The Acid Vanilla Series

by Matthew Hattersley

  “They’re all here,” she replied. “Luther Clarkson. The bitch who kicked me off the mountainside. Graves. Engel. And – ah, might have known.”

  “What?”

  “Beowulf Caesar. My old boss. Along with Raaz Terabyte. Well, well, today might not be so bad after all.”

  Welles jostled for position beside her and squinted through the leaves. “How are you figuring that?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve got a little vendetta I’m working my way through.”

  Welles shook his head and huffed out a gruff laugh that had little humour on the other side of it. “Well, I’m glad it’s all working out for ya.” He lowered his head, thick eyebrows knotted together. “Poor girls. They look terrified up there.”

  As Acid pulled her attention back to the totem, the macabre heads stacked one on top of the other, she could make out the sorrowful faces of Spook and Sofia. They watched on helplessly as one of Engel’s large, blond-haired security guards began pouring the contents of a metal canister – liquid paraffin at a guess – around the base of the structure.

  “Shit. We got a strategy here?” Welles murmured.

  Satisfied with his handiwork, the guard walked back to the side of the raised seating area and placed the canister next to three similar ones. Acid gripped the AK-47 to her chest, her finger tightening on the trigger.

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it a strategy,” she replied, hitting Welles with a devilish grin. “But I reckon with a bit of luck, and a lot of bluster, we might just pull this off.”

  Thirty-Seven

  Caesar leaned into Raaz and huffed pointedly. He’d been looking forward to Engel’s infamous closing ceremony all weekend, but like a lot of things in life, he mused, the more you anticipate something the worse it seems.

  “No wonder he doesn’t like people talking about it,” he whispered at Raaz. “No one would bloody come if they knew it was just him waffling on. Like’s the sound of his own voice, doesn’t he?”

  Raaz smiled politely but didn’t respond. She faced forward, her arms crossed and her expression rigid. Caesar eyeballed her a while longer before tutting impetuously and leaning back in his seat.

  “Get a bloody move on and light it up, will you?” he muttered.

  Beside him, Raaz cracked a smile finally. “Wonder what she’s thinking up there.”

  “Probably shitting her knickers,” Caesar bellowed in her ear. “Well, good. You know I’ve often heard being burnt alive is the worst way to go.”

  Raaz’s smile grew wider. “Yes, I believe that’s true.”

  “Did you ever see the evidence footage Davros took of him setting fire to that chap over in the Congo?” He nudged Raaz boisterously. “The screams that came out of him. Bloody hell.”

  “I remember. Took him a while to die. I imagine that’s going to be the same today. What a shame. Poor Acid Vanilla and her pathetic little friend.”

  Before Caesar could respond, the surrounding audience erupted into applause, drawing his attention back to the stage where Engel was now reading from a scroll of paper.

  “We come to the point in proceedings where we recognise our fallen brothers and sisters,” he bellowed, his voice dropping an octave or two. “It is true, there have been too many of the wrong kind of deaths this year, but we will learn from our mistakes. My team are already putting procedures in place to ensure none of the targets can ever go rogue again.”

  A murmur washed over the crowd. Cries of “Good to hear it” and “About time”.

  Engel raised his hands for quiet. “My team is also hard at work on the death narratives for those who have died. Once ready they will be circulated to the more genial members of the world’s press. As far as anyone will ever know, the lives lost this weekend will be the result of boating mishaps, riding accidents, other wholesome activities. The ones we can’t cover up in these terms will be signed off as heart attacks or strokes. I have medical teams at my disposal who take care of all the legal paperwork.”

  Sat on the other side of Caesar, Luther Clarkson turned and patted him on the arm conspiringly. “We lost some good men this weekend,” he sneered. “But we wiped out plenty more bothersome ones.”

  On hearing, Karen Clarkson leaned over. “Did you see I got the top score of the weekend? Four kills, plus bonus points for bringing in that pathetic Cerberix employee up there.” She waved her hand at the totem. “And I signed on late. Not bad going, huh? My brother here is in a real stink with me for beating him.”

  She broke out in high-pitched, snickering laughter that made Caesar lament ever sitting near this gauche duo. Karen and Luther were nothing like their charismatic brother. Yet, Caesar had to admit, the weekend had been a tremendous success. Not only was he getting rid of Acid Vanilla, but brokering her and Spook’s presence here, mixing with the likes of the Clarksons and Engel, it had cemented his position alongside the top echelons of, not just the rich and powerful, but those shadowy beings behind the rich and powerful. The actual rulers of the world.

  “Okay then, here we go,” Karen cried excitedly, as two of Engel’s Amazonian-looking female guards advanced on the totem pole carrying flaming torches.

  “And now we shall experience the last act of this year’s hunt.” Engel’s voice echoed around the basin. “The sacrifice of the damned.”

  Caesar chewed at his bottom lip as the guards knelt at the feet of the large wooden devil, praising the totem before lowering the lit batons onto the pile of sticks and straw. The fire burst into life immediately, the paraffin spreading the blaze around the base and sending flames licking up the wooden structure in a matter of seconds. Caesar heard screams coming from the two wooden heads, but they were quickly drowned out by the enthusiastic jeering from the audience.

  “So long, Acid,” Caesar mumbled into his drink. “You brought it all on yourself.”

  Beside him, Raaz was restless. “Wait a minute,” she said, tearing her attention from the burning tower and addressing Karen Clarkson. “You mentioned you got double points for the Cerberix employee, Spook Horowitz, yes? What about Acid Vanilla, the one who… who killed your brother?”

  Karen flicked a strand of luminous yellow hair from her face. “Why, honey, she’s already dead.”

  Raaz glanced up at Caesar, who met her eyes with a frown. “Yes, so you thought,” he said. “But we saw her in the cell with the Horowitz. She’s up in the top head.”

  “No way, José,” Karen said. “That’s some slutty journalist who was trying to expose Engel. I guess they look alike. But your Acid Vanilla, she’s dead. Killed her myself.”

  Luther Clarkson shook his head. “Only she didn’t get the points for that one, did you, sis? They didn’t recover the body in time, so no points awarded. Means my dear sister didn’t make the all-time leader board. Such. A. Shame.” He stuck out his bottom lip in mock sorrow.

  “What do you mean? There was no body?” Raaz spat. “Is she dead or not?”

  “Of course she’s damn well dead,” Karen yelled. “I kicked her off the top of the mountain. I told ya, there’s no way anyone could survive that fall. If you ask me, it’s just Engel and his old boy’s club not wanting a woman being on the leader board.”

  Caesar sat upright in his seat as Karen’s words spun around in his head.

  No way anyone could survive that fall.

  The problem was, Acid Vanilla wasn’t just anyone.

  She was tough. Determined. She had more guts than sense most of the time. But if Engel’s goons hadn’t found her body, Caesar had a troubling suspicion she wasn’t dead. And if that was the case, she was still out there. And she’d be coming for him.

  Thirty-Eight

  It took the sight of the flames climbing up the side of the totem pole to spur Acid into action. She ran back to the jeep, yelling over her shoulder for Welles to follow her.

  “You take the wheel,” she told him, clambering into the passenger side and positioning herself with one foot on the leather seat and the other on the dashboard. Stand
ing upright, she raised the AK-47 to her shoulder and leaned the small of her back against the headrest. “Let’s do this.”

  Welles twisted the keys in the ignition and gave Acid a reassuring nod as he shoved the stick into gear.

  “Hold on,” he told her as he manoeuvred the jeep through the dense patch of ferns, then through the line of trees. They dipped violently over the side of the arena basin and, once in sight of the ceremony and on level ground, he put his foot on the gas.

  Acid braced herself against the dashboard as they sped onwards towards the totem pole, hoping they weren’t too late. The flames were really taking hold. Black smoke rose up the sides and spiralled up into the clear skies above.

  “Get us as close as you can to that thing,” she yelled.

  “Got ya.”

  The security team had spotted their approach, but Welles steered them out the way of the first flurry of shots. A hail of bullets peppered the ground alongside them, sending clouds of sand and earth into the air.

  “Stay in line with the totem,” Acid told him. “Keep it between us and the stage.”

  “Yeah, I’m trying.”

  Another few metres and Welles slowed the jeep. Enough that Acid could jump out, stopping briefly to call back. “Get up there and free the girls. Climb up on the hood if you need to.”

  Moving around the side of the totem Acid brought up the assault rifle. She had the outline of a plan, but for it to work she needed three things: oxygen, fuel and a spark. Two of those would be easy enough to come by, the third not so much. But this was her only option.

  Stepping out from the cover of the totem she raised the AK-47 and squeezed the trigger. The buffering recoil of the rifle took her by surprise and the first shots went high. She fired again, steadier now and enjoying the crisp sound of the rifle fire as she zipped a line of bullets towards the three paraffin canisters that had been left at the edge of the audience. She heard a series of pops as the bullets punctured the thin metal and clear paraffin gushed out onto the ground.

  That was her fuel.

  But she still needed the spark. Despite what the movies might have you believe, a bullet wasn’t going to do it for her. But the tall female security guard, standing a few feet in front of the canisters and holding a flaming torch, she was a different matter. A bonus and a blessing all rolled into one. Plus she was already in high alert, glancing around, confused, unsure where to run. Acid kept her finger depressed on the trigger and slew a line of bullets her way, tracing a trail of red holes across her legs and torso, chopping her down. The woman screamed and stumbled backwards, dropping the fiery baton.

  And there was her spark.

  With a whoosh and a flash, a gigantic explosion decimated the audience on the far side, sending chairs and body parts flying into the air. Acid saw the burning torso of Graves hit the side of the stage and bounce onto the grass, his bloated, pompous face twisted in a deathly rictus.

  Acid smiled to herself as chaos and confusion rained down on Engel’s grim parade. People were screaming and running in all directions, knocking one another over in the melee. As the smoke parted Acid saw the blast had taken out a good portion of Engel’s security team. But not all of them

  The surviving team members moved quickly to red alert, running to cover the guests whilst yelling instructions to each other. Twenty feet away a blond security guard turned and locked eyes with Acid. His face twisted into a cruel sneer as he aimed his rifle towards her. But before he could pull the trigger she squeezed off a trail of rising shots that exploded up the centre of his chest. She ran towards him, leaping over his lifeless body and it slumped to the floor and continuing on her trajectory.

  The bats screamed across her synapses as she zig-zagged around more shots coming from the far side of the arena. She returned fire, taking out another security guard and skidding for cover behind the back of the stage. A quick glance over to the totem pole and she saw Welles was fighting against the blazing fire. With the end of his rifle he’d managed to undo the rope tying Spook’s door closed. As Acid looked on, the door swung open and Spook’s limp coughing form stumbled out into Welles’ arms. She was free. But it was far from over.

  “Hey, watch out,” Acid yelled over, before taking out a female guard who was on her way over there with an M16 slung over her shoulder. She got her one in the stomach, one in the chest, two crimson roses bursting out from the long white gown.

  Spook, on her feet now, must have seen the woman fall because she snapped her head Acid’s way and waved.

  “Keep it together, kid.” Acid raised her hand. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  She turned her focus back to Engel and his cronies. A group of security guards had formed a human shield around the last of the guests and were scanning the area, guns raised and ready.

  But not ready enough.

  With a banshee scream, Acid sprang up from the cover of the stage and sprayed the group with a torrent of hot punishing metal rounds. The security guards flailed and cried out as bullets ripped through their chests and abdomens, the cruel shrapnel blossoming inside of them and ripping through bone and major organs. Acid kept her finger pressed down on the trigger, an intense inner rage spurring her on as she chopped down more guards and a few of the frailer members of Engel’s guest list. But there were still more of them. Shifting into peripheral vision, she noticed two female guards over to the right of her, robes billowing behind them as they took aim at her.

  “Not a chance.” She shifted her aim, trailing a path of bullets their way, before sensing an alarming looseness under her trigger finger and hearing the discouraging chk-chk-chk. She looked down at the rifle, then back to the two women now smiling smugly at her.

  “Shit.”

  Acid hit the deck as the women opened fire, the unforgiving rounds tearing across the plush velvet flooring and splintering the wooden stage underneath. They advanced on her as she pulled the Taurus PT111 from out of her waistband and checked the mag. Seven of the thirteen rounds left. She’d make them count. She popped her head over the lip of the stage and risked a look. The women were close. Another few seconds and they’d be around the side of the stage with a clear shot at her.

  It was now or never.

  Acid raised herself up from behind the stage, just in time to see both women jerking to the beat of a high-powered machine gun. Eruptions of red plasma polka-dotted their robes.

  “Acid.”

  It was Spook. She and Sofia running her way with Welles covering them, the AK-47 used to take down the women guards still on his shoulder.

  “I thought they were going to kill you,” Spook cried, grabbing Acid’s arm and dragging her behind the cover of the stage.

  “Yes, well, there’s still time.” She nodded at Welles. “Thanks for that.”

  “Not bad for a cop, huh?”

  She allowed him the hint of a smile. But there was no time for pleasantries. Over on the other side of the arena, she saw Caesar and Raaz heading for the row of parked jeeps. She looked at Welles. He understood.

  “You girls, wait here,” he told Sofia and Spook, pulling out his pistol. “Either of you used one of these before?”

  “Spook has,” Acid told him. “She’s a good shot.”

  “Okay, cool.” Welles handed Spook the gun, ignoring her pleas to the contrary. “If anyone comes near, shoot them. Aim for the chest, just below the neck. That’ll give you a good range for a kill shot. Don’t worry, we’ll be back soon.”

  “Where are you going?” Sofia gasped.

  “I’m not letting that bastard get away,” Acid spat. “Not again. Come on, FBI Guy.”

  She set off, moving in a wide arc and throwing her aim from side to side as she went, shifting her focus from macro to micro as she homed in on Caesar. Being a big man, he never moved fast. In fact, Acid couldn’t recall a time when she’d ever seen him run, not even in the early days when he too had worked in the field. That he was now lurching ungainly across the arena buoyed her somewhat. It meant he kn
ew she was coming for him. And he was running scared.

  She was almost on him and lifting the pistol to take a shot when out of nowhere something heavy smacked her off balance. She staggered, her head spinning and a shooting pain spreading out from her cheekbone as another blow to the back of the head floored her. With tunnel vision comes a decrease in awareness, and a decrease of awareness in chaotic situations is often dangerous. Acid rolled onto her back in time to dodge out of the way as Karen Clarkson swung a pair of metal field binoculars at her head.

  “I’m going to kill you,” she snarled, leaping onto Acid’s chest and pinning her arms down with her knees before grabbing her around the throat.

  Acid shoved her hips upwards, trying to throw her assailant off, but Karen was heavier than she looked and her hands were squeezing down tight. Despite the chaos she reasoned she had ten seconds before she passed out. Before Karen Bloody Clarkson killed her.

  Wasn’t going to happen.

  Beside her she saw Welles fall to the ground with a thud, himself engaged in a vigorous struggle with Karen’s brother. Pinned down as she was, she couldn’t see what was going on entirely, but from the sound of it Luther was pounding the shit out of the ageing cop. With a grunt, she dug the heels of her boots into the ground and shoved off again, this time shifting Karen a little higher up her torso. Enough so she could manoeuvre the pistol so it was pointing awkwardly at her attacker’s ribcage. The position of her hand in doing so sent a blistering cramp shooting down her wrist. She stroked at the trigger but the tendons in her hand were so tight it was a struggle to put any strength behind the action. Above her, Karen’s face was bright red, tightening her grip all the time as she squeezed the life out of her. Acid had one chance at this. She closed her eyes and focused all her energy into her hand. The bats screeched. The world faded to grey.