by Paul Cude
"I will not be defeated by you!"
Instantly Tank picked up the ball and kicked it to himself. Clutching the ball to his well defined chest and gritting his teeth, he picked his path and started to run. Most of the opposition were busy slapping each other on the back, having already mentally won the game. Only a handful were aware of what was happening, and all of them closed in on Tank, eyes filled with malice for what he was about to attempt. The Salisbridge players watched aghast at what the young dragon was trying to do. What else could they do? There were just a handful of seconds left now; the game, for all intents and purposes, was over. While he hadn't achieved quite enough momentum to reach what he considered to be his full speed, he was certainly moving quite quickly, something the first opponent to reach him found to his cost, as he bounced clumsily off Tank's right shoulder. As the primal fire burned brightly throughout him, he could just make out the try line through the mass of bodies and limbs that stood in his way. Able to make out every blade of grass, every tiny fleck of paint, through just the centre of his eye line, his peripheral vision was just a dull blackness. A tiny smile stretched across his beaten face, as he knew in mere moments he was going to plonk the ball down on that wonderful painted piece of turf. Deep inside his head his mind screamed at him,
"NOW!"
As everyone watched, he knew exactly what he had to do.
In mid run, he put all of his effort into jumping, and leapt for all he was worth, his knees protesting beyond belief, but they held firm and helped him get the launch he needed. Not a light fellow, quite the opposite in fact, he did have muscles made of his favourite laminium ball player... STEEL! And when he wanted them to work, boy did they work. With opponents rushing towards him, even they were too shocked to react as he sailed between their heads, ball held out in front of him, concentrating on nothing more than putting it down across that sacred line. Time stood still for Tank, who savoured the shocked and distressed faces of the dirty players he and his teammates had been battling against for nearly eighty minutes. Abruptly, time returned as he found himself hurtling towards the ground at quite a rate. He knew beyond any doubt that his landing was not going to be very pleasant. How right he was. The ball, followed closely by Tank's all but numb fingers, and then the rest of his body, hit the grass just the other side of the try line. Tank tumbled head over heels, his body having finally reached breaking point. As his eyes started to close, he could just make out the referee's whistle shrieking through the air and knew that it had all been worthwhile.
Along with all the other home supporters, Peter and Richie screamed their heads off as the referee blew his whistle and signalled that Tank had scored the try of his life. To a man, the Salisbridge players went mad, jumping up and down, hugging each other, high fives, fist bumps... the lot. That is until they realised that Tank hadn't moved since he'd hit the ground. Instantly the Salisbridge physio was at Tank's side, moving his teammates out of the way. Richie and Peter looked on anxiously, worried for their friend. While all of this happened, the official in charge blew his whistle for full time, but the match was not finished yet. With Tank's try, the game stood at 19-20, but if Salisbridge managed to kick the conversion, they would win 21-20. It was a nail biting finish to a very unusual game. After the most tense three or four minutes both teams had ever experienced, Tank was finally helped to his feet by the physio and three of his teammates. With his arms around their shoulders, he managed to get back to the home team's dugout and sit down. Silence enveloped the pitch, the crowd and the players, as Hatchet Hammond placed the ball on the ground, directly in front of the posts. Tank knew the kick should be a sure thing, but with all the waiting around, even he could feel the pressure his teammate must have been under. Having taken a few steps back, Hammond made his run up, kicked the ball cleanly and watched it fly straight between the posts. Turning around towards his own dugout, he took a bow. With the exception of Tank and the physio, the whole team sprinted over to Hammond and mobbed him. Peter, Richie and the rest of the crowd cheered wildly as the ball sailed between the posts, the referee signalling the conversion had been good, with the game finishing 21-20 to Salisbridge.
Taking a very shallow breath, as that was pretty much all he could do, a deep seated satisfaction washed over him as he observed the opposition trudge off towards their dressing room. All he could think was that they got exactly what they deserved. Gingerly he got to his feet, and with a little help from the physio, he followed the rest of the team to the changing rooms, hoping that the celebrations which he knew would follow, would not be beyond him. As he left the pitch, Richie and Peter waited anxiously by the door to the changing rooms, determined to check on their friend's wellbeing. As Tank approached, he shook off the physio and hobbled over to them. Richie opened her mouth, but before she could utter a word, Tank waved away her concerns.
"I'm fine guys... honest," Tank puffed, looking like he'd been thrown to the lions.
Richie looked up into his wreck of a face, examining each and every bruise that crisscrossed it, before leaning close and whispering in his ear.
"Do you want me to cast a quick healing mantra?"
Tank shook his head, surprised by the level of pain the small movement sent shooting down his back.
"Thanks for the offer Rich, but I'll struggle through for now and then cast one on myself when I get home."
"Sure?" she asked.
"Sure," he replied, managing the faintest of smiles.
Tank looked across at Peter, who stood, arms folded, next to the changing room door, unconvinced by Tank's claims of being fine.
"As you know, I'm not really a rugby fan, but that was... FANTASTIC!" he announced.
"Yeah," replied Tank dreamily. "I can honestly say I've never played in a game quite like it."
Peter smiled, recognising in Tank the same dedication that both he and Richie had to their respective sports.
"Anyway," said Tank, clutching at his clearly painful ribs, "you'll have to excuse me, I desperately need a shower, and a beer afterwards. So I'll see you in the bar shortly." With that, he turned and limped off.
Both friends made their way through to the pleasantly warm bar, with the rest of the evening turning into a pretty much normal Saturday for them. Of course, it was normal for when Peter was playing hockey, something he hadn't done in months, and was more determined than ever to return to full fitness and play some part in the remaining games of the season for the second team. It wasn't long before the three friends ended up playing rowdy games with the rugby teams, with Tim and Janice joining in for a short time. Peter found that for some reason, he was uncomfortable with Janice in front of his friends, something he hoped she hadn't picked up on. Whether or not it was the whole dragon relationship thing, he really didn't know, but vowed to think long and hard about it. Later that evening, they all left the sports club together, Janice heading home in her cherished pink mini, but not before giving Peter a passionate kiss goodbye. Tim and Richie headed off in his BMW, not before Richie instructed Peter to make sure that Tank had cast that healing mantra on himself. Peter helped Tank climb into his car, rugby kit and all, and headed back to Tank's house to drop off his friend. During the journey, Tank cast a healing mantra that Peter had never heard of before, one that seemed to have amazing properties. While the bruising and damage to his face remained, Tank seemed to be well on his way to being healed, as he jumped out of Peter's car able to sling his rugby kit over his giant shoulders, something he certainly couldn't have done at the sports club. Waving his friend goodbye, watching him skip up the garden path with the huge kit bag, Peter smiled to himself, started the car, and headed for home, marvelling at the wonderful time he'd had in the company of not only his two best friends, but these thrilling humans as well.
9 Planting the Seeds of Destruction
Climbing down the rusty ladder, the stench of waste assaulted his nose once more. Every time he did this he always found himself surprised that he hadn't yet got used to the smell.
> 'If I haven't by now, then obviously I never will,' he thought as he shut the hatch above, leaving him alone in the dark. Flicking the switch on his helmet, the bright white light from the lamp on top of it leapt into life. A brief rush of fear gripped him momentarily. It was the first time in the eleven years he'd been doing this that he'd been down this far alone. Normally, there'd be at least one other person with him, probably more. Not tonight. Reaching the bottom rung of the ladder, he jumped the last three feet, landing with a splash as his rubber boots hit the flowing river of waste. Taking a short shallow breath of the rancid air, he checked the backpack he carried to make sure it was secure. It was, thank goodness. Part of him was appalled at what he was doing, knowing full well that people would almost certainly die at some point in the future because of him. Unfortunately, a much bigger part inside of him just didn't care. Nobody in this city liked or cared for him very much. His wife had left him for another man, and was living quite comfortably in a wealthy suburb even now. As he trudged along the dark sewer, even darker thoughts strangled his mind. His colleagues were... bullies. Not a day passed when he wasn't ridiculed or forced into doing something humiliating and for that he hated the lot of them. And with the money he'd collect for placing this... package, no not package... bomb, as that's what it was, the money would allow him to start a new life a long way from the city above his head... Chicago. In a few days he would hand in his resignation, leave for greener pastures, and know that he himself had played a small part in the new world to come.
Arriving at an intersection in the maze of sewers, he turned left, knowing that he'd nearly reached his goal. Ducking his head to avoid a cluster of smaller pipes running across his path, out of nowhere a huge lump of goodness knows what plopped onto the shoulder of the rubber suit he was wearing. Wearily wiping it off as he walked, no longer disgusted by it, just sick to the teeth of the whole damn sewer system of Chicago, he finally reached his destination. Turning the light on his helmet towards a seemingly innocuous part of the brick wall that lined the tunnel, he rubbed his gloved hand along it until he found exactly what he'd been looking for. There it was, a brick amongst bricks, looking just like any other. But this was the brick that he'd found ten days before, the brick that would bring him a new life, a chance to start all over again, a brick that would bring destruction raining down on this rotten city, a brick that somebody, only last month, had asked him to find. Reaching round into the side pocket of the backpack, he carefully unzipped it and pulled out a small, flat bladed screwdriver. Wedging the tip of the screwdriver into the mortar around the brick, he started to wiggle it just a little, then doing the same on the other end of the brick, little by little, moving it out from the wall. Taking it nice and slowly, alternating ends, he made sure not to damage the mortar or leave any obvious marks to show that the brick had come out.
For a month now he'd been on the hunt for exactly this, since the night he'd been drinking and chatting in a bar with a strange woman, a woman who'd bought him drinks all evening long and listened to his tale of woe. When he mentioned that he was a sewer worker, he got the distinct impression that she already knew. It was then that she offered him the deal, on behalf of someone else, allegedly, but he wasn't quite sure. Oh, not about accepting the deal, but about it being on behalf of someone else. She looked troubling, no not troubling, but like... TROUBLE! Anyhow, he didn't even have to think about the deal. With all that money, he'd be able to start afresh, with the added bonus of giving back to the city everything and more that it had always given to him.
Nearly free now, carefully he grasped the brick with his gloved hand, and pulled it the last part of the way. Gently resting the brick down on top of his rubber boot, mindful of it being there, he placed the screwdriver back in the backpack and then retrieved from a bigger pocket the package that he'd come down here to plant. Very carefully he pulled it out and brought it round in front of him. Shining the light from his helmet onto it, he gently removed the plastic bag that he'd wrapped it in. Its rustling echoed down the deserted tunnel making an eerie sound that mixed strangely with the constant dripping and the gentle flow of sewage beneath his feet. Reaching out to place the package in the gap behind the brick and complete the job he was being paid handsomely to do, he hesitated just a little, not because of the consequences, but because he was desperate to see inside the box just one more time. Lifting its well worn lid, he was rewarded with a shiver of excitement that curled up and down his spine as he gazed down at the contents. Another box, this one black, metallic and waterproof, with a clear reinforced window, stared up at him. Through the window, glowing red numbers shone out like the bat signal on a cloudy night, in the dark, dank tunnel that he stood in. His fingers developed a strange tingle as he watched the red numbers slowly count down, able to imagine what would happen when the numbers reached zero. For sure, he certainly wouldn't want to be anywhere near this place. His attention moved across from the ever changing numbers, past the coloured wires, and focused, as it had time after time, on the glowing ring of metal that sat at the very left hand edge of the device. That particular part was mesmerising, captivating, hypnotic almost, he could have looked at it all day long.
Letting out a small sigh, he closed the box and very, very carefully slid it through the gap where the brick had been. With the box firmly nestled behind the wall, he set about carefully replacing the brick, determined not to leave any trace that it had ever come out.
'Nobody will find out what's coming to this city,' he thought, as he worked methodically at putting the brick back. It was only when he'd finished the job and stood admiring his handiwork in the light provided by his helmet, that he realised quite how nervous he'd been; his skin and hair were both caked in sweat and the rubber boots he wore were nearly full up from the inside. Satisfied that the brick looked no different from the millions of others running through Chicago's sewers, he trudged back the way he'd come, the thought of the biggest shower in the world waiting for him back at his apartment. All he had to do now was pick up the money. Everything was in the bag, so to speak.
* * *
On a small boat, aptly named 'Dragon's Destruction,' moored at a pontoon in Montreal, Canada, the sole occupant left the comfort of the cosy cabin where he'd been reading the local daily paper and headed aft, into the biting rain and cloying night air. It was 3am local time, and the moment had come for him to carry out his mission. He'd acquired the boat two months ago from a very shady fellow, who had unfortunately met an unsavoury end involving some plastic restraints, a gag and about a million hungry crabs. Shrugging his shoulders as he recalled the incident, he merely thought of it as poetic justice; after all, the shady character in question had been a smuggler and had been using the sea, and this boat to transport all sorts of illegal items into the United States for many years. The fact that the sea and its inhabitants had got their revenge, merely amused him. Of course, he'd been instructed to buy a vessel capable of doing the job it would be needed for, but what was the point in that? So he'd very casually helped the shady character into the sea with the crabs, watched for a while, acquired the boat and pocketed the money he'd been given. Of course he'd spent some of it on having the boat re-sprayed and changed so that no one would recognise it, particularly the coastguard. It was a pretty good bet that the United States authorities in some capacity would have a record of this particular boat as it had been, and that would prove a major inconvenience if they should happen to interrupt this particular assignment. So now it was unrecognisable from the craft it once was, even the name, which he'd thought of himself and was quite proud of. One feature had been kept though: the smuggling compartments that the shady character had fitted to the boat himself. They were magnificent and the reason why this boat was the one he'd needed.
Wiping the rain from his eyes as he walked along the slippery deck, he glanced over at the deserted pontoon and quayside, hoping that it would remain that way. Reaching the back of the boat, he lifted the hatch that covered the entrance to the
engine room, and mindfully climbed down the old wooden ladder. Closing the hatch behind him, he flicked a switch on the wall and watched a tiny bulb to his right buzz into life. Strolling across the enclosed space, careful to avoid getting any oil or grease from the exposed machinery on his fashionable jeans and sweatshirt, he reached up and carefully pulled down the faded, black wetsuit and scuba gear that hung on the wall. Much as he knew how to use them, they would only slow him down tonight, and in any case they were more for show than anything else. Part of his cover at the moment was having a history full of diving experience. It would look pretty odd to the authorities if he was boarded and they discovered there was no diving gear aboard at all. Moving the gear from the wall into the far corner only a few feet away, he turned his attention to the oil stained, faded white wall behind where the diving gear had hung. Pressing each thumb to oil stains about two feet apart, he moved them along both stains simultaneously, one going up, one going across, all the time pressing firmly against the wall. A tiny click, followed by a low sounding rush of air, preceded an invisible panel sliding out from the filthy wall, revealing a small, cushioned compartment. Reaching in, he pulled out a small metallic box, clear on one side, red numbers visibly counting down. Touching the end of the panel that had slid out he watched it dart back into place, hiding in plain view. Gathering up the box, he thought momentarily about replacing the scuba gear and wetsuit on the wall, but knowing that time was now of the essence, he decided against it. In the cramped cubicle he stripped off all his clothes and placed them atop the wetsuit. Flicking off the light switch, he climbed the ladder in the dark, all the time clutching the oh so important box. Taking a moment to listen for anything unusual outside, quietly he lifted open the hatch above him and poked his head out to look around. With the coast clear, he vaulted up the last two steps onto the rain soaked deck, his naked body remaining entirely in the shadows. With a firm grip on the box, and a last check to make sure no one was watching, he sprinted over to the rail and dived head first over it into the freezing water.