Post by John Rabid on May 1, 2017 12:18:53 GMT -5
D E ⊥ H W A R
PART TWO
III
PART TWO
III
The Serpent and the Silence
Written by John Rabid
Radio static and hushed orders greeted the operations room housed a hundred feet beneath the basement of Vauxhall Cross; the south bank nerve center of MI6. Contrary to Trump’s wonky circle of inept FOX news aids, GCHQ (merely an eavesdropping center) is NOT the pinnacle of the British intelligence service, that mantle belongs to MI6 or Military Intelligence Six: the foreign arm of England’s spycraft cabal. And it’s here, within its subterranean belly that pools of green phosphorus light illuminate a large semi-circular room; a hive of monitor screens that capture strange unfolding events from a night vision universe.
Three teams of elite covert op agents reach a rocky, inhospitable shoreline as a tide of green and black crashes against a barely visible shoreline, each unit is dressed in black tactical gear to mask their well-orchestrated movements.This is a NATO funded pan-European operation. In the seventy-two hours since Creeping Death took over the Castle and surrounding village of Dethfort, Denmark has been in the grip of a sweeping wave of chaos. Running water and power are yesterday's luxuries as the nation is plunged back into the stone age; it’s streets patrolled by legions of undead as Creeping Death’s frightening edict, to turn our world into a mirror image of his own, begins to take horrific shape.
Denmark is under a strict lockdown, it’s borders closed as a “possible case of bioterrorism” is investigated. Leaders from around the world run through the motions, condemning actions which they have, in truth, very little information on; a circle jerk of spin designed to mask gaping holes in their collective intel. And so, a hurried mission is congealed and dispatched, sent on a whim into a dangerous unknown.
The teams are comprised of the most decorated and highly trained officers in each respecting special operations team; the SAS, France’s Commandement des Opérations Spéciales (COS) and finally, a team from Germany’s KSK or Kommando Spezialkräfte. Their leader is a man John Rabid knows very well; his butler, Max Drexler. Reactivated by Chancellor Angela Merkel for this, the most sensitive of missions, Max didn’t falter when the call came, bag forever packed in case he would be summoned. Drexler hugged Dorian goodbye as John insisted that he accompany his friend, but faced a stonewall on his arrival in England. Westminster didn’t approve of his “meddling”; citing that a “high profile celebrity” shouldn’t be involved in affairs outside of his “sphere of influence.” Even if he was a specialized agent in such matters.
Spin getting in the way again. And that knighthood. John had lived a very public life as a member of the WCF. His actions were broadcast around the world, actions that had shackled him to the celebrity elite. Hindering his ability to operate in the more shadowy corners of military intelligence. It was a life that, up until recently, he had left firmly behind, but now that abandonment was proving to be a thorn in his side, relegating The Serpent to one of those pools of phosphorus, his cold eyes watching intently as Max lead his team closer to the enemy.
John Rabid adjusted his headset as he spoke in a hushed whisper.
John Rabid: Dragon Three? This is Interloper. Movement, three clicks to your right.
Max Drexler. Dragon-Three copy. Fanning out.
John Rabid: Dragon One, watch your six. More movement sighted. No heat signatures.
Max Drexler: This is Dragon Three. It’s as you suspected, Interloper. The enemy is Shiva-class.
John looked up into the eyes of the Prime Minister, Theresa May; a fire from his glare ignited the exchange with a flare of anger before submerging the moment within that cool exterior of his.
May cupped her hand and turned to her aid, Meredith Ives. Sometimes Megan, sometimes Melissa...a shapeshifting schemer and mother of the Serpent. Today she’s in authoritarian mode. Grey power suit and neatly tied back brunette hair matching her Ministerial superior in simple style.
Theresa May: Shiva?
Meredith Ives: Reanimated threat, Prime Minister.
Theresa May: We have protocols for that kind of thing, don’t we?
Meredith Ives: Yes, Prime Minister.
Theresa May: Well, where is it?
Meredith Ives: “It”, Prime Minister, is currently sitting at a computer terminal, throwing you a metric ton of shade.
The Ripper contemplated a political coup from his buzzing computer terminal as he ran the numbers. The team needed to evacuate. And fast.
John Rabid: Understood, Dragon Three. Send out the drone and gather intel. Do not engage the enemy. Pull back to a safe evac point once the drone is in flight.
“Negative”.
Theresa May: Mister Rush? I have a snap election to consider. I need a victory. I need our brave boys to succeed. They haven’t landed on that beach just to retreat, they’re--
John Rabid: My friends and brothers. I understand fully, Prime Minister, that such concepts are redundant in Westminster these days, but here and now? They matter. Now kindly, sod off.
Meredith Ives: Son. I don’t think.
John Rabid: Good, Mother. It was never your strongest attribute.
Rabid depressed a button on his keyboard. Addressed the soldiers.
John Rabid: Dragon Three. Is the bird in flight?
Max Drexler: This is Dragon three...enemy inbound. We’ve been made. Es tut uns leid!
Rabid stood as he hunched over the screen, a battalion of undead was rising from the ocean, a horde of reanimated corpses gathering pace as they made their way onto the beach. Rabid remained calm.
John Rabid: Dragon Three, ready the charges, we’ll set up a wall of death and make our way inland to--
Rabid’s headset was removed by Agent Hector Schofield; the middle-aged man, dark hair, tweed suit, had cut off The Ripper’s contact with the team.
Agent Hector Schofield: Sorry Jason. Orders.
John Rabid: Sorry never saved anyone, “Hector”.
Rabid glanced around the operations room, his keen observational skills revealing a confined space packed with itchy triggers belonging to security officers; their hands twitching nervously over holstered sidearms. They all knew what John was capable of.
Theresa May: John, it’s time to engage the enemy. Thank you for your time.
Two agents walked nervously forward.
Theresa May: Please leave your station.
Rabid tiled his head slowly to one side, feeding Hector’s mind a kaleidoscope of intricate nightmares.
Meredith Ives: John, don’t…
A moment passed. Then, in the blink of an eye, the Serpent snatched the headset from Hector’s grasp with a burst of impossible speed that had the Prime Minister reeling backward off her heels. Hector staggered, blood dripping from his nose. The agents looked away, shielding their eyes as per instructions. The countermeasures would keep them alive, but ineffectual.
Rabid spoke into the headset.
John Rabid: Max?
Max Drexler: J-John? What’s happening?
Rabid said nothing for a moment. He knew his next words would be the last his friend would ever hear.
John Rabid: Godspeed Mein Bruder
Dead air. A silence that seemed like an eternity.
Max Drexler: And you, Mein Friend. It was an honor.
John Rabid: Likewise.
Rabid dropped the headset and marched away. He wasn’t interested in listening to the screams. All he wanted now. Was silence.
IV
Out of the Blue
Written by Bonnie Blue
Written by Bonnie Blue
It wasn't the call she had been expecting.
When the phone rang, Bonnie Blue had been tempted to ignore it. "Private number" usually meant telemarketer or phishing scam, but some urgent prompting of intuition made Bonnie answer it, regardless. A woman's voice; refined, sophisticated, with an air of maternal authority -- and a name to go with it: Meredith Ives. Bonnie recalled that, somewhere in the chaos of the last few weeks, John Rabid had introduced her to Bonnie as his mother. She remembered an uncomfortable sense of being closely scrutinized and judged and wondering whether the verdict had been in her favor.
That all receded to the back of her mind, now, as Meredith explained the situation and what she wanted from the Daughter of Time.
Bonnie Blue: I kinda doubt I'm at the top of the list of people he wants to see right now, but I'll give it a shot.
Meredith Ives: That's all I can ask. Dress smartly -- you'll find him at the Savoy. And do be quick about it.
The call disconnected, leaving the young woman feeling vaguely annoyed at the hint of condescension. She shrugged it off and dressed in haste. Twenty-five minutes later, Bonnie Blue walked through a revolving door and stepped onto the black-and-white checkered marble floor of the Savoy Hotel lobby. In a modest black Christian Dior dress and red-soled Louboutins, blonde hair swept into a chic up do, Bonnie strode purposefully across the floor; wound her way among the tall pillars supporting the high, arched ceiling; and was halted as a man and a woman stormed across her path in a heated argument. Newlyweds honeymooning in London, judging by the untarnished gold rings on their left hands. They'd been at it long enough that Bonnie caught the word "annulment" as they passed, and there was something salubrious and unwholesome in the way the young bride had said it.
Bonnie clutched the manila envelope a little tighter to her and hurried on her way to Kaspar's -- the Savoy's own restaurant, appointed in tasteful art-deco revival in tones of blue and gold. She found Rabid sitting to one side of the semicircular bar, beneath an intricate glass chandelier. He had his smartphone in front of him, staring at it in mute contemplation; though not so intently that he failed to sense the young woman's presence.
John Rabid: Not really a good time, Bonnie.
He didn't bother looking at her when he spoke. Shrugging, she took the seat beside him.
Bonnie Blue: I know. I heard. I'm... sorry about your friend.
Rabid picked up his highball glass and swirled the contents around, watching the liquor run down the side of the glass again to pool around the slowly melting ice.
John Rabid: Yeah. Me, too.
An uncomfortable silence followed. Bonnie was surprised to see subtle but discernible shifts in his usually stoic expression. After several moments, he finally glanced up at her.
John Rabid: Is there something I can do for you, Bonnie?
Bonnie Blue: Nope. Might be somethin' I can do for you. I came to pay off my debt.
She put the envelope on the bar and slid it toward him. Rabid opened it -- it was an aerial photograph of an airfield, with a set of coordinates putting it somewhere in the west midlands -- frowned, and shot her a questioning look.
Bonnie Blue: Three battalions are stationed there, but it won't be enough. We're gonna need an army.
A flatscreen plasma television behind the bar droned through a series of commercials before settling on a program; Bonnie didn't notice at first, but he did. Watching a few moments of the previous week's edition of Slam, Rabid drained the Glenfiddich from his glass and nodded toward the screen.
John Rabid: We'll have our army.
Rabid and Bonnie spent the next few hours gathering intel via a hacked ICE-7 mainframe. A final garbled message from a W.H.O first response team mirrored the loss of Dragon-Three, cards were falling now in a hauntingly similar fashion to the Poon Guinea outbreak that occurred two years previously. A similar countrywide breakdown in communication that would indicate the enemy had already gained a solid foothold with a projected loss of life in the thousands. If world powers were hesitant to deploy their armies that would concur Rabid's theory that this was a country in the grip of an epidemic.
One orchestrated by a single name typed within a single text message sent from...someplace.
Ç̸̳̲̳̞̻͖͇̻͉̹̥̜̣̻̦̼͉ͯ̾̇̌̊̄̓̐̐͗͑̏̐R̶̢̛̤̥̬̤̱̭͙̞͐͆̾ͩ͗ͥ̾ͦ͋̄͘͜È͋̿̊͆ͯ̏͋ͮͣͬ̔̚҉̪̦̜͓̝̫̖̪̮͕̲̦͍̰́͞͡E̤̻͔̭̹̗͎͌͂ͭ̊͋̈́̔͒̓̈́̌̿́̚͠P̡̨͍̫͈̦̝̱̝͓͓̫͎ͬ̏̿ͧ͞͠͡I̛͈̞̪̝̱͈̯̖̖̞͍͙̟͚̦̣̣ͧ̍͆ͯ͋̐͒ͪ̚̕͢͝ͅN̤̝͍͇̬̘̒̋ͣͯ̀́ͫͣ̆̄ͦͮͨ͊ͩ̿́͞G̢̨̼͈͍̠̮̭ͩ̾̀ͮ̉̀ͩ̾͆͛̿̓ͭ̀̔̇̾ͯ̕͢
̊ͪ̉ͦ͊ͭ̅̆ͭͤ́͏̗̣̗̖̤̣̗̮̀͝͡
ͩͬ̉̆͑͜͏̷̻̲̙̖̤͕̖͠D̸̻͉̯̹̰̯̗͕̪̖̼̺̬̭͇̝͙̯̳ͫ̅̎͗͌ͯͪ̿̏͜͝Ē̢͌̍ͮͨͤͯ̈́ͧͣͫ̊̒͐͐͐̊͟҉̬̼̤̻͖͖̪͈̥̭̹̱̻̤̦̪͇̭͜ͅA͍͎̥̠̣̟̣̠̮ͧͧ̄̌́͘͝T̶̷̘̗̠͖̻͖͉̪̲̞̗͒̍͆̈́̔̐̅̂̓̈́̅̄͞͡ͅH̡̨̧̜̮̯̯̟͉̪̦̱̼̘̞̯̥̞͕̼̋ͤ͆͊ͤ̒̌͑̊͌ͦͮ̐͞ͅ
V
Time of the Ripper
Written by John Rabid
Rabid and Bonnie stared intently at the text message, it’s corrupted green glow sent out a pulse of mystery that illuminated the dark corners of their hanger base, a rusted haven nestled within an abandoned airfield in Solihull, England. Rabid pondered the message as the scent of ages loomed around him, moments of laughter and love, fluttering in the ragged Union Jack that hung at half mast at the foot of the runway, it’s majesty lost beneath a clear midnight sky, a flag that once witnessed endless summers of Victorian marvels and infinite possibility, as each dawn brought with it the arrival of impossible machines and astonishing adventures. Each sunrise, a new halcyon dawn; leading three friends ever onward. But that was then. Now? Now everything was rudderless, lost among the ghosts of war and the fading memory of those that fought.
This airfield was once the old stomping grounds for a certain Jonathan Rabid esquire, a strange man of wealth, science, and heroics, his gallivanting escapades were joined by two other “Inquisitors”; test pilot friend Captain Lewis Drummond of the Royal Flying Corps (RFC), his dash hound; “Copernicus” and Lewis’s firebrand sister, Carrie; a female doctor when such vocations where the exclusive holdings of men. Carrie and Jonathan fell deeply in love over time as all three traveled across a Belle Époque of endless wonder; eventually, though, the century turned dark and malevolent. The drums of war could be heard now on the horizon as uncertain times loomed, fracturing close friendships and breaking delicate hearts. Lewis signed up first of course. Lewis was always the first to run into danger; an impulsive womanizer and raconteur with his trusty pistol, knife skills, and perfect, unwavering mustache. In contrast, Jonathan was more cautious, the scent of disaster alarming his senses to the genocide to come. Eventually though, Rabid felt the need to be there for his friend, and seemingly destined brother in law. And so...Johnny Rabid went to war.
The sting of mustard gas and the stench of rotting flesh greeted the friends as Carrie waited patiently each day for news on the exploits of Lewis and John from her stationed Base Hospital, constructed with haste inside the grounds of a ghostly seaside hotel, Le palais de l'océan, situated within the bullet-riddled city walls of Rouen, a few miles distant from the foreboding roar of the front. Carrie’s starched white nurse's outfit and warm smile couldn't hide her concerns as each day another link in the casualty evacuation chain would snap under the strain of more shattered bodies and more broken minds.
21 April 1918. Rabid and Lewis found themselves on their last mission, hunted through a dense Bavarian forest to the sound of Luger's firing stray shots, shattering branches, the howl of dachshunds and the call of dog whistles, a symphony of hate that echoed over the pursuit. The two spies orders were as hazardous and as foolhardy as ever; exactly the type of suicidal undertaking Lewis would savor; while Rabid would simply roll his eyes, straighten his army issue mustache and muck in. General Falstaff, a rotund, red-faced man, part Seal lion in features with a penchant for sending good men off to their deaths, had ordered the duo to recover top secret plans; a manila envelope concealed behind the walls and pomerium of an ancient Bavarian castle, an impenetrable fortress secluded among the dense black forests of Germany. The plans contained the schematics for a “Translucent Zeppelin”, an infernal machine capable of phasing in and out of existence via reversed engineered Jalaxaritkatusa technology.
Such an airship would render London’s dense net of barrage balloons helpless to stop an attack; air raid sirens would precipitate the destruction of the capital. Thoughts of destruction ran through both adventurer’s heads, reminding them exactly why they had volunteered to storm a castle, disguise themselves as German officers, seduce Augusta, wife of Kaiser Wilhelm: the Emperor of the Germanic people, and of course, escape with half the German Luftwaffe (named The Deutsche Luftstreitkräfte before WW2) on their tail as they dodged bullets and dived for cover, eagerly searching for that elusive clearing that would lead them to their parked Sopwith camel biplanes; and freedom.
Wing Commander Rabid: What the hell did I tell you, man!? Never say “Cheers” to a German army officer if he offers you,”Good Luck” in English. It’s the oldest trick in Fritz’s book!
Captain Lewis Drummond: Sorry old bean! I’m a little under the weather today. You didn’t draw the wrong straw last night and sleep with Augusta. Ravishing that hag is not. I’ve been drunk since noon just to forget her protruding whiskers, they’re more advanced than mine!
Rabid climbed into his cockpit. He adjusted his goggles as Lewis turned over the propeller.
Wing Commander Rabid: Just get the bloody engines started! Contact!
The craft shunted, then stopped. Another attempt was thankfully rewarded with life as a bullet whizzed inches away from Rabid’s shocked expression, damaging the craft’s fragile tail rudder behind him!
Captain Lewis Drummond: Contact!
Wing Commander Rabid: I know! Get to your plane, man! It’s the bloody Boche!
The propellers of the Camel’s gained precious revolutions as their pursuers exited the clearing. Bullets raining down white hot hate as Rabid removed a small box from his pilfered commandant uniform; opening it up to reveal a diamond ring inside; a simple yet perfect design. Rabid smiled and thought about Carrie before gunning the single rotary engine; a moment later his plane had joined Lewis’s in the pure azure sky above.
Rabid placed his steampunk radio-telepathonic headset over his flight helmet and allowed the tendrils of his advanced mind to reach out and make contact with the second Sopwith camel; a sharp feedback greeted Rabid as he experienced a hangover for the first time.
Wing Commander Rabid: Lewis! Climb until we reach cloud cover. We’ll use the extra altitude to mask our escape. We’re almost at the border with France, a few more minutes and we’ll be--
Captain Lewis Drummond: I’m afraid it’s a little for that old bean. One Fritz incoming, diving from the sun. Three wings.
Rabid could sense a sudden thud of dread emanate from the pit of Lewis’s stomach, intermixed with hatred and revenge.
Wing Commander Rabid: Three wings? What color?
Captain Lewis Drummond: It’s him, John. The Baron.
Manfred Von Richthofen's red triplane cannoned out from the sun, it’s four synchronized machine guns spitting death between the revolutions of its crimson rotor blade; Lewis’s slower camel simply unable to bank away in time as it’s main wings took the brunt of the assault; shredded to pieces as he attempted to bank right. Flames licking across the canvass skeleton of the ruined craft.
Wing Commander Rabid: Bailout, Lewis! Use the parachute!
Captain Lewis Drummond: Ah yes, I remember...I drew the long straw. Good show, Old Bean!
Drummond bails out just in time as the flames reach the gas tank, the camel exploding as it’s consumed by a greedy fireball of blistering heat while Lewis’s parachute guides the camel’s erstwhile pilot gently back down to earth.
Wing Commander Rabid: Head back to the woods, Lewis. I’ll swing by and pick you up after I’ve dealt with….
The Baron smiled as he drew level with Rabid’s biplane. They exchanged glances, one cold set of eyes searching for fear in their prey. Neither finding their prize as Richthofen changed tact and offered his opponent a sarcastic salute; tipping the wings of his Fokker before thundering forward. Rabid readied his synchronous guns, waiting for the crimson Triplane to pivot and swing by, but instead, it dived. On a collision course with….
Wing Commander Rabid: Lewis! NO!
Captain Lewis Drummond: Goodbye, chum! Give this Fritz bastard--
Lewis’s helpless body was shot into piecemeal by the devastating aim of the Baron’s four 30mm caliber guns; The White silk parachute of the officer shredded and doused with blood as the remains of Captain Lewis Drummond fell like a stone; landing on French soil as Rabid pulled back on the stick and headed for the heavens. The city of Amiens disappearing from sight as The Baron swung round searching for the Ripper. A contrail of black smoke leaking from a damaged engine slithered into cloud cover as the serpent climbed.
Baron von Richthofen: Klettern schlange! Aber du kannst nicht entkommen!
The Baron pulled back on the stick as he followed the serpent’s tail into a dense patch of cloud cover. Clouds and fog giving way to a strange mist; as impenetrable as steel. Richthofen checked his instruments, the speedometer dial spun wildly out of control while his compass was a useless jumble of directions; up was down, down was up. Nothing made sense. A sudden feeling of unease fell over the German ace; he could hear an aircraft engine, but it didn’t belong to his quarry, instead, he could hear an older single-seater fighter, the Airco DH.2. It drew alongside the Fokker, electric blue energy gliding across its cumbersome surface as its pilot was revealed to be one Lanoe Hawker, a good looking man in his day. A recipient of the Victoria Cross and a Major in the Royal Flying Corps.
The Baron's expression suddenly found that rictus of fear Rabid was looking for.
Hawker stared blankly at the Baron, a trickle of blood revealing his skull still carried the fateful entry point of a 30mm bullet, shot by the Baron’s guns over a year ago. Killing the pilot instantly, the rear of his skull now a disintegrated mess of brain matter and worse, a scar carried over from the afterlife.
The Baron shook his head. Richthofen banked desperately away, but the DH.2 stuck with him like glue, now joined by others. A whole chorus of undead that circled the Baron like a school of sharks. No matter the evasive maneuver, another phantom found him dead in their sights. Until the recently departed Lewis Drummond crawled upon the wing, raking the side of Richthofen’s face with his knife, the undead corpse smiling as blood oozed from his mouth. Silently mouthing the words…
“All yours, Old Bean.”
Rabid opened fire at the helpless Baron, now a man lost among his personal demons; screaming for mercy as his plane cartwheeled out of the sky; plummeting downward in a deadly embrace with speed and gravity. At the last moment, the Baron was graciously allowed to pull up; crashing the Fokker into a nearby French Orchard. The three wings sliced from one-half of the plane as it broke apart and slammed into a single tree.
The Baron's legs were crushed as the plane that had served him so well over countless sorties against countless odds had now become his twisted tomb. Metal and wood were embedded into his flesh as Richthofen screamed for help.
Up upon a nearby hillside of lush green fields were specks of approaching humanity, a gallivanting array of farmers of various sizes and shapes; each dot was a screaming man carrying a pitchfork in hand and shouting a cavalcade of vulgar insults as a wave of proud free Frenchmen transverse a sea of green; tumbling down the mountainside eager to confront the iron cross that had fallen from the sky.
One would beat them to it.
Rabid landed his Sopwith Camel a few hundred yards from the crash; the Ripper took his time to disembark, removing first the headset and goggles, then the jacket of a German officer, so as to reveal his RFC shirt beneath; eradicating any doubts of his allegiance to the approaching French farmers, who were quickly closing the gap on Richthofen.
Baron Von Richthofen: You, English! English, help me!
Rabid strolled over, he casually took a pipe from his waistcoat and lit the half bent taper; allowing the smoke to billow and rise as he approached. The Ripper observed a flowing white fabric masking the damage to the rear of the craft; it was Richthofen’s parachute; opened close to impact but too late to extract an escape for the occupant.
Baron Von Richthofen: Did you see them? Did you see them, English?
Rabid exhaled a few puffs on the pipe.
Baron Von Richthofen: The dead, English. They surrounded me. They dragged me back to earth. Help me. Help me escape and you can keep the plans. I want nothing more of this war. It has already taken too much from me. From all of us. Quickly, before they arrive.
Wing Commander Rabid: Don’t worry about them...Baron. They’re not going to kill you.
Baron’s eyes lit up with hope
Baron Von Richthofen: You, you recognize me, English? Quickly, drag me from the fuselage before it ignites. I will be your prisoner. You can deliver me to your Empire. They’ll call you a hero. You’ll be their savior.
Rabid put out the pipe. The Serpent tilted his head to one side as he observed the pleading rat before him. This once giant of the skies, now reduced to begging for his life. Ruined and redundant.
Baron Von Richthofen: Why do you wait? Quickly! Claim your prize!
Rabid reached out and tore a length of the Parachute away from it’s moorings; then he produced a box of matches heralding from, “The Kit Kat Club: Soho”, on the back was an inscription:
“Never visit this pace, Old Bean, you’re about to make my sister decent! - L”
Rabid considered Lewis’s request as he remembered the diamond ring in his pocket, but everything was too late to be saved now. Deep down inside Rabid knew the cost of today. All that was left was to bring events back full circle. A certain brevity was required, the kind that made sense to a man like Rabid.
Baron Von Richthofen: Your friend, the parachutist. Please understand that I--
The Baron choked on his words, realization sinking in. This was not a man to plead with.
Baron Von Richthofen: I was only following orders. If you kill me now, you’ll be no better than I. You’ll never be that hero, English. Never.
Rabid lit the length of white silk. He waved it like a flag.
Wing Commander Rabid: Do you surrender, Baron?
Baron Von Richthofen: Yes...YES! I surrender! I surrender! Don’t...don’t burn me, English. Please, DON’T BURN ME!
Rabid intently watched as the white flag of silk gave way to the burnt orange of the flame, it’s heat creeping its way down to his fingertips. The Ripper remained unperturbed as the Baron screamed now.
Baron Von Richthofen: DON’T BURN ME! DON’T BURN ME!
Wing Commander Rabid: I don’t take orders from Germans. No surrender.
Rabid threw the burning cloth into the wreckage of the Fokker, it ignited. A snake of flame slithered it’s way to the cockpit of the airplane as Rabid lit his pipe once more and enjoyed the show. The screams had a nice incline of pitch that reminded him of a service from Canterbury. The young and the old praising their human God. To think, he almost considered himself one among them.
The foolishness of dreams.
As dreams died, so did the sanity of Carrie Drummond; her sharp, intuitive mind drowning in an Opium addiction to silence the pain of her desperate loss. Her life ending July 20th, 1969; the day man landed for the second time on the moon, she was now an old woman, locked away inside an asylum, mumbling to disinterested orderlies of her time on the lunar surface, the first to venture into the sea of tranquility as John Glenn made tentative footprints in her wake. Carrie, Lewis, and Rabid...Victorian heroes fighting skulduggery and saving mankind. Truth slipping helplessly from the dry lips of insanity like a running tap as her eyes glazed over, one last brief moment of lucidity as she screamed for John, the man she loved as he watched the rain fall from his Soho flat; Peter Seller’s call never answered. And so the greatest adventures that mankind ever undertook were ignored, as Rabid buried days of hope and honor beneath an armor of cynicism and empty, desolate grasps for power.
The only relic to commemorate those glory days were a series of books for children. “Ace Drummond: Legend of the Skies”, written by a “J. Rush”; they chronicled his victory over the Red Baron. How he walked upon the surface of alien worlds and had forever the company of his devoted sister and best friend. They always prevailed.They always won.
At the asylum, there was the occasional whisper, of a man in his perpetual mid-twenties, each week he would come to the hospital and read one of his stories to the now demented Carrie. He seemed to hold on to this vein hope that one of these tales would reach out and find her. But the pursuit always ended with failure. Eventually, the man stopped visiting. They found a wedding ring by her bedside as they placed her body onto a stretcher. It had never been worn.
April 18th 2017: A torn and faded poster for “Ace Drummond of Squadron X”, fluttered in that midnight breeze as Rabid and Bonnie correlated a massive influx of new information that was pouring in; Corey Black was alive, trapped in a netherworld of the dead that belonged to his alter ego, Creeping Death. Dethfort was now under new management and the fate of the world was at stake. Rabid could hear the ghosts of his former allies calling out to him as a low hum greeted his senses, it was a C130 transport craft, Erik Black had arrived as promised, the huge bird taxing in for a landing. It was just like the old days.
A new, crisp Union Jack was raised as battle plans were drawn. Now was the time for action.
To Be Concluded.
