27 hours previously Thomas had enjoyed a 25 year old Highland single Malt in an air conditioned executive lounge, now he was in a room constructed of rusted corrugated plates and adobe bricks sewn together by old razor wire, sipping some beer as flat and stale as the sweat that ran down the arms of the Chokwe bartender who looked younger than the whisky he was recalling.

12 hours ago he had been suffering from nausea as he was been driven around the ruined roads of Lunda Norte in the glaring morning sun, now he was struggling to stay conscious, half enjoying the Cornish Mercenary's tales which were, like the walls, blood splattered.

The Cornish Mercenary had introduced himself as Ivor and was one of seven dangerous individuals that was currently in Keme's Bar but being in his sixties, bald, obese and wearing a sports jacket and purple corduroys, he was the only one that did not look like a serious threat. The others, unlike Ivor, had been desperate to aspire to the Hollywood stereotype and carefully clothed themselves in the greasy Bandanna, the filthy khakis, had the right sleeve tattoos and ammo belts and practically pranced around the makeshift bar with their faux thousand yard stares and cigarettes hung from lips at just the right angle as if they imagined themselves Willard going up river to find Kurtz. Still, even though they were ridiculous, their array of armaments made Thomas nervous and he found himself glancing over at them in the anticipation of violence. Ivor noticed this and turned to look. “Wankers” he chuckled and turned back to Thomas. “They're the kind of fuckers who did a tour in Damascus and are convinced they're Rambo.These kids end up dead or if they are real lucky ransoming everything to get a flight back out of this shithole, don't let them fool you boy, you've got more balls than them. You've made it up here alone, with nothing but your mobile phone and credit card. Good for you.” He raised the dirty pint glass in toast at Thomas' achievement.

“I'm not that kind of fortune hunter.” Thomas replied. Add a comment

Dori was surprised and a bit scared when she couldn't get herself out of bed the next evening.  After getting a ride home from the hospital from a frantic Aunt Andrea and sleeping like a baby all night (and some of the day) she'd felt fine.  When Smile called that afternoon and left a message that he had sent a mechanic over to fix her Oldsmobile so she would have transportation, she had felt fine, had even told Smile thank you and asked again how he was.  He was distant, and seemed to be annoyed with her.  

When the mechanic got the car running (it took him about ten minutes of poking about), that was fine too.  But when she woke up from her afternoon nap, she couldn't move.  Dori's eyes opened, and she stared at the ceiling and couldn't move.  It was as though one arm was held down by her wrecked Neon, and the other by the fact that she had to move out, and one of her legs was trapped under the shit with stupid Chris Sinclair and his fans who seemed determined to make her life miserable through pranks and occasional threats.  Her other leg was stuck under the whole Smile situation, even though that was technically resolved.  And she couldn't get up.

She could hear the television in the other room; Aunt Andrea was watching the news.  And she knew she had to work at seven, so it was time to get up.  But the order was issued to her legs, and they just ignored her.  A message came back from her feet.  Who gives a shit? it said.  Everything sucks.  And her feet didn't move. Add a comment

It took Harold all of ten minutes to outrun the confused, ill-trained police pursuit that followed his Stratos up into the mountains.  The roads turned wickedly twisty within a few miles of the cave, and the ex-rally car made short work of them, even with its elderly tires.  Even when one of the cylinders went dead, turning the engine's wail ugly and discordant and putting a notable dent in the car's power output, he still had no trouble keeping ahead.  Harold concentrated on piloting the short, squat, responsive car through the switchbacks and gradually, the flashing lights behind receded until they were merely streaks on the sky.  Soon the light pollution from the next city blotted them out entirely.

He had barely noticed the time passing.  It was just like being on the track, that confident feeling of tuning himself in with the car and letting the rest of the world fall by the wayside.  For a good long time, the only things that existed were the complex organism that was himself and the Stratos, and the innate knowledge of the growing gap behind him, as the competition fell back. Add a comment