Lieutenant Arkham: Elves and Bullets (27 page)

The machine guns cease their hammering for a few seconds, something’s not right.

“Have you finished, bastards?!” I shout from my crouching position, hoping to distract them long enough to formulate a plan.

Pity they don’t fall for it. Something curves over my hiding place, bounces off the wall and heads straight for me.

OHSHITAGRENADE
!

I make a break for it and jump towards the abandoned carcass of the van, near the pile of rubbish.

The explosion happens while I’m in mid-air, the blast pushes me several metres farther than the world record for the long-jump. My ears are ringing and everything hurts. My brain switches off, the seconds stretch out. That thing where your whole life flashes before your eyes when you’re about to die is a load of old
bollocks
.

Once you’ve got used to the fact that every now and then people try to stick you inside a big black bag, you develop a second brain in one of the hormonal glands. Animal instinct. The survival instinct.

Still stunned from the blast, I drag myself on my hands and knees behind a white minivan. My hands are caked in layers of dirt, blood, black stuff from the Sixth, different blood. Some shards must have pierced my body somewhere. In various places. However, I don’t feel any pain, I haven’t got time.

More guttural swearing and the umpteenth spray of bullets shattering the windows above my head distract me from my suffering. Grabbing hold of a fragment of the rear view mirror I use it as a periscope.

Bastard number one: he fires to kill from the back of his motorbike. It means he’s very sure of himself if he chose such poor protection. The reasoning being: I’m already screwed so I may as well stay in the middle of the road and at least protect my balls.

Bastard number two: his orange head pops out on the other side of the road. He’s getting ready to drive me out, I would literally bet my life on it.

The last contender is nowhere to be seen yet. He’s probably coming from the other direction. If I give him time to get into position, I’m finished. Crossfire. I’m stuck here until number two gets a clear shot and turns me into a human colander.

Number two has reloaded, his machine gun starts spitting warning fire. The other one breaks away and starts running to close the distance and get me. Here comes the shot of my life, if I mess it up I’m dead.

I take the Altra and take aim based on my reflexes. The circus has come to town. The world slows down once again, a final hair’s breadth adjustment.

Fire.

The bullet hits the motorbike saddle. Number one ducks automatically and holds his fire. I stand up and spin around until I’m facing the runner, catching him by surprise. He tries to raise his automatic, but he’s on the move, and he has to take aim. I only have to improvise mine. The Altra produces its murderous hissing noise, and the pig suddenly finds himself lying on the line which separates the two lanes staring at an expanding pool of blood.

Two against one. The one on the ground tries to shout and emits a broken moan of agony.

“Two-nil, shit face!”

“Fucking bastard!” answers the one who was providing cover, not so self-confident now.

Now he needs better protection, the chicken shit. He fires off a few more shots to the spot I was in three seconds ago, but I’m no longer there. I’ve rolled under the car, bastard. I was just waiting for you to crap yourself and move away. Yeah, move to exactly where you are now.

A whisper, flames, right in his shin. Number two smacks his face onto the ground with a scream. In this case, having a flat nose is an advantage. Pity it can’t save him from the second bullet which blows his head clean off.

One against one. I want a fucking statue. With a plaque: TO THE BEST SHOOTER IN HISTORY. Okay, okay. And to his gun.

“Let’s not argue just now.” I take my leave from my colleague and slide out.

Oh, shit.

There’s number four. In front of me and he’s pointing his machine gun in my face. He’s grinning triumphantly, with those long, fat canine teeth sticking out of those orange lips that all fucking ogres have. Murdered by a pig biker. I prepare for death, squeeze my eyes closed and pray to Zadro that this does not end up being my epitaph.

Click.

Click click click. He squeezes the trigger hysterically as though he were masturbating a frigid sow.

It’s jammed.

“Oh-oh. Tough luck!” His face is stunned. Then I add an air hole smack bang between his incredulous eyes. It’s so gratifying when they pop their clogs wearing that expression which says “Shit, I don’t believe it”. I love it.

I sink to the ground and breathe. How long has it been since I last breathed? Phew.

Fuck, that was close, really close.

I take a hefty snort straight out of the baggie, way too much. My heart is pounding crazily, but palpitations are a small price to pay for numbing the pain in my back and in my thigh, from which I’ve just extracted a piece of metal almost two centimetres long, it was poking out halfway. There isn’t anything sticking out of my back: apart from the exact nature of the object which injured me, I hope it’s because the dart came out when I took my ripped raincoat off.

The second cigarette, lit directly from the stub of the first one, seems destined to live a longer life than the previous one. I swap my raincoat for a leather jacket belonging to the last pig I shot, to hide the most obvious injuries at least. I find the killer’s mobile in one of the pockets, after throwing away a magazine of bullets, the hit man will never get to use it again. I realise my hand is trembling when I key in Ugube’s number, which I know by heart. I wait for him to pick up the phone, I am unnaturally calm.

“Hello?” he answers after one ring.

“Fucking, bastard bag of shit.” I open with the tone of voice of someone ordering a takeaway.

“Lieutenant Arkham?” He’s disoriented.

“No, you heap of toxic waste, it’s your dietician. I resign and I’m going to kill myself because you’re a hopeless pile of shit, you obese bastard.”

“Watch your language, if…”

“
Like fuck I will
, son of a bitch!”

“What is this rant in aid of?”

“I’m standing in the middle of a fucking bloodbath, that’s what, you brainless fuck!”
I’m waving my arms about amongst the road strewn with vehicles.

“Lieutenant.”

“Lieutenant what, for fuck’s sake?!”

“Take a deep breath, calm down and tell me exactly what’s happened.”

I take his advice so I don’t suffocate and die, certainly not out of politeness.

“I’ll tell you what’s happened. Four bastards that were popped out by some whore from your family ambushed your shitty van and I was this close to getting killed, this close, let’s say the length of your miserable cock, for
fuck’s sake
.

He takes that in and thinks for a moment.

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?
Sorry
, what the fuck?! I’m bleeding like a pig that’s had its throat cut and you’re
sorry
?”

“I understand that this situation has made you emotional, Arkham, so I will overlook your impertinence.”

“Fuck you!”

“ … However, I’m sure you’ll agree with me regarding the urgency of getting you to safety and medicating your injuries as soon as possible.”

“You can bet your arse I agree. Send me one of your arse-lickers and get me out of here now!”

“That’s out of the question.”

“What the bollocks are you on about?”

“Be quiet and listen to me, if you want to live. Near the south-east ring road there’s a bar, the Iron Fist. Go there and say I’ve sent you, they will treat your injuries.”

“So, in your opinion I’m supposed to walk a kilometre in this state? What happened, did you feel peckish and eat your own brain?”

“You are an extremely resourceful man. I’m sure you’ll find a way. In any case that’s as much as I can do for the moment. Call me again from there, I shall take this inconvenience into account when we discuss your fee.”

“You’d better, fatty.”

I end the call. Bastard.

Two of the four wheels which brought me here are ripped to bits, and I have absolutely no desire to see if there are two spares, let alone jack the car up. What’s more, driving around in what’s left of the van is a sure way to draw attention to myself: Sixth or no Sixth, sooner or later the cousins will come to see what the fuck all that shooting was about, and they’ll set about hunting down the ones who got away.

I’ll take one of the motorbikes, it’s the only thing for it. I couldn’t really say how long it’s been since I last got on a motorbike, but my hope is that the gay coat makes the gentleman. One is sputtering on its side on the ground, the engine’s still running. I stand it back up and I’m ready to set off towards the Iron Fist, when I’m overcome by doubt and I stop in my tracks. I leave my new vehicle on its kick-stand and limp to the back of the van.

Ugube didn’t ask me where I was. He didn’t ask me about the goods, or the driver. Four professionals come out of nowhere and ambush me on the way to the warehouse. Four pigs.

Maybe I’m just being paranoid. Gods, please tell me it’s just because I’m a junkie and I need to sleep.

I open one of the crates.

It’s empty.

Or, full of shit about to hit the fan.

Ugube has tried to screw me over big time.

“Shit!” I scream, flinging one of the lids into the road. I open them all, one after the other, in the increasingly vain hope that it’s a trick to get through the checks or something else. It isn’t of course, and then it wouldn’t make sense to set all this up with me on board. There’s nothing, absolutely nothing.

A fucking trap.

Clearly, there’s a bullet in the back of the head waiting for me at the bar. Ugube wants me dead while I’m actively working at pissing off a more important dynasty, when there’s no going back. I’m alone and injured, I daren’t risk using my mobile or credit card. Result: my life is worth less than my weight in dog shit. And I don’t see anybody selling dog shit.

The dramatic turn of events in the last few minutes leads me to reconsider the usefulness of that nine millimetre magazine. There’s no point shooting a machine gun when I have my faithful companion with me, but the bullets are the same, who knows when I’ll be able to go home and get a fresh supply.

Before leaving the scene I stick a corner of my trusty raincoat into the petrol tank of the van, to use as a fuse. I’ve got more chance of winning the lottery than forensics have of worrying about collecting fingerprints at a shoot out on the Sixth, but all I need is some wanker from the disciplinary committee knocking on my door and asking questions about my involvement in a massacre in the slums so I’d better be on the safe side. I light the piece of fabric and hotfoot it towards the motorbike. I instantly regret jumping onto the chrome chopper, when my wounds irradiate pain through my entire body until my teeth vibrate, despite the horse-dose of anaesthetic I prescribed and administered to myself ten minutes ago.

I have to get to the boot of my car before I bleed to death. There’s no point thinking about everything else until I perform this pressing task.

And then, even though it is desperately sad, but I must confess that riding a bike after all this time without falling off like a total idiot requires my full attention.

At least I’m too busy to shit myself.

Farther down the road, a roar covers the rumble of the cylinders.

“Do you need any help?” The customs officer is concerned when he sees the sorry state I’m in.

“Yes, I need you to raise that fucking bar,” my throat rasps behind my badge.

The grey jacket delivers and I set off again before the bar has reached the top. I graze it with my head. My vision is blurring now, I almost veer off into the other lane and end up like a mosquito on the windscreen of a truck.

At the lay by I break too hard, the back wheel skids on the dirt road and I fall off. I get up, moaning like a fifteen-year-old girl who’s just lost her virginity. Almost there. When I get to the car, I drop the keys three times while I laboriously fumble with the lock of the boot. I fling it open and scratch the back looking for the false bottom, meanwhile a black curtain is falling in front of my eyes. I finally find the hidden flap and pull it. I’m on my knees, the top half of my body inside the car. I’m groping blindly, tossing aside the various useful objects I keep in the car for emergencies, until my fingertips chance upon cold shatterproof glass. I hope it’s glass and not a reinforced cylinder.

I open it and drink. A fifty-fifty chance is better than zero in any case, which is what I’ve got left at this moment in time. I knock back my head and drain the liquid into my mouth. I can feel part of it dribble down my cheeks.

It tastes of strawberries, thank the Gods.

The healing potion takes effect immediately. My vision clears and my wounds close. I exhale a crescendo of sighs, which culminate in a hearty curse. I look at the metallic container of the vial of black fluid, the alchemist’s fire, which bursts into flames after a few seconds in contact with the air. In any case, this nasty surprise from Ugube has just cost me a year’s salary.

I stand in the rain for a good few minutes washing off as best I can the bloodstains and the worst of the dirt. I look at my miserable reflection in the mirror several times, but in the end I’m forced to settle for a pretty wretched version of myself. I go back inside to the dry interior of the van and light a cigarette. The dashboard registers twenty past eleven.

I was betrayed, now I’m hunted too. Escaping the clutches of a prominent figure in Nectropis is virtually impossible. Identification spells, like the ones used in the divination section of the Guard, are of a high level, but they can easily be bought, providing you have enough money. I’ve got an unbearably heavy feeling on my chest, a rock that’s trying to suffocate me: for the most part, on a rational level I understand it, that anxiety comes after a brush with the abyss, so a kind of “artificial” bleakness. The rest of it, however, is all terror, more than justified in the present situation. I resist the temptation to give up, but it takes an enormous amount of willpower.