy Lee Jones, come mend me my bones... Tommy? Oh Tommy, what are you doing here in the alley of blood and gods... and what are you doing with that ray gun, Tommy?
...
- - -
The man who called himself Torsten started to relax.
What a day it had been! His head hurt more than usual, and it was not because someone had hit him. Schweinhunds... bastards! Despite the goggles and hood and big fancy polar equipment, his employer had been easily recognisable. Scheisse, scheisse! Double-crossed, ja? He slammed his cold fist into the steel of the Hercules. A small girl next to him shied away and started to cry. Nobody cared now, though. The passengers lay huddled in the twilight, their sobs drowning in the constant roar from the engines. They kept away from him as much as they could. Naturally.
He was cold. And hungry! They better have food prepared at McMurdoch, if that was where they were going. Damn if he would let that bald old man get away with this! He had resources, hadn't he? He would find him, and he would make him pay. Smiling, he thought about what he would do to the schwein once he had him.
After what seemed like hours, he could feel the transport descending and finally touching the ground with a gentle bump. They rolled for a bit, then came to a halt. The passengers started to move now; children clutching their mothers and men pathetically trying to help each other up, overweight American seniors, teenagers succumbing to the latest fashion orders, a crippled woman in a wheelchair, a drooling infant sleeping drunkenly against it's mothers flabby bosom. Such a fragile web of faked empathy.
The hatch clunked open and weak light poured inside. They were in what seemed to be some sort of hangar. Men with guns moved in the dusk outside, escorting the civilians out. He jumped to his feet (ach, but was he cold and stiff!) and followed the stream of people soon joining with the group from the other transport.
This was no hangar, he mused as he dimly noticed the passengers bumping into each other to avoid him. No, a cave of some sort, and a big one at that! The few mobile spotlights set up around the aircraft hinted at a vast expanse of space around them. Impressive, ja. But what were they doing here?
Something was wrong. The men with the guns led them down a smooth stone ramp that disappeared into the rock surface. There were carvings in the walls, vaguely starshaped inscriptions that made his head hurt even more when he looked at them.
"Vat's going on!" he demanded. "Shut up, keep moving" came the reply. Ach so? He could feel the unease growing within the crowd, people following his example. Ja, there was definitely a chance of escape here. Soon. And then the processions came round a corner and through a portal, and the mothers screamed, and the children screamed, and the fathers screamed.
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