Though only a year-and-a-half old, the Regal Motors 710 Wendigo had already been praised as one of the most attractive cars to come out of the Equestrian automobile market, but in the cloud shrouded moonlight that hung over Bridleton, the jet black example that sat near the abandoned warehouse had the appearance of a sinister beast from a children’s fairy tale.
Its long hood, ghoulishly nicknamed a “coffin nose” by its designers, was smooth save for the eight silver louvers that wrapped around the front of it. Nestled behind those louvers was a supercharged V-8 engine that could push the Wendigo up to 112 miles per hour. The front fenders of the car seemed to have no headlights, but they were there; in another unique flourish, the Wendigo’s designers had made them retractable.
It seemed ridiculous that such a car, another expensive toy made for the country’s wealthy and elite, would be parked on the side of a dumpy-looking stretch of road outside the forest of skyscrapers that probed the black heavens, but there it lay. The engine was still and no human eyes ogled the car’s bodywork or the chrome-lined windshield. Even if there were, peering into the latter would have been futile. The windows were tinted, yielding no trace of movement inside.
From behind those windows sat a human shape, the folds of his black trench coat showing dimly under the Wendigo’s illuminated instrument panel. He was hatless, but most of the wearer’s face—not to mention his entire head—was concealed beneath a cloth hood reminiscent of a medieval executioner. A gloved hand held a set of night binoculars to the holes of the hood—and the amber eyes behind it. Above the eyeholes, a pair of goggles sat awkwardly on the figure’s forehead.
Slowly and methodically, the driver panned the binoculars across the vista before him. Through a rusty, chain-link fence that was mercifully free of barbed wire at the top, he could make out form of a warehouse, its reddish-brown brickwork worn from years and years of harsh Bridleton weather. Thanks to the moonlight that filtered through the clouds, he could see ugly streaks of rust marring almost every foot of the corrugated steel roof. The windows surrounding the upper level of the two-story building appeared black and lifeless.
On the right side of the warehouse, the driver focused on a steel fire escape that rose fifteen feet up the wall and ended at a door that pierced the brick wall. Might be a way in, he judged silently to himself.
Then he panned the binoculars back and forth over the area surrounding the warehouse. From its walls to the fence was a vast concrete field. Here and there, the shadowy forms of shipping crates, piles of steel drums, cars, trucks and a few trailers carpeted its surface. Must have been a distribution center for something, mused the figure in black. As far he could see, the perimeter seemed vacant. Not even a stray cat was visible through the powerful binoculars.
“Still,” he muttered, “better be on my toes.” From the left side of the car, a mournful wail caused the black-shrouded head to turn away from the binoculars and gaze upon the glistening iron bands of the Bridleton Railyard. He was just in time to see a steam locomotive chugging out from behind a string of boxcars, dirtying the crisp, star speckled air with a black smoke plume.
The driver shifted his focus to a clock on the car’s instrument panel. The luminous hands read 11:37.
As if to mock him, events of the past few days flickered swiftly in his brain. The sight of the four innocent women, gaping blood soaked cavities in each of their chests where their hearts had been gruesomely carved out. Their open sightless eyes and slacked jaws of death. The helpless look in Flitter’s own eyes as those thugs, hidden behind their robes and hoods dragged her away to be victim number five while he fought off their comrades.
He purged the vision from his head with prejudice, leaned over and dropped the binoculars on the passenger seat, careful not to crush the crown of the slouch hat that sat upon the upholstered leather. Then, he pulled back the left cuff of his coat, revealing a wrist watch.
That was only partially true. While the upper portion of the rectangular steel case did indeed have all the parts one would expect for a watch, the bottom portion carried what seemed to be a tiny square of fine wire mesh. On the right side of the case were two buttons. He pressed one.
“Sparks, you there?” he asked calmly into the watch.
Within a second, a hiss of static erupted from the tiny speaker. “Standing by sir,” a male voice squawked back. “Hit pay dirt?”
“Looks like it,” said the stranger with an air of confidence. “Seems that the chat I had earlier with my friend from the kidnapping scene was quite helpful. Then again, anyone with common sense would talk when they’re dangling upside down from a thirty story building.” From beneath the mask, he smirked evilly, savoring the screaming and blubbering the robed thug had made as he spilled the beans high above the column of twinkling traffic lights.
“Location?” asked Sparks.
The stranger picked up the binoculars, brought them back up to his eyes and turned the focusing thumbwheel. “Lettering’s faded on the front, but I think the place is called Chinook Moving and Storage.”
Over the watch’s speaker came a strange sound—almost like paper shuffling. Then Sparks’s voice returned. “Got it! Sixteen twelve North Industrial Street.”
The figure opened a glove compartment, leaned over and shoved the binoculars in. “Sparks get on the scrambler,” he said firmly into the watch speaker. “Place an anonymous call with Bridleton PD and tell them they can find Miss Flitter there.” He glanced at the watch’s luminous dial. “Midnight’s in twenty minutes. I’m going in.”
“Be careful sir,” came Sparks’s voice. Even on his wrist radio, the wearer sensed the concern.
“Thanks.”
Ending the transmission, the driver removed the twin .45 pistols from his shoulder holsters one at a time, slightly pulled the back the blued slides for a brass check, and inserted them back into place. He then lowered the goggles over his eyes, concealing them behind lenses as black as the maw of a well. It was illusory; the lenses worked like a one-way mirror in an interrogation room. The wearer could see just fine. Finally, he reached for the hat.
“Time to go crash a party,” said Stoutheart grimly as he put the hat on.
* * * *
With the skill and speed of a Polyneighsian native, The Wraith scaled the outside of the chain link fence and dropped down to the concrete like a cat. For a second or two he hesitated and listened for any reaction to his leather shoes hitting the cracked and weed-strewn concrete. He heard nothing, just the distant noise of more locomotives shunting cars in the rail yard behind him.
The vigilante craned his neck skyward. A blanket of thick puffy clouds obscured the full moon, but its glow touched their edges like quicksilver. Grateful for the extra darkness that it brought on the ground, The Wraith set off in a sprint toward the nearest shipping crate, huddling behind its cover and peering over the top edge toward the warehouse.
No one in sight. So far, so good, thought Stoutheart. He moved out and began darting among the vehicles littered in front of him. Between their concealing embrace, he paused for short periods, his ears tuned for the sound of foreign footsteps or a hushed voice. He heard nothing save for his heart beating within his ribcage. He peeked from over hoods, around corners, and under the large gaps between the parking lot and the underbodies of the trailers. No human shapes materialized in his goggles.
Closing to within 25 yards of the warehouse, The Wraith hunkered behind a stack of oil drums and peered over the metal rim. He easily made out the wooden floor-to-ceiling double doors that were wide enough to let a truck through. One such truck, a small green nondescript model, sat near the left door. It seemed to be vacant. The Wraith was about to spring from his cover when the driver’s side door—which was closer to warehouse entrance—opened with a squeal and a man stepped out. From behind his mask, Stoutheart bit his lip. He held his position and lowered himself behind the drums until only his hat and the rims of his goggles were visible.
Unlike the robes and hoods the cultists wore, the truck driver was in normal street clothes; overcoat, slacks, and a flat cabbie cap perched on his head. The telltale pinprick of light near his mouth revealed a cigarette clenched in his lips. Dangling from his right hand was a favorite weapon of Bridleton’s underworld: a .45 caliber Clopton Submachine Gun. The fifty round drum magazine and wooden vertical foregrip stuck out like a sore thumb.
His body language seemed relaxed. After closing the door, the driver, puffing away on his smoke, strolled across the front of the warehouse, his hands now cradling the Clopton and head swiveling from side to side and occasionally skyward. Then he disappeared around a corner.
Like a spring that had been wound too tightly, The Wraith tore out of his hiding place, padded towards the wall, and hugged it. Normally he would have waited a moment, but time was not on his side, nor Flitter’s. That was coldly apparent. The cloud cover wouldn’t last forever in the breeze either. He looked up. The large bank of cloud was halfway across now. A few more minutes, and the moon would re-emerge and bathe him in natural moonlight which increased the odds of detection tenfold. He had to take a chance.
Peeking around the corner, The Wraith hunched down to give the lowest possible profile. His eyes picked up another truck trailer maybe ten feet from the fire escape he spotted earlier. His target’s legs could be seen walking toward the trailer’s back end and disappeared behind the double wheels. The Wraith emerged from the corner and crept quickly but with caution toward the trailer.
Rounding the trailer revealed the sight of the man standing a few feet ahead, his back unknowingly facing The Wraith, and a still glowing cigarette butt discarded on the ground. The Clopton leaned up against one of the trailer tires. His legs were spread and his hands were concealed behind the overcoat. From between the legs, a thin stream of watery liquid pattered onto the ground sending up wisps of steam in the chilly air.
Reaching into his trench coat, The Wraith pulled out a knife; it was a nasty affair that was dagger shaped, and sported a seven inch double edged blade. Gripping the handle, he closed noiselessly to within shoulder-tapping distance of the gunman. Then, The Wraith held his breath, tensed his muscles—and lunged.
There was not an ounce of hesitation. The Wraith’s left glove clamped hard over the man’s mouth, sending a muffled grunt of panic. His hands sprang up and gripped the black sleeve that had wrapped around him. In a fraction of a second, the Wraith’s left hand jerked the body back hard and with his right hand, he thrust all seven inches of his knife into the back of the man’s neck just below the hairline and upward into his brain. As if a light switch had been flipped, all noise and movement ceased and the guard went limp.
The Wraith held the corpse during its fall; he set it down gently, like a baby being placed in its crib. The gunman’s aquamarine eyes stared up at the sky, fixed and unseeing.
After wiping its blade clean on the body’s jacket, the Wraith slipped the knife back into his trench coat. As he rose to his feet, he spotted the Clopton, picked it up and slung it around his body. He didn’t know how many cultists lurked in the warehouse; the extra firepower couldn’t hurt. He turned away from the body and ascended the fire escape and approached the weathered door. A slow turning of the knob revealed that it was locked.
Kneeling down before the knob, The Wraith dug into one of the outside pockets of his trench coat and pulled out a small leather pouch. Opening it revealed a lock picking set.
He inserted a tension bar into the keyhole, and turned it before shoving in a pick. The lock was just as weathered as the door, but after a few moments of fighting the tumblers, a rewarding click was heard. The Wraith opened the door and entered.
It was like stepping into an enormous cavern. The inside of the Chinook Moving and Storage Company was bare. Nothing one would associate with such a company remained. Shelves, tables, workstations, all of it was long gone, leaving a gray concrete floor littered with papers, empty cardboard boxes, more crates, and other miscellaneous trash. Light fixtures hanging from cords in the ceiling marched in orderly rows to the back wall of the building but they offered no illumination. The power had been shut off years ago.
Even so, there was light. The Wraith noticed it off to his right side. Gingerly he stepped along the catwalk, heading to the warehouse’s rear. After about ten feet, his eyes found the source: two smooth columns each surmounted by bronze bowls from which spewed tongues of flame fueled by some flammable liquid. Possibly oil or kerosene, guessed Stoutheart.
Towering over those columns and glowing in their flickering warmth was a wall of deep purple fabric that extended across the breadth of the warehouse floor and rose within five or six feet of the warehouse roof. It was enormous, the kind of curtain that wouldn’t look out of place at Bridleton’s palatial Opera House. On its wrinkled surface, the white silhouette of a ram’s head glared through empty but narrowed eyes.
Stoutheart’s eyes then turned to the floor. About a dozen or so human figures, clad in robes and hoods, stood as still as store mannequins before the twin columns of fire and faced the curtain. The robes nearly matched the curtain’s color and were only broken by crimson sashes around their waists. Knives hung from the sashes in scabbards. On his perch, Stoutheart could hear their voices droning together in a low murmur. It almost sounded like a chant, but he could not make out the words.
Between the cultists and the curtain was a space of bare concrete, and it was there that Stoutheart saw something else: the white painted outline of a four pointed star. Each of its apexes had a lumpy form on them. For a split-second, Stoutheart thought they resembled potatoes, but then the realization hit him and his jaw clenched so hard he thought he would chip a tooth. The “potatoes” were the hearts of the cult’s four previous victims.
Forcing down the bile that tried to rise in his throat, Stoutheart looked away and pressed on. Then, he saw shafts of whitish-blue light filtering in through the windows above; the moon was out. In a flash, Stoutheart hugged the walls and was swallowed up in pools of shadows. From his left he heard rustling and footsteps thumping on the floor below.
Glancing down, he saw a man, clad in his own robe, appearing on the stage and taking position on a square of moonlight cast dead center on the floor, just above one of the moonlit squares. An actor couldn’t have done any better. He too was robed in purple but unlike the fully enclosed hoods of the other cultists, this one’s hood covered only the back and sides of his head. The gleaming gold mask that concealed his face was the spitting image of the ram’s head looming above him. His left hand gripped a dagger, its hilt gilded like the mask but its blade black and shiny. Stoutheart guessed it was obsidian. Two more cultists flanked the masked man. Unlike their comrades, they too were armed with Cloptons.
He turned away and pressed on, trying to filter out the voice that boomed from the mouth hole of the leader and reverberated across the warehouse walls. His tone seemed triumphant, but Stoutheart could sense arrogance in the voice as well.
“My brothers!” it roared, “The hour of our master’s resurrection is at hand! For too long, this city—nay, this country—has become riddled with a vile cancer. Its leaders blind their people and deceive them with false hopes. Its people have been infected by the iniquity and avarice of the dregs and whores who thrive and multiply within their clubs and speakeasies like so many rats and cockroaches. ”
Stoutheart had to give the bastard credit; his followers seemed to be hanging on to his every word and had their eyes riveted to him instead of the catwalk. He crept behind the curtain and looked down. There below, lay a back door, rows of more crates, empty drums, and, framed in another square of moonlight, was an ornate, wooden table.
On its surface struggled a woman with a purple bow and a white silk dress whose beauty was marred with a long tear that ran from hem to knee level, exposing a pale blue leg. She was barefoot. Her arms stretched out above her. Ropes encircled her wrists and to these were attached more ropes that were secured to the one set of the table’s legs. Her ankles got the same treatment and a strip of white cloth was tied snugly around her mouth. Her groans and muffled whimpers filled the air but were lost amidst the banter of the cult leader.
“All of us here know deep down in our own hearts that society is sick. But do not fret my brothers! Fortune shines on us just as the rays of the moon do right now!”
More cheers erupted from behind the curtain. Stoutheart acted fast. He moved away from the wall, reached back into his coat, and pulled out a spool of wire, one end of which was attached to a small fist-sized grappling hook. He wound the hooked end of the wire around the catwalk railing and tugged. It held.
Then, gripping the wire in his gloved hands, The Wraith threw it to the ground, clambered over the railing, and lowered himself down, hand over hand, his feet acting as a brake.
“With this final offering of flesh and blood,” the cult leader crowed on, “we shall summon Grogar from his slumber. We shall bear witness as he purges this cursed land, and from the ashes of that land, a new world…a purer world, will arise for us all!”
The second his feet hit the concrete, The Wraith dashed over to Flitter. The sudden appearance of the vigilante in the moonlight startled her. She gave a stifled cry of surprise.
“HAIL GROGAR!” cried the mob from behind the curtain.
“It’s alright Miss,” whispered Stoutheart. “I’m not here to hurt you.” He pulled out his knife again and slashed away the ropes binding her hands.
“HAIL GROGAR!”
Then he cut free her ankles.
“HAIL GROGAR!”
He untied the gag and tossed it into the darkness. “The Wraith?” she gasped while sitting up.
“HAIL GROGAR!”
The vigilante said nothing. He gave a firm nod before pointing to the crates and barrels. “Get behind those and stay down,” he commanded. Flitter hopped down from the table.
“What about them?” she hissed with fear. “They’re maniacs!”
“Not for long,” The Wraith replied darkly as he unslung the Clopton and jerked back the charging handle. “Now go!”
Flitter did what she was told. Satisfied she was out of sight, he turned just in time to see the curtain part as if it were at a movie premiere. The cult leader and his guards still had their backs to it and didn’t see The Wraith. But the rest of the crowd did. Here and there, gasps of shock emerged.
The Wraith did not hesitate. He snapped the Clopton up to hip level, aiming at the left guard, who began turning toward whatever his comrades were gasping at. The quick burst that flamed out of the Clopton’s muzzle compensator sounded like thunder in the cavernous warehouse. It’s nickname—“The Chopper”—was well founded. The cultist’s body jerked violently as his robe shredded and was dyed crimson under the barrage of .45 caliber bullets that chewed into his upper body. Like a marionette whose strings had been cut, the body collapsed to the cold floor with a sickening wet thump.
The other guard reacted quicker, but it wasn’t enough. Even before his comrade went down, The Wraith had turned and cut loose with another burst that stitched a line of red, gory holes up his abdomen and chest. This cultist never got a shot off either. The impact of the bullets sent him hurtling backwards, arms flailing, and the submachine gun in his hands clattered to the floor.
The moment the Clopton sang its first song, the cult leader turned to face the source of the noise; just in time to see the second man slain. From his own position, The Wraith saw his opponent’s eyes lock on to the bodies and then him; he took satisfaction in the eyes that widened in shock from behind that gold mask.
“Your angel of death awaits,” growled The Wraith, his voice gravelly and frigid as a glacier.
The shock did not last for long. “Kill him,” came the leader’s voice came out as a low hiss. His followers did not move, apparently not hearing him. He turned his head to the crowd.
“KILL HIM YOU FOOLS!” He raged and pointed a trembling finger at The Wraith. “KILL HIM AND BRING ME HIS HEART!”
As if they had snapped out of a trance, the cultists, drew their knives and charged toward The Wraith screaming in rage while two broke off and headed for the guns lying unfired on the ground.
The vigilante shouldered his Clopton for a better aim and cut loose with short controlled bursts into the crowd, walking the fire from left to right. Years of training—both on the range and in the filthy hellscape of Prance—showed. The Clopton’s bullets ripped through them, sending the first wave reeling backward or crumpling to the floor.
Almost as soon as the fusillade began, The Wraith heard a series of clicks. The Clopton’s magazine had run dry. He could see more knife wielding cultists rushing behind the first wave, eyes blazing with hatred. Gripping the butt of the Clopton, The Wraith swung the submachine gun like a baseball and released it, sending the ten pounds of steel and wood twirling toward the closest cult member. He was grimly satisfied when it made perfect contact with the crook’s face and sent him sprawling back to the ground, where he lay still.
The second the Clopton left his grip, The Wraith’s hands crossed his chest, dove for the shoulder holsters and clutched the ivory grips of his 1911’s. He pulled his pistols out in a blur, lined up the cultists and fired. In the grand interior of the warehouse, the blasts sounded like field guns. They blazed and spat more .45 caliber slugs at the murderous crowd, sending more bodies flopping down atop those already carpeting the concrete and staining its weathered surface with red, glistening slicks.
The Wraith’s guns thinned the mob drastically, but four remained standing, knives glinting malevolently in the light of the fires. The slides of the pistols had locked back. Stoutheart had extra magazines tucked away, but the cultists that closed on his position made reloading suicidal. He had enough time to holster the 1911’s and pull out his fighting knife as the closest cultist brought his knife above his head and tried to bring it down.
“DIE INTERLOPER!” he screeched. His moves were sloppy and he paid for it. The Wraith easily blocked his assailant’s downward thrust with his left arm and in the same motion jabbed his knife forward, piercing what he hoped was the cultist’s neck. He slashed across the hood and the flesh beneath it, causing the man’s eyes morph from rage to terror as his carotid artery was severed. Wet gurgling noises emerged as the cultist dropped his knife and fell, futilely clutching at his neck as his blood surged out from under his hood and stained his robe crimson.
The next cultist charged like a mad bull, slashing his own blade wildly in the hope of piercing the Wraith’s body while emitting a frustrated volley of curses. Try as he might, his blade only slashed and whooshed through air. The Wraith dodged and weaved before getting a hold of the man’s knife hand at the wrist, tightened his grip like a boa constrictor and twisted hard, sending an agonized cry from the cultist’s mouth. The grip on his knife loosened and he began to stoop as the pain overwhelmed him. That pain was doubled with a punch centered on one of the eyeholes of the attacker’s hood.
Then, an outraged bellow filled Stoutheart’s ears. It came from behind. A turn of the head revealed another charging cultist, ready to bring his own knife down on the vigilante’s back.
There was no time to judge, thought Stoutheart. His hand still wrapped around the first man’s wrist, he twirled him around and chucked him bodily into his comrade. The momentum of the collision sent the duo tumbling violently into the floor. The head of the cultist who took the blow bounced off the concrete sending a dazed groan from beneath his hood.
The other cultist-turned bowling ball pulled himself off the ground and tried to reach for his knife, but the Wraith was on him like a lion on a gazelle. He clutched the man’s head and drove his right knee viciously into the cultist’s lower jaw. The head jerked back from the whiplash and sent him sprawling once again to the floor. Then The Wraith finished him off by bringing his right foot down on the man’s face with the force of a hammer hitting a railroad spike. He moved no more.
Snapping around, The Wraith saw the would-be backstabber beginning to sit up, holding his head with a free hand. His other hand still gripped his knife. Again, The Wraith charged and leapt onto the recovering figure’s chest, knocking the wind out of him and pushing him again to the ground. Before the cultist could comprehend and react, The Wraith clutched his throat, brought up an arm and plunged the blade of his own knife into the cultist’s right eye sending up a scream. Then he twisted the blade. With a sickening crunch, the scream died away and the cultist lay still.
Rising to his feet, the Wraith turned to face the cult leader and his last remaining follower, both of whom stood a few feet apart, knives in hand. The subordinate’s posture gave him the look of man wracked with indecision. The Wraith saw his eyes widened in terror, like a deer frozen in the bright glare of a car’s headlights. He could see the knife trembling.
“What are you waiting for, you fool?” snapped the cult leader’s voice. “Kill him! Do it!”
The cultist stole a glance at his leader, then The Wraith, who used the lull to reload his pistols. The slides flashed forward with an audible clack. For a few tense seconds, the two faced each other. The cultist’s knife trembled as he looked around at the stilled forms of the dead and the few moaning forms of the living.
The Wraith’s fingers caressed the triggers of his weapons. The coal black lenses of his goggles seemed to stare into the man’s soul. Then, whatever indoctrination that had been drilled into him by his leader evaporated. The knife clattered to the ground and the cultist sprinted to the double doors, his breath coming in fear-tinged gasps.
“Coward! Damn you!” snarled the cult leader. He then looked back at The Wraith. “Die!” he shouted before bringing his knife up and cocked his arm back at the elbow to throw the weapon. Instead one of The Wraith’s pistols barked again, sending a bullet slamming into the bastard’s right leg, sending him to the ground with an agonized cry that soon morphed into moans and teeth-clenched hisses.
Stoutheart gave a mirthless chuckle as he holstered his left gun and walked slowly over to the wounded figure. He stepped over the bodies before him and shook his head mockingly. “Good help’s hard to find these days.”
With a pained gasp, the cult leader tried to reach for the dagger, which had fallen from his hand, but The Wraith kicked away the weapon, sending it skidding off into the shadows. Then The Wraith bent down and pulled off the ram mask. Meeting his gaze was a middle aged male with a beard of grey and pale blue skin. His head was bald. The red irises of his eyes watered with the pain of his bullet wound but they blazed with impotent fury.
Stoutheart looked in the direction of where the knife disappeared before eying his quarry. “Let me guess. That’s what you used on the other four?” he asked emotionlessly.
The leader’s sucked in a breath before his lips formed a crooked smile. “They were means to an end dark avenger,” he sneered. His use of the nickname The Wraith had been given by the Bridleton press was soaked in venom. “This is only a setback. More like me will take my place and I promise you, Grogar will drown this city in blood and even the likes of you won’t be able to stop it.”
Stouthert responded to the threat with another cold laugh before reaching into his trench coat with his free hand and producing a small white card. He tossed it onto the cult leader’s chest. The design of the front lay face up: a black letter “W” superimposed over the scales of justice.
“There,” spat The Wraith. “So your master will know who sent you.”
Then he rose, aimed his .45 at the monster’s forehead and pulled the trigger, sending another thunderclap tearing through the vast warehouse. In an instant, the red eyes lost their anger as they glazed over and the body became as still as the others littered around it.
Without a word, The Wraith turned away and looked back at the curtain. The sight of Flitter standing in front of it took him aback. Her arms were wrapped around her body in an attempt to ward off the chill interior of the warehouse. Rasped breathing came from her lips. Her eyes were widened in shock and her skin seemed paler.
“Oh my…” she croaked, looking down at the carnage. She brought a hand to her mouth.
Stoutheart holstered the pistol and hurried over to her. He filled Flitter’s vision and placed a hand gently on one of her shoulders. “Come on miss. No need to see this anymore. You’re safe now.” His tone was still gravelly but warmness had replaced the ice cold brutality. He draped an arm across her shoulders, turned her around and led her back behind the curtain.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. But then Stoutheart decided to break the silence. “Are you alright?” he asked somewhat hesitantly. In his line of work, the words sounded almost…alien.
Flitter looked up at the goggled eyes. The fear had subsided a bit. She took a breath and nodded. “Uh huh. I…I…I think s-so,” she stammered. Stoutheart could see tears welling up in her own eyes but she brushed them away with a palm, sniffled, and took a gulp, trying to stem the emotional dam that was threatening to burst. It seemed to work. A few deep breaths later, she looked up at the strange figure that had saved her.
“I…I don’t know if you get this a lot, but thank you,” she said, her tone grateful, but still tinged with nervousness. Stoutheart nodded in acknowledgment but the hug that followed seconds later sent a jolt of surprise through his body. Nevertheless, he returned it in spades. After what seemed like a solid minute, the two broke the embrace.
“Sorry,” said Flitter sheepishly while looking into his goggles.
Stoutheart shrugged. “It’s alright.” Then he stiffened and looked up as a distant, but recognizable wail was heard in the distance.
“What is it?” asked Flitter as she looked around.
He met her eyes again. “My fans in the Bridleton Police Department,” said Stoutheart dryly. “I let them know where you were before I snuck in. Even so, I better go before they arrive.”
Flitter watched as he ran back to the line he had used to lower himself, clambered back up, untied the wire, coiled it and put it back in his coat. Then, he tipped his hat to her and turned to flee.
“Wraith!” called out Flitter’s voice.
Stoutheart turned back and looked down at her. “Yes?”
Her mouth opened to speak, but the words did not belong to her: “GENERAL QUARTERS! GENERAL QUARTERS! ALL HANDS MAN YOUR BATTLE STATIONS! ALL HANDS MAN YOUR BATTLE STATIONS!”
* * * *
Stoutheart was sleeping on his back when the phone alarm blared within his room. Unlike the movies, where someone wakes from a dream by dramatically shooting up from their bed into a sitting position, he instead gave a startled gasp and snapped his eyes open. After catching his breath for a moment or two, he propped himself up on his right elbow. Clearing the sleep from his eyes, he stared at the phone and killed the alarm. Then he lay back down and gave a deep sigh.
“Damn,” he muttered.