The Last Line Series One

by David Elias Jenkins

  Where do we go after we die?

  He didn’t want to think of it. He had never accepted his wife and child were dead, no bodies had ever been found. That was the worst part. Not knowing, no closure. Not for years. Just emptiness.

  So what was he seeing now? Was this some other impossibility that had slowly leaked into our world from the other side? Ghosts? Fucking ghosts now?

  Usher felt the weight of his grief bearing down on his shoulders like a sack of rocks. He looked up again and the woman that he could have sworn was his wife had gone, replaced by an elegant brunette with only a passing resemblance.

  He shook his head.

  How much longer can I keep this pace up?

  Then he felt a tap on his shoulder that brought him to his senses. Usher turned around to see a woman smiling at him. In what he estimated was a Swedish accent she spoke. “You look a little worse for wear. Can I buy you some kind of tonic? For medicinal purposes.”

  Usher laughed, and then the smile faded as he realized she either had the driest most Nordic sense of humour in the world, or she was quite serious. In the few seconds it had taken his tipsy brain to take in the full image of her, he had become slightly lost for words.

  She was striking to say the least. Over six foot in her sharp heeled boots, but otherwise dressed like a fetishist’s version of a Hell’s Angel. All tits and hips strapped and corseted in. Well-worn and faded leather trousers that hugged her muscular thighs. Her face strong jawed and handsome the same way Christi was, with just a hint of masculinity and defiance. The next thing that struck Usher was that in contrast to her severe but well applied make up, her jet black hair was a fucking car crash. Reasonably short but hacked into and jutting out like she had cut it herself and then slept in a bush. She was severe and a little otherworldly, like a Caucasian Grace Jones or a cutting room floor Replicant from Blade Runner. She was slightly grubby and weather worn, as if she really had rode for miles to get here on her Harley Davidson, and for some reason he couldn’t explain, Usher found this primitive uncleanliness sexually attractive.

  “I’ll, uh, I’ll take a whisky soda, thanks for offering.”

  She whistled to the barman, a clear hawk-like sound that penetrated the air like a laser. Her black eyes fixed the barman then pointed to the whisky bottle in his hand then their two empty glasses. The barman hesitated for a moment then ignored who he was serving and rushed over to fill their glasses.

  Usher nodded. “Impressive. I thought I was gonna have to do my famous sexy dance to get that prick over here.”

  The bizarre woman, who to Usher’s mind had clearly walked into the bar from a different movie entirely, eyed him slowly up and down. It made Usher feel oddly naked.

  “Show me this dance.”

  Usher just stared at her for a few seconds, then burst out laughing and raised his glass to cheer with hers.

  “Thanks for the drink. I’m Usher, Thom Usher. Aren’t you a little warm in all that bondage gear?”

  “I’m Ursula. No, I’m not warm. You look like you’ve been through the wars Thom Usher.”

  Usher looked over his shoulder.

  “Lot of soldiers in this bar Miss Ursula. Lot of guys and girls in here been in a war. And this is where they come for a drink when they’re finished. Including me, but nothing unusual or special about me in this place. But if you just meant I’m drunk, then yes, yes Ursula, I am drunk.”

  The tall striking woman eyed him up and down again, in both a predatory way and like his first Sergeant had when Usher was a young squaddie. Evaluating his potential.

  To his own eternal amusement Usher almost blushed. She noticed this and took an ice cube from her glass, placing it gently on his cheek. Usher suppressed a further laugh as it melted slightly. She removed it and popped it back in her glass then took a sip. Usher thought it was the oddest, filthiest and sexiest act he had seen in ages.

  “Thank you Ursula. You don’t socialize in bars much do you? Or, er, or anywhere.”

  She smiled at him and her dark eyes flashed. “I have been to better and wilder parties than this Thom Usher. This is just a taste. And yes, there are other soldiers in here, I can see the war in their eyes, but your eyes are different. You’ve had a different war.”

  Usher sighed long and blew out his cheeks. He held his whisky up in front of him, sloshed it around the glass, and then took a big sip.

  “It certainly has been different.”

  The woman called Ursula cheered glasses with him then took a sip herself, peering over her glass at him with those inky eyes all the while.

  “I’ve been looking for someone like you for ages. It’s been nice talking with you Thom Usher.”

  Usher finished the last of his whisky then picked up the round for himself and Stromberg.

  “Yes, it certainly has been strange Ursula, but oddly arousing. I’m sorry I don’t have your last name to continually call you in return.”

  “That’s okay.”

  Usher paused and stared at her for a moment. She was as attractive as she was bizarre.

  “Okay, well, uh, I need to get this drink back to my friend, but I’m just over there in the booth so hopefully we can talk again later. And it’s Thom. Just Thom. Only other soldiers call me Usher.”

  “Alright then Usher. Speak soon.”

  Usher nodded then drunkenly staggered back through the crowds towards his table, trying to replay the strange encounter in his head until it made more sense. He sat down at the table and gave Stromberg his drink.

  “There you go Strommy, sorry I took so long, got chatting at the bar. They still up dancing?”

  Stromberg nodded, and Usher’s gaze drifted over to the dance floor, where Christi and the tall blond were slow dancing and occasionally kissing. Usher laughed and shrugged.

  “She was always better with women than I was. Wish I had half her pulling power. I only ever get the weirdos. Believe me.”

  Usher noticed that Isaac was staring at him. He was the only clear headed one out the lot of them. The prescription painkillers he was on for his injuries meant he couldn’t touch a drop. And he had an odd smile on his dark face.

  “I saw what you were talking to over there boss, at the bar.”

  Usher glanced over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of the strange woman. She stood head and shoulders above the other girls at the bar.

  “Yeah. Think she wandered in here by mistake.”

  Isaac shook his head.

  “We’ve been doing this for what, seven years? No matter how much we drink, we can still spot the signs. You did too.”

  Usher nodded.

  “I know Isaac, I know. I just wanted a normal night out for once. Just us lot, no insanity.”

  Isaac shifted in his seat, gave a little chuckle.

  “I wish we had that luxury boss. But you and I know that the thing that was talking to you was Otherkind. Maybe Unseelie, maybe not.”

  “It wasn’t Unseelie. I can’t say why, it didn’t feel like them.”

  “Something else then. That means we’re attracting attention, which means that whatever we’re close to is of concern to more realms than this one.”

  Usher sighed, felt his head clear a little.

  “Think you’re not being told everything? Being sent in half prepared, ill equipped and badly planned? Welcome to the British army old pal.”

  Isaac smiled, peered over Usher’s shoulder at the Amazonian female at the bar.

  “Let’s just stay alert.”

  Stromberg leaned forward and tapped Usher on the arm. The straight talking Australian scratched his scarred chin.

  He had noticed that some very drunken young squaddies had gathered at the edge of the dance floor and were eyeing Christi and her new friend suspiciously. Comments were being passed between them and they were becoming more and more agitated.

  “I’ll put money on it boss, either those boys are about to pull their tallywhackers out, or it’s that time of the evening where it’s about to kick off.�
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  Usher weighed up the situation in his chemically altered mind. Five of them, Paras by their swagger and tattoos, solid and gap toothed. Veterans. Out for a shag before going home to Blightey and not happy that a butch dyke had pulled the prettiest girl in the club ahead of them. In their heads, as is often the case, this was the only reason that the tall blond was not falling all over them at that very moment. They had decided to take offence. Usher shook his head.

  “I tell you boys, of all the strange creatures we’ve spoken about tonight, most dangerous one of all is the green eyed monster, eh?”

  Stromberg put his pint down and stubbed out his cigarette. “Yeah boss.”

  Sure as eggs are eggs, one of the drunken soldiers threw the contents of his pint glass over the two dancing, kissing girls. Christi’s trained reflexes made her automatically duck back as she saw the threat in her peripheral vision, but the poor elegant Nordic beauty got the full brunt of saliva infused stale lager in her face and hair. The soldiers laughed with wide eyed shock at their own prank. The one who threw it held a self-satisfied expression of justice having been served.

  “Fuckin’ rug munchin’ slag.”

  Christi shielded the shocked young woman, wiping the beer from her cheeks and stroking the soaking hair from her face. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Go on, go to the bathrooms and dry yourself off, I’ll handle this.”

  The tearful girl seemed reluctant to leave Christi alone, but Christi whispered something in her ear, then she nodded and left for the ladies room.

  Christi ran a hand through her spiky hair, releasing a fine mist of beer droplets. She shook her hand out onto the dance floor, and then turned to face the laughing drunks. They were running their tongues between two fingers as she approached. She stopped and squared up in front of the one with the empty pint glass.

  “Which one of you cunts threw the drink?”

  The one in front of her slowly held up his empty glass in mock shame then shrugged. “Don’t worry love, next round’s on me, I’ll get you a Shirley Temple.”

  Christi’s face was blank. In a plain level voice she spoke.

  “Which one of you cunts threw the drink?”

  A look of confusion passed across the soldier’s face as he realized that his banter was not having the desired effect. “Look, fuck off rug muncher, it was me all right. You look like you need a fucking bath anyway.”

  Christi brought her boot up into the soldier’s testicles with such ferocious speed that they both ruptured and he was lifted several centimetres off the ground. With a sudden expulsion of air he doubled over, wide eyed, and then vomited onto the floor. His friends were so surprised that they actually backed off in shock for a few seconds. Christi took this opportunity to grab the soldier by the hair, yank his head back, and bring her elbow downwards repeatedly onto his face. The first blow destroyed the cartilage of his nose and burst his septum, dark blood spraying out like a smashed plum, the second blow cracked his two front teeth near the gumline, sending an screaming electric signal of pain up into his brain as the pulp and nerves were exposed, the third blow cracked his eye socket and the surrounding flesh swelled up almost instantly in a desperate attempt to save the vulnerable eye itself. She dropped him, and he fell limply face down into his own vomit, inhaling the fumes of half-digested beer and kebab out of the corner of his ruined mouth, as a large bubble of pinkish blood blew out of his nostril.

  Christi stood up to her full five foot four and squared up to the other soldiers.

  “So whose round is it now then cunts?”

  The soldier’s booze addled reflexes had been slowed and for a few moments they had been too shocked to act, but these men were just back from Afghanistan themselves and were no combat rookies. As a group they rushed Christi, who swung a furious flurry of hooks into the melee, but was caught by a stray sucker punch to the jaw and went down into the sea of limbs that rained upon her. Christi curled her arms over her face for protection and did everything she could to get back on her feet but these were large focussed Paras and had no intention of stopping until she stopped twitching or breathing. She felt every blow for the first five seconds then started to lose consciousness.

  Suddenly a huge blond mountain loomed over the group, who parted them with his huge arms. Brock grabbed the biggest soldier by the shirt collar, put his left hand behind the man’s head, and slammed his forehead into the Para’s face with a sound like two coconuts being fired at each other from cannons. The man’s nose crumpled like a boiled egg hit with a frying pan, and he instantly switched off. Brock held onto the back of his neck for a few seconds as he surveyed the group and chose his next target, then dropped the limp body to the floor and waded in.

  Usher and Stromberg noticed movement coming fast from either side of the club. From the shadows to the left, more of the soldier’s friends rushing in to help them, Usher counted at least seven. From the right, the hulking Cypriot bouncers, no strangers to sorting out unruly squaddies. An unintentional pincer movement.

  They sprinted as fast as their inebriated legs could carry them across the dance floor to intercept the soldiers, who they knew would kill to protect their friends. He couldn’t fault them for that loyalty, he felt it himself.

  The contact happened like a rugby match. The oncoming Paras were so focussed on Brock and Christi that they didn’t see the two newcomers to the fray sprinting towards them. As they ran towards the group, Usher noticed out of the corner of his eye, as if in slow motion, that Charlie was still dancing away in his own little space on the dance floor, completely oblivious to what was going on, grinning to himself with his eyes closed and pointing his fingers in the air. Fuck sake Charlie thought Usher.

  Then they intercepted the soldiers, flanking them as they ran towards Brock and sending them all tumbling off their feet into the tables at the edge of the dance floor. The eternal SF tactic of speed, aggression, surprise had worked. Usher and Stromberg were outnumbered but before the soldiers could gather their senses they had scrambled on top of two of them, dug their knees into the stunned men’s stomachs, and rained blows down upon their jaws until their bodies went limp, the classic ground and pound. Then they were up, and it was two against five.

  Usher took several wild haymakers to the face, so he quickly covered up and let his arms take the punishment. Then got lucky and delivered a fast Thai round kick to one opponent’s legs, sweeping them out from under him and sending him crashing to the floor. He felt the other two rush him and he was down, a furious tumble of fists and legs knotting up on the beer soaked floor.

  Usher knew if he couldn’t get back on his feet he would have desert boot prints stamped into his skull within seconds, then it would be over, so he thrust his legs out like pistons into the knees of his attackers, who had managed to rise before him. He caught one of them and heard the patella shift and crunch under the skin, heard a howl of pain and only just managed to roll out of the way before the squaddie fell down on top of him clutching his burst kneecap. The other one took a step back to avoid Usher’s pistoling legs and then Usher scrambled back onto his feet. The man looked into Usher’s eyes, saw something there he didn’t like, and picked up the nearest broken chair. As he raised it above his head, Stromberg appeared at his side and delivered a right cross onto the soldier’s jaw that send the man down like a sack of spuds.

  Stromberg had a nasty cut above his right eye and spat blood from a burst lip onto the floor, but he smiled at Usher with pink stained teeth all the same. They looked over and saw that Charlie had finally stopped dancing and was busy kicking a downed soldier in the stomach, as Brock was helping a stunned and bruised Christi up off the floor.

  Alcohol and adrenaline pumped around their systems. They were all off their faces and they knew it. Co-ordination, reaction time and judgement were all severely impaired. It was only years of training, ingrained behaviour and muscle memory that had saved them, programmed responses trying to swim up to the surface through a sea of booze. That and fucking luck. />
  Stromberg rested on Usher’s shoulder to catch his breath. Panting heavily he asked between breaths. “D’you wanna try another pub?”

  Usher nodded just as a six foot five, twenty stone Cypriot bouncer rugby tackled him, knocking every bit of air from his lungs and sending him flying to the floor.

  As he went down, Usher noticed in the corner of his eye that the raven haired girl from the bar was standing quite calmly watching him, her head cocked to one side, evaluating his every move.

  What a strange fucking girl, thought Usher, as a big brown hairy fist slammed into the side of his head.

  9

  Ariel stood in front of the heli-pad of the Proteus with Dr Carver at his side. It was dark and stormy and rain lashed down upon the deck.

  Through the torrent he heard the rhythmic thrum of a helicopter approaching. An ominous war drum that set his teeth on edge.

  The hood of his bright yellow windcheater blew down and he had to shield his eyes from the rain. The Eurocopter AS332 Super Puma slowly became visible in the night above the ship, like a shark swimming out of the gloom, and Ariel started to feel fear in the pit of his stomach.

  He felt ill prepared for this.

  It seemed insane that after all the months of effort the STG had put in to carrying out surveillance and investigation into the Chromium Project, with all the technology they possessed, all the field investigators and military tactical teams, that the person to get closest to the head of the dragon was him.

  An absolute rookie in the field.

  Ariel had been given a two week field conversion course prior to being deployed. An Escape and Evasion exercise in the Scottish Highlands where he got borderline hypothermia, an anti-interrogation drill where he was left naked and hooded in a stress position for hours while female soldiers laughed at his manhood, and some basic conflict management and unarmed combat techniques.