“So let’s say you get out of this with everything you want,” Drake posed, dropping to the floor in a seated position as they rounded a curve. “What then? I mean, I know you said you’re going after the ones that infected your friend, but after that.”
“What do you mean?”
“What about your friend? Gonna take him to see Larry, too?”
“Tried already. He can’t help. Strictly regen work. He might be able to mix up some kind of drug, but the time it would take? Too long.”
Drake nodded slowly, and then a sly grin peeled back his emerald lips, exposing shining teeth. “What if I could cure him?” he asked.
Gunsmoke glared down at him, his expression hardening. “Don’t joke about that,” he warned.
“No joke, slick. I know a guy. You hear about the Ebola thing a year or so back? Kid went in and healed everyone?”
“You know him?”
“Did his thing for me a couple times. Kicks him in the ass to do it, but he can do diseases. He might be willing to give it a shot.”
“What’s in it for you?”
“For me? Geez, pal. Cynical much?” Drake snorted, leaning against the bench seat.
“Everybody’s got an angle,” Gunsmoke shot back. He folded his arms across his chest, swaying on his feet as the truck bounced over a railroad crossing.
“I ain’t asking you for nothing. Figured you might want to see your friend get better. You don’t, that’s your ass. Well, his ass, I guess, but you know what I mean.”
“You get him cured and I’ll owe you one,” Gunsmoke said after a second. The admission came through tightly-clenched lips. “That don’t mean our current deal is off, you understand.”
“Oh, no,” Drake said with a vigorous shake of his head. “I’m in it this far, I intend to see it through. I wanna see what this monkey’s got to bring to the table. The offer was just…call it a humanitarian gesture. And you ain’t gonna owe me nothing, like I said. You want to feel indebted to someone, it’ll be to Splicer.”
“He’s the one what can fix Spud?”
“He’s the one that can try,” Drake clarified. “I can’t guarantee results on this. I’ve never dealt with this Chicken Little virus thing -”
“Kirkham-Lambard,” Gunsmoke corrected.
“—and I don’t know if he has either. I don’t know how well any of his tricks will work. But I know he’ll try.”
The truck came to a halt, putting an end to the conversation. Gunsmoke walked to the back and stepped out, his longcoat flaring out around him and his boots puffing up dust when they landed. Drake glanced once at the ground, seeing that it was solid concrete.
“What’s the deal with the dust?” he asked as he, too, dismounted the vehicle. “Your boots always got dust on ‘em. You some kinda dust-generating booster or something? It adds to the effect, maybe?”
Gunsmoke looked around for a moment, then leaned in close, as though about to impart a secret of paramount importance. “I get dirty,” he whispered, then rolled his eyes and pointed toward a massive building. “This is it.”
Drake turned to survey the building. It was mostly made of brick, with a corrugated metal roof. Huge doors led into the building at various points along its perimeter, and the surrounding area was a hard concrete tarmac. Time and the elements had done some damage to the structure, but not so much as the rampages of local gangs with cans of spray paint. Graffiti covered every exposed surface, in many places extending to points on the roof.
“Warehouse,” Gunsmoke explained. “Used to have a lot of business in drop-shipping out here. Abandoned now for a while. Well, until this guy got his mitts on it.”
“So this is his home turf?” Drake asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Yeah. Guess so. This is where he arranged to meet, at least. Got all his cameras and so on inside. Johnny’s calling him now to let him know we’re here. Why? You wanna quit?”
“I didn’t want to get started,” snarled the reptilian booster. “I sure as hell didn’t want to fight some dumbass in a field of his own choosing.”
“Yeah? Well, we can’t always get what we want, right?” Gunsmoke said, actually smiling. “Let’s go.”
They walked across the tarmac to the enormous double doors through which pallets of goods had once passed, and Gunsmoke reached out to open them. He paused, raising a finger as if a thought had just come to him.
“He said no guns.”
“What?”
“Onslaught. He said you can’t have your guns. Almost forgot.”
“Oh, well, wouldn’t want to forget something like that,” Drake said, eyes rolling as he reached for the pistol in his waistband. He handed it butt-first to Gunsmoke, who arched an eyebrow at the weight of the weapon before tucking it into his own pants.
“Hope it don’t pull down my britches,” he mumbled.
“Yeah? You ought to be hoping it don’t accidentally cook off, way it’s angled,” Drake quipped in reply. He did not wait for Gunsmoke, jerking open the door and stepping inside.
The interior was dimly lit, and Drake’s eyes opened wide in an attempt to see clearly. Most of the building was little more than empty space; a mirror image of the exterior, though without the graffiti. Cameras hung from the rafters, pointed in different directions to capture any action. Massive spotlights did the same, though they were currently dark and cool. On the far end of the warehouse, Drake saw a small set of bleachers had been erected behind what looked like a foot-thick piece of unbreakable Lexan. Several people occupied space on them now. Most had laptop computers braced on their knees and they were furiously working the keys.
A single spotlight flared into brilliance, illuminating a man that had stepped from behind the bleachers. He strode confidently into the center of the warehouse, his urban grey fatigues making little swishing sounds as he moved. He stared at Drake, his shining eyes glinting from within the executioner’s hood that covered his head. As he reached the middle of the massive floor, he stopped. Pausing for a moment, he raised his arms slowly toward the ceiling, bringing them above his head and them flaring them wide so his body formed a “T”. Gouts of flame spat from concealed canisters around the exterior of the room, bathing it in a ruddy red glow.
“I. Am. Onslaught!” the man announced in a booming voice, once again making each word a separate statement.
“Damn, and here I thought this was Pizza Palace,” Drake countered as he stepped forward. He pressed his hands together, filling the air with the sounds of cracking joints. “So, we gonna do this or what?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Drake stared across the length of the warehouse floor at the man who had, in essence, purchased the right to battle him. His challenging question, “So, we gonna do this or what?” still hung in the air, and he noted that Onslaught seemed to be waiting before replying.
“Can he hear okay?” Drake asked Gunsmoke. The grey-coated killer had stepped in behind him and now stood as a lurking menace just to the rear of Drake’s right hip. “That hood thing make him deaf, maybe?”
“I heard you, dragon!” Onslaught shouted. “I just thought maybe you wanted to talk your way out of gettin’ your ass whipped. Thought I’d give you a chance. Go on! The world is watching,” he added, gesturing around them at the myriad cameras that were hung from rafters, clamped to the walls, and mounted on frames at seemingly random locations. Besides the cameras, Drake saw yet more people maintaining computer connections - and, he figured, keeping any trace activity from locating the warehouse. A paramedic team stood in the corner, shielded by the slight frame of the rolling cot on which their equipment was stacked.
“Okay,” Drake said with a shrug of his mountainous shoulders. “I can talk, if that’s what you want. You sponsored the kidnapping of a Federal Agent, endangered probably hundreds of lives by your actions, and forced me to come in here and watch the worst entrance I’ve seen since pro wrestling went high-tech. What’s next? Gonna hit me with a trash can?”
“Keep it up, you overgrown l
izard. I ain’t scared of you or any of your cronies. I’ll take you all, one after another!”
“Let’s just get this over with,” Drake urged. He jerked a thumb at Gunsmoke. “Give the man here what he wants and let the beating commence.”
“After,” Onslaught countered. He started throwing punches and hopping from one place to another to loosen up.
“You know, you put a lot of people through a lot of shit for your little stage play here, slick, and I’m more than a little bit pissed about it. So, I was thinking. You’d better give it to him now, ‘cause I don’t figure on you being able to talk much when I’m finished.”
Onslaught snorted and laughed aloud. “That’s brave talk, but I notice you ain’t moving any closer. Afraid I might mess up your pretty face? Don‘t worry about it, Sally Salamander. I brought a medical team to patch you back up.”
“You good with me kicking his ass first, G?” Drake asked, looking back at the booster behind him. Gunsmoke shrugged, shoulders shifting beneath the coat he wore.
“I was gonna stay to watch anyway,” he said.
“That’s cool. See you in a couple of minutes,” Drake said. He jerked his head from side to side, freeing up the joints of his spine with a series of loud cracks, then whistled a long, sharp blast through his teeth. Onslaught looked up to see him and Drake licked his lips, allowing his teeth to shine in the spotlight. He dug his feet into the floor and set off in a run toward Onslaught.
“About damned time!” Onslaught shouted, starting a run of his own. Dozens of overhead lights snapped on, illuminating the room in a yellow-white glare. Even that was overpowered by the spotlights that tracked each of the combatants as they made their moves.
Drake knew that the impact would be substantial, and braced himself accordingly as they neared. His left hand slipped across his waist, forming a protective shield as he twisted himself slightly to strike with his left side forward. His right hand, opened and ready, was cocked down at his side. Their approach took on frightening speed, and Drake could see that Onslaught’s gloved hand had an odd shimmer to it, as though it were too hot for the surrounding air. That image was still processing in Drake’s mind when the fist seemed almost to teleport from its position and hammer into the plating over his heart.
A crack like a rifle shot echoed from the warehouse walls and a scent of burnt metal filled the air following the impact of the fist. Blazing pain erupted along Drake’s flank and his breath stopped short as the surge hit. His own strike, a simple claw swipe designed to take Onslaught off balance, went wide and missed the bulky fighter completely. Combined with the sudden explosive strike, the swipe left Drake overstretched and he went face first to the floor. The concrete screeched and sparks flew from his scales as he slid across the flooring.
“One hit and he goes down!” Onslaught jeered, raising his fists above his head like a prizefighter. He danced for the cameras as Drake regained his feet.
“Nice shot,” Drake admitted. His teeth went together with a slow grinding sound and his eyes narrowed. Onslaught danced some more, pointing a finger at the reptilian booster.
“Didn‘t know about these, did ya?” Onslaught crowed, waving his fists. “I charge these up and they hit like a Mack truck! I got more, Firedrake. Come and get some!”
“Works for me,” Drake said as he took in a slow, painful breath. It felt as though there was a knife inside his left lung. Whatever power he could put into those fists, it was impressive.
Two steps later, Drake had launched himself into the air, his wings spreading as he used the force of the jump to take to the sky above Onslaught. He rolled once, taunting the booster further by raising the middle finger of his left hand as he passed over the shorter man’s head. Onslaught turned to track the flight, taking a few steps of his own. He leaped from the ground, shimmering fist seeking Drake’s abdomen. A whistling sound filled the air as the long barbed tip of Drake’s tail sliced through the air and struck against the outer edge of the outstretched arm.
Onslaught yelped, more surprised than actually hurt, and clutched at his wrist as he dropped back toward the floor. Drake flared his wings wide and arrested his own momentum, slashing with the claws of both his feet as he fell to the ground. The left one caught Onslaught across the tops of his shoulders, opening a hole in his BDU shirt and carving lines in the flesh beneath it. Dark stains began to spread on the shirt. The heel of Drake’s right foot took the man in the temple, snapping his head to the side. Onslaught shook off the strike and grasped the outstretched right leg, spinning as he let gravity draw the pair of fighters to the concrete. As he landed, Onslaught released Drake in a sidelong throw.
Growling deep in his chest, Drake snapped his wings out and used his momentum to keep him in flight. Dropping the tip of his right wing, he banked hard, trying to ignore the spotlight that followed him through the air and threatened to blind him. Left wing pointed almost vertically toward the ceiling, Drake made an unbelievably rapid turn and angled straight for the waiting Onslaught. He could clearly see the right hand drawing back as the man prepared to swing. Drake watched for the move and jinked hard to his own right as the punch began.
Onslaught allowed the feinted punch to drop and swung his left fist in a vicious uppercut that caught Drake on the left side of the jaw. The clacking sound of dozens of teeth coming together as one was lost in the explosive crash of Onslaught’s power-charged fist striking home. The trailing foot that slapped across Onslaught’s face was effectively ignored; the man turned to watch Drake crash once more to the unyielding surface of the warehouse floor.
“Ain’t you never fought anybody before?” Onslaught asked with an echoing laugh.
Drake spat out a trio of teeth, the enameled objects skittering across the floor with thin red trails behind them. He rubbed the back of a hand across his lips to clear the blood that ran from them.
“Just checking you out, slick. I ain’t started my ‘A’-game yet.”
“Yeah? You best start. You got claws. Use them.”
“I didn’t come here to kill you,” Drake countered.
“You better try. You hold back and I’ll take you apart. I want the best you’ve got!”
“Why?” Drake asked as the two began a slow counter-clockwise dance, each trying to gauge the other’s strengths before beginning again.
“Like I’ve said, you idiots hold yourselves up like you’re the greatest things on the planet. It’s about time someone taught you that you ain’t.”
“And that someone’s gonna be you? What? You couldn’t just be a cable repairman or something? Gotta steal the whole ‘fists of power’ thing off Patriot‘s play list?”
Onslaught shook his head slowly. With a sudden surge of motion, he brought both hands overhead and slammed them to the floor, the shimmering gloves leaving visible energy trails in the air behind them. The effect on the flooring was spectacular. The concussive power of the man’s strike was directed into the concrete, causing it to buckle and shift for a fraction of a second, then to explosively blast free of the ground in an ever-widening path straight toward Drake. Heavy chunks and jagged shards of concrete shot up from the ground, filling the air with a hail of damaging projectiles. The warehouse rocked with the reverberating sound of the strike.
Drake took a step back and to his left, lifting a wing to ward off the flying debris. The second he was blinded allowed his foe to close, and Drake’s body rocked under a series of three punches, each landing so soon after its predecessor that it almost felt like a single strike. The channeled power faded with each hit, but in such rapid succession, Drake could feel no difference. He knew at least one rib broke under the assault, and a part of his mind fancied he could actually hear it happen, though he knew that with the sound generated by the explosive punches, that was little more than his imagination at work.
Slapping out with his wing, he brushed Onslaught aside for a moment. Balancing on his left foot for a moment, he pivoted and snapped the right out in a powerful thrusting kick,
catching Onslaught in the abdomen and propelling the man backward into a slide of his own across the concrete floor. Taking advantage of the respite, he leaped backward, flapping the right wing to add a bit of extra distance, and exhaled a mighty breath. Reddish-gold flame erupted in a jet from his mouth, splashing to the ground and shattering yet more of the concrete with the sudden intensity of the heat. Drake swept his head from right to left in a quick pattern, then dropped his aim and went the other direction. A second later, he had created a roaring wall of flame between himself and the brawler that he faced. He swallowed as he gingerly touched the points of impact from the last series of strikes. They were marked with blackened explosive residue, and would soon bruise and become a nastier shade of yellow than they already were.
Little man‘s good, Drake admitted to himself.
Drake’s moment of recovery was short-lived. Onslaught dived through the fire, ignoring the flames that licked at him and coming across in a graceful roll that landed him near the enormous feet of the reptilian booster. He lashed out with a blow from the ground, slamming the base of his fist on the toes of Drake’s right foot.
Drake howled in sudden pain as the walls echoed the concussive strike back at him. He jerked his foot upward, doubling his pain as the outstretched toes smacked into Onslaught’s chin. Spinning away from the source of pain, he sliced downward with the tip of his tail, striking against the side of Onslaught’s left forearm where it supported the kneeling man. Had he been facing Onslaught, Drake would have been somewhat pleased to see the spurt of blood that marked a clean hit by the whipping tail.
Gripping his arm for a second, Onslaught bunched his legs beneath him and leaped forward, grabbing onto Drake from behind. He wrapped his right arm around the scaled neck and held on tightly while using the weakened left to slam repeatedly into the side of the giant green head before him. His knees pounded relentlessly against the frame of Drake’s wings.
The hammering blows to his head were, to Drake, some of the most punishing attacks he had suffered. Each impact was marked with another of the devastating energy discharges and within the span of a half-dozen such wallops, his vision was blurring and he was quite convinced he would never again hear out of his left ear. Several more teeth were loosening. So far his left eye had been spared by virtue of the armored ridges that surrounded it, but he was unsure how much longer that would last. Though each strike was less powerful than the one before it, the possibility that this man could permanently injure him or even kill him was not lost on Drake. In his mind’s eye he saw an image of Monster, and knew that he had to end this before he was in no position to protect his brother.
Firedrake - Volume Two Page 11