by Paul Cude
'I've done it,' he thought, feeling an immeasurable pride well up inside his chest. 'I've saved them all.' He'd known that he wasn't cut out to be a hero, but when it counted, when it really mattered, he'd stepped up and given his life to stop Manson and had thwarted his twisted plans for the entire planet.
As he lay there, unable to move at all on the bone chillingly cold synthetic pitch, waiting to depart for good, his mind began to wander.
'Strange,' he thought to himself as he looked towards the edge of the pitch nearest to him, 'I'd have thought with Manson's downfall, the mystical haze surrounding the pitch would have dissipated totally. It definitely faded momentarily when I thrust that icicle into him, but why hasn't it gone altogether? The crowd should be rushing in from the fireworks display to see what's been going on.'
Over the sound of the very best fireworks launched so far, a soft ringing laughter echoed subtly across the misty pitch. It was the kind of laughter that could turn a being's blood cold, or even still a beating heart. Peter had thought he couldn't get any colder. It turns out he was wrong. As his goose bumps got goose bumps and the fear inside him threw itself off the nearest tall building in fright, he just managed to turn his head in the direction of the dreaded mirth.
The sight that greeted him washed away all his hopes and pride. It felt as though all the remaining intact bones in his body had all been broken at once. Wetting himself straight away, he was amazed that he hadn't done so before now, given everything that had gone on. His hope lay shattered, his pride shredded and any dignity he had was long gone. Worst of all was the fact that he knew in the not too distant future his friends’ lives would be destroyed and they might well face the same fate.
Manson plodded towards him, clutching the icicle he'd ripped out of his underbelly. He tossed it towards Peter for dramatic effect, not wanting to end things just yet.
"You showed more courage than I ever could have expected... impressive. It's almost a shame things have to end this way; you might have made a welcome addition to our... cause."
Peter spat a huge gob full of blood as far as he could in the vile dragon's direction.
"Yes, I thought that would be your response. Shame really, you certainly seem to have more backbone than those two," he said, pointing in the direction of Theobald and Casey. "Still... never mind."
Lying on the ground, wondering how the hell Manson wasn't dead, or at least near death, Peter was sure he'd hit the right spot, and had damn well thrust the icicle in with enough power to finish the dark dragon for good. What he was seeing was just not possible.
Manson watched the helpless young dragon as he lay near death in front of him, knowing exactly what was he was thinking.
"Would you like me to put your mind at rest?"
Once again Peter spat in Manson's direction, but only the tiniest of globules came out.
Prehistoric evil chuckled at the pathetic attempt and, turning just slightly, pointed to the spot on his belly where Peter had so carefully thrust in the icicle.
"Unlike the poor deluded, weak and pitiful dragons you serve, I belong to a much stronger, smarter breed. You all loll round with your weak spots showing to everybody so that they can all see where to deliver the fatal blow. How sporting," he boomed sarcastically. "That will be the undoing of your dragon community. By the time they realise, it will be too late. You see, the breed of dragon that I belong to would never dream of showing another dragon its weak spot, not when we can mask our weak spots and replicate them on a much stronger part of our body. You see, much as I admire your one last attempt at taking me down, you never really had any real chance. The spot you saw isn't my weak spot, and when my associates and I take on your dragon community in the very near future, they'll find that out the hard way. Anyway, much as this has been... a nice little workout," he bragged, flexing the muscles in both wings, "it really is time for me to go. And I'm afraid, for you, it's time to die."
Lying on the cold surface, covered in blood and urine, determined to face whatever was coming head on, he knew it would be more painful than anything he'd experienced so far that evening, something he found hard to imagine, but steeled himself for anyway. Craning his neck to look at Manson, he waited for the deranged dragon to leap forward and deliver the killer blow. That murder-in-his-eyes look crossed Manson's face once again as he hungrily anticipated delivering death to the already expiring body strewn out in front of him.
As the muscles in Manson's legs tightened, he prepared to swoop forward and end it all.
And then, the most amazing thing in the world happened.
From out of nowhere, it started to snow. Not just a little bit of snow either. Huge, intricate flakes the size of tennis balls rained out of the dark sky, like comets having a race. It was so dense that at first Peter couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. Looking up, although he could hear the last of the fireworks exploding above him, he could see nothing but a thick white apron of snowflakes heading his way. The mighty flakes settled all over his body, burning fiercely as they touched his exposed flesh, of which there was quite a lot. This, however, was nothing compared with what the supremely confident, homicidal, deranged Manson was going through. One of the first things to be drilled into young dragons at the nursery ring is the need to avoid all forms of cold, particularly in their natural state. One thing worse than the cold for dragons in their prehistoric, dinosaur like natural state, is... snow. The impact of snow on a dragon's unshielded body has been described by historian dragons as akin to a human being branded with a red hot poker, over and over again, stung by a thousand jellyfish, while at the same time being flogged by a cat o' nine tails. Not very pleasant you could say, something Manson was proving right at this very moment. He'd thought that the dark dragon's earlier screams, which he now knew to be fake, were as bad as anything could sound. Boy was he wrong. The huge evil dragon was screaming and writhing around in absolute agony, trying desperately to bat away the snowflakes as the incredible flurry continued to strike his body.
Despite the burning of the snow, Peter let out a little chuckle at the sight of Manson in so much pain. From his prone position, he could just make out the foggy haze that encircled the pitch start to flicker.
'He must be in so much pain that he can't maintain his concentration,' Peter thought to himself. Through the occasional gap in the endless stream of snowflakes, he once again caught sight of the floodlight control box, not three metres away. He had nothing left to give. Most of his bodily fluids were strewn across the sand encrusted, icy pitch, which now had about two inches of snow covering it. He really didn't have anything else to give... honest! At least that's what his body kept saying. His mind, however, had other ideas. With the sound of the climactic fireworks and Manson's howls of agony pounding his besieged eardrums, his body made one last heroic attempt to get to its feet. He wasn't quite sure how it was happening, but unbelievably he had got up, in a very wobbly sort of way. Swaying from side to side and being pelted at the same time by the torrent of burning snowflakes, he shuffled his feet through the deepening snow towards the control box.
Mind screaming in pain constantly from the injuries he'd already sustained and from the never ending flurries of snow, as if on some kind of autopilot, his legs continued shuffling along, determined to get to their destination. Only the thought of death offering a swift release played through the insanity that was now his mind, almost lost forever. But before madness could consume him fully, some tiny part of his consciousness recognised the object that stood before him... the green box had a covering of snow, nearly four inches deep and getting thicker with every second that passed. It was a thing of beauty he thought, as he stretched out his deeply cut and burned hands. Ignoring the pain and the noise, he gripped the locked cover and with the strength of someone else, casually ripped it off, tossing it to one side, where it landed with a THUD in the soft, thick snow. His vision started to fade as his body gave up, but he knew now that there was no chance of failure. Before him in the box lay
four bright red buttons, the buttons that would each turn on a bank of two floodlights. When all were depressed, all eight of the giant lights would burst into life, illuminating the pitch for miles around. Reaching out with his right hand, he depressed all four buttons. In doing so, the pain became too much. As his battered legs gave out, he fell gracelessly into the snow, satisfaction sweeping over him from knowing that he'd switched all the lights on. He just hoped it would be enough.
Slumped below the control box, covered in snow, his life ebbing away, snowflakes still bombarding him, Peter's mind fed him what limited information it could. Through the barrage of now illuminated snow, he could just make out two human shaped silhouettes clambering over the still burning wreckage of the van by the blocked gate on the far side of the synthetic pitch. In the furthest corner of the pitch, it looked as though a giant figure of something with wings was trying frantically to take to the sky. That was the last thing he saw before everything turned black.
Flying through the open sky was the polar opposite of everything he'd recently felt. All he'd known was the biting pain of constant cold and chilling ice. But here he was now soaring through the sky, the radiant yellow sun beating down on his back as he cut through the air, executing perfect loop the loops. Sometimes he heard voices, carried on the soft breeze, some that even sounded like his friends, Richie and Tank. It was difficult to understand exactly what they were saying, but occasionally he could just make out the odd phrase, such as, "Hold on," and "It'll be okay, help's coming," but in the main, it just seemed like gibberish. Continuing on with his flying, occasionally he felt the odd burning sensation on his... hmmm. It felt like arms, but he was here, flying. So it had to be... .wings, didn't it?
'How odd,' he thought to himself, as he continued, getting ever closer to the scorching sun, feeling its warm embrace all over.
16 A King Sized Surprise
Brilliant light pierced his pupils as his eyes fluttered open. A clean, white, bright room swam slowly into view. Combing his memory, he searched for any clues as to where he was. Frustrated at coming up empty, he sunk his head back into the big squashy pillow and looked up at the bright ceiling lights. It was only then that he heard it: the sound of shallow breathing from somewhere off to his right. Trying to sit upright, he immediately wished he hadn't, as a wave of what can only be described as 'pain masked by strong medication' washed from his head to his toes. Closing his eyes momentarily, hearing the screech of a chair on the mezzanine floor as he did so, he felt a comforting hand gently squeeze his shoulder.
"Easy son, you've been through one hell of an ordeal," a soft, reassuring voice whispered.
Allowing the hand to guide him back down to a prone position, once again he found the comfort of the squashy pillow as it engulfed his head. After a few moments he opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling, past the bright white lights. White polystyrene tiles with tiny holes in covered the whole ceiling. Something deep inside him screamed. Slowly at first, but it quickly turned into an unstoppable freight train as all the memories started to return, triggered by the innocuous ceiling tiles. Distinctly remembering hiding behind some, not that long ago, after that, the thoughts came thick and fast, overwhelming him. Fear coursed through him, quickly followed by panic. Ignoring the pain, he sat bolt upright. Knowing he'd felt worse made it much easier to ignore. Once again the hand landed gently on his shoulder, urging him to lie back. Ignoring it, he instead focused on who the hand belonged to. As the man's features materialised through the bright light, all he could think of was,
'YOU!'
The man nodded, offering a sympathetic smile, his long, unkempt, grey hair framed a hardened face that looked sad and happy in equal measures, a face that Peter had seen on many different occasions and in many different locations. Never though, had he seen him looking so serious. With his memories returned, he looked the old man in the eyes, and urgently said,
"I need to speak to the Council... now!"
"It's alright son," came the reply, "you are."
"You're part of the Council?" asked Peter wide eyed.
The old man's long grey hair bobbed around his shoulders as he nodded his reply.
Peter scratched his chin in thought, and for the very first time noticed the array of bandages covering his body.
"You need to know what happened. There was this... this... this... dragon... called Manson. He was, he was... after the laminium. Oh God, the laminium. Did he take it? Please tell me he didn't manage to take it."
Standing up, the old man walked to the head of the bed, behind Peter, and adjusted the pillows, so that the young dragon would be sitting up properly, before wearily slumping down in the chair beside the bed.
"He didn't take the laminium," he recounted, "well, not the bulk of it anyway."
Peter frowned as he sat propped up.
"Not the bulk of it?"
"There was close to two tonnes of raw laminium stolen from the Cropptech site. The amount recovered from the Astroturf, thanks to your intervention, matched that almost exactly. A discrepancy arises because, through intensive research, it appears that before the laminium was loaded onto the trucks, a small amount seems to already have been taken. As far as we can tell, about fifteen small chunks, roughly ring sized, weighing no more than six or seven grams each, were cut out of a much larger chunk of ore. How, we don't know. Our belief is that the rogue dragon Manson did this some time ago, without the assistance of anyone else, using the advanced technology at Cropptech. Still... no easy task to do on your own. Why he did this, we still don't know. As to where the missing laminium is, we have no idea about that either, but we do have agents working hard to try and find out. You interrupted a very sophisticated operation here, son."
Peter took in all the information, trying to piece it together in his mind. A question popped into his head as if from nowhere.
"Just how long have I been here?" he croaked, his mouth feeling like the eye of a sandstorm in the middle of the Sahara.
The old man got up and poured Peter a glass of water from the jug on the table beside his bed. Peter gulped it down pretty much in one go, not realising it was possible for water to taste that good.
"You were in a really bad way when you got here. By all accounts you should have been dead."
"Just where is here?" Peter interrupted.
"Salisbridge district hospital, where else? You're in one of the advanced treatment rooms secluded in the basement of the hospital. The emergency dragon plan was set into motion as soon as they were aware that you were on your way."
Nodding, he knew all about dragon plans from his lessons at the nursery ring. In time of great emergency, dragon wise, it should be possible in most major facilities to instigate a change of procedure that in effect subtly moves humans out of the way of what is really happening. In a hospital, for example, dragons in their human form hold posts that would allow them, in a catastrophe, to change shift and rota patterns unexpectedly and commandeer rooms and equipment without causing suspicion or alarm amongst the humans. Staff such as nurses, doctors and consultants, who may through their specific training recognise inconsistencies in the medical data and results from a patient that looks human but is in actual fact a dragon, would be casually relocated until such a time as the patient can either be found somewhere more private to be tended to, in or out of hospital, or has in fact recovered enough to hide their true identity and return to the dragon realm. Peter now knew that he was in the depths of Salisbridge hospital, hidden away, known only to a few, all of whom were dragons.
The old man continued.
"They say the only reason you survived was because someone at the scene applied a very fancy mantra, ancient in design, but incredibly effective. It stopped your body bleeding in an instant and then slowed your metabolism, effectively putting you in a coma, buying enough time for you to get here and be treated by the best we have. If it weren’t for that mantra, you would have died."
Peter thought carefully about what he'd just
been told. He couldn't recall any of it.
"Do you have any idea who would have done such a thing?"
He nodded, knowing straight away that it could only have been one person...
"Tank."
"Ahhh... your friend, the big dragon with a love of plants and animals."
"That's right," ventured Peter, suspiciously. "How do you know that?"
Abruptly, the old man (well... dragon) burst into a fit of laughter, the first time Peter had seen anything but seriousness since he'd woken up. After the laughter had died down, the old man wiped his eyes and turned to look at Peter.
"It's my job to know."
He nodded, not entirely convinced.
"Anyway, to answer your question. You've been here for six days."
"SIX DAYS!" exclaimed Peter. "And I'm still in this state, with all the bandages and everything."
"Your injuries were substantial. For some reason you don't seem to be healing as quickly as would normally be expected. Many different mantras have been used to try and heal your injuries, but alas, most have had little or no effect. We think that the particular dragon you came up against has some special abilities that might be contributing to how long it's taking you to heal. Perhaps if you're up to it, you could give me a more detailed description of what happened."
He felt truly terrible. In some respects it felt as though he was back on the chilly Astroturf, taking the beating of his life. But he didn't want to let anyone down, not least the dragon Council. So, taking a small sip of his water, he replied,
"Of course. Where would you like to start?"
"At the beginning," coaxed the old man, settling into his chair.
That's where Peter began and over the course of two hours, told the old man everything he could remember. Occasionally the old man would interrupt him and ask a question, but for the most part he just sat in his chair and listened.