by Chris Dolley
“Don’t shoot,” he reiterated. “I just need help putting out these flames. If I get too hot I’ll blow.”
“Keep back!” shouted Michael. He’d run forward to help Abbiati to his feet. The aging mobster had been caught in the blast when the truck exploded. His clothes were torn and blackened and he looked out of it.
Dwayne fired. A non Brian-piercing round thankfully. It smacked into Brian, knocking him back slightly, but his body absorbed it.
“No!” shouted Brian, putting on a panicked expression, even though he wasn’t sure if anyone could identify a panicked expression through a veil of flame it helped him drop into character. “You’ve made it worse! I can feel the bullet heating up. I’ll blow any second unless someone can help put me out. Aaaagghhh!”
It was a good scream, blending pain with a hint of Hammer hysteria. The kind of scream a B movie actor of the sixties would emit upon encountering Christopher Lee on a dark night in a graveyard. And Brian threw in some silent film over-acting – staggering forward, clutching his chest, the occasional beseeching swing of an arm, as he blundered towards them like a ham actor putting his all into his final death scene.
One of the men broke and ran for the house. Another preferred the scenic route across the lawn. One more push...
Brian stopped dead, looked down at his chest and roared. “Nooo! Run for it! I’m going to blow.”
Even Dwayne turned and ran. Some threw their weapons down. Abbiati showed a remarkable turn of foot for a man with a limp as he half-ran, half-hopped for the front door of the house.
Brian hurried after them, hoping he could stay alight for the next stage of his plan.
The six men who’d run for the house reached the front entrance – an impressive arched set of wooden double doors. They pushed one open and piled through, slamming the door behind them.
Brian increased his pace. He didn’t want to give them time to think. Luckily no one had thought to lock and bolt the door. They probably saw it more as a blast door – something they had to close rather than lock against a pursuer.
Brian opened the heavy door and rushed through. Four men were still in the hallway. All turned in shock as Brian burst through.
“Where’s the bathroom?” shouted Brian. “Quick! If I can get to water I can put this out.”
Four arms pointed up the stairs. Brian raced past them, grabbed the rolled end of the ornate banister and used it to swing round onto the stairs. Up he went without breaking stride, scorching the thick carpet as he ran. He scanned behind him, listening for the merest thought of someone shooting him in the back. No one had the slightest inclination. They were confused, frightened, and already heading for the back door.
Brian kept going, looking for anything flammable. Curtains would be ideal, a gas stove even better. He took the first door on the landing. A bedroom. Not bad. Long ceiling-to-ground curtains and plenty of bedding. He made for the curtains first, hoping they hadn’t been treated with fire retardant. They hadn’t. He made for the bed, then the walk-in wardrobes, pulling clothes off the racks, setting them alight and flinging them around the room.
A good blaze, but not good enough. He had to create an inferno. He had to make Abbiati and his goons evacuate the house and stay clear until he’d finished.
There had to be a boiler room. Oil, gas, something flammable, something he could rig to explode.
And it would be downstairs. On the ground floor or in a basement. He ran for the stairs. He could see the flames on his body dying down. Had to run faster. He took the stairs two at a time, jumped the last three.
And ran smack into the gun sights of Abbiati and Dwayne. Both were standing some ten feet away in a doorway off the hall. Both had machine guns. Both were ready to fire and both guns were undoubtedly crammed full of Brian-piercing bullets.
Chapter Fifteen
“Don’t shoot!” shouted Brian skidding to a halt on the wooden floor. “It’ll make me explode.”
“Bullshit,” said Abbiati.
Brian didn’t need to read minds to know exactly what was going to happen next. He reacted instinctively, not pausing to weigh any pros or cons, or worry about the consequences. He broke his number one rule and teleported in front of witnesses. He tried to hide the fact by collapsing to the ground the moment before teleporting – an action which cost him at least three bullet holes in his upper torso – and then teleporting downwards in a blur through the wooden floor. He hoped it might look like he’d collapsed and died under the hail of bullets. And, being supernatural, his body had evaporated. Just like in the movies.
He broke through into what he hoped was a cellar, still not materializing, but hanging instead in the ethereal void between the dimensions. It was difficult to concentrate. The entire upper left side of his body felt like it really was on fire. The pain was excruciating, but he had to try and blot it out somehow. For the next few minutes at least.
And it was dark. Hopefully because the cellar was dark and not because he’d teleported into bedrock, or his inner eye had been shot out. He flew frantically left and right, fighting back the pain, trying to find some hint of definition in the blacks and greys. He flew towards the lightest patch of grey. It grew in brightness. He was in the cellar. There was an open door up ahead and ... light. As he passed through the door, the light hit him. There was a single window, high on the wall to his right. He materialized beneath it. And peered at his chest. Even through the low flame he could see the holes. Three of them. The skin red and streaked with purple around the edges. He looked for the other hole. The one he’d taken earlier. It was less angry. Still noticeable, but smaller and less painful. Would they all heal with time? Could he speed up the process?
He concentrated hard, thinking the wounds gone, thinking the surrounding tissue fluid and flowing in to fill the holes. But nothing happened. He concentrated harder, tried to visualize the affected areas in his mind, but couldn’t. It was as though they were dead to him – not even part of him – black holes in his personal matrix. He could visualize the rest of his body no problem. He could alter its shape, do anything he wanted with it. He grew an extra arm from his right shoulder. He inflated his chest.
But whatever shape he tried those four holes remained.
Shit, shit, shit! This was all he wanted. A glimpse of mortality in the middle of a case. He morphed himself back to his original charred and smoldering form. He’d continue with his plan – execute it as quickly as he could – and worry later.
He found a light switch and combed the cellar, looking for a boiler, or better yet a fuel tank. He found the former. A gas boiler. Could he make it explode?
He poked and peered, tapped and pulled. The unit was enclosed. He had no tools, he was losing feeling in his left arm, and his telekinetic abilities couldn’t even turn a screw, everything was so well fastened.
Next stop: the kitchen. There had to be a stove. He sent his inner eye up through the basement ceiling and ranging through the house. Abbiati was on the phone. Dwayne was poking gingerly with his foot at the spot Brian had disappeared from. Brian swept past. The kitchen had to be close. A room off the hall? Somewhere at the back? He found it, swung his eye around the room, checking it was clear, then materialized by the stove. The kitchen door was open so he had to be quick. And quiet. The kitchen door opened onto the hall.
He turned the oven and all the rings on without igniting them. He wanted the room to fill with gas. And he wanted Abbiati out of the building, not inside making phone calls.
He teleported again. Blind, stepping into the ether before releasing his inner eye to sprint ahead. There had to be a garage. A large one. A house like this would garage more than one car. And there had to be petrol cans. An acre of lawns didn’t cut themselves. There’d be a lawn mower.
He found the garage block behind the house. One of the doors was open. Maybe some of Abbiati’s men had grabbed a car to escape in. Maybe they were still inside?
Brian’s eye swung under the door. The garage was large
enough to house six cars. Three were inside. Another SUV and two large sedans. All of them black – obviously the house color. Brian swung his eye up and down and around. The light wasn’t too good – all of it bleeding through from the one open door and a few small windows. He couldn’t see any of Abbiati’s men. The cars looked empty. But he was finding it difficult to concentrate – the searing pain from his shoulder and chest was coming in waves. There was a tractor mower in the corner and was that a couple of five-gallon plastic containers? They looked like they might contain petrol.
Brian joined his eyes in the garage, materializing by what were indeed two five-gallon plastic containers. He hefted one with his right hand. It was half full. He unscrewed the top and sniffed – carefully as parts of him were still smoldering. Petrol. The other container was three quarters full. He took them both, carrying the lighter one in his left hand, flexing his fingers to try and encourage life back into them. Then he was teleporting again, blind, leaving his body hanging in the ether as his inner eye raced back to the house. He’d find somewhere nice and flammable. The roof maybe. Or next to a gas pipe.
He chose the roof, materializing – petrol cans in hand – in the attic. Wooden joists, wooden floorboards, roof timbers, some old boxes of assorted flammable cast offs. He dragged all the boxes into one place, then emptied the fuller of the two containers, splashing and sprinkling over the boxes and floorboards while being very careful to keep his smoldering feet out of the way. Until the last moment.
He took one last admiring glance at his handiwork, grabbed the other container, then dabbed a foot onto the nearest box. Whoosh. He teleported out, dropping through the floor into a bedroom at the back.
He materialized, staggering under the pain. Was it getting worse? Was all his teleporting making it worse? No time to think. He emptied the last container, splashing petrol over the bed, the furniture, the curtains. Then ignited it all, teleporting a fraction of a second later, heading back to the garage. He had three cars to blow up.
He found a couple of oil-stained rags and used them as fuses – dowsing the rags in petrol, then stuffing them inside the petrol tanks. For the third car he lit a scrap of paper and dropped it inside the tank. All three cars exploded within seconds of each other. If that didn’t get Abbiati running outside to check, nothing would.
Brian flew back to the house. The kitchen and hall were empty, so he could close the kitchen door unseen. Give the gas in the kitchen more time to build up an explosive concentration. One more spin around the house for his inner eye to check on the fire’s progress – it was beginning to take hold – then off to find Brenda before Abbiati or his crew beat him to it.
o0o
Brenda was lying on her side, trussed up, abandoned and debating which insect was going to crawl over her face first – a spider or an ant. The spider was the favorite ... by a long hairy leg.
And she was hungry. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Not to mention a certain tightness in her bladder from something else she hadn’t done since breakfast.
All in all, the day couldn’t get much worse.
That’s when she saw a shape out of the corner of her eye. Someone was watching her from an overhead walkway.
Crap. Had Abbiati left one of his goons behind? Or could it be a child, a vagrant, someone who could help?
The figure moved. It was a fair way off, but – Brenda strained to get a better look – it didn’t look like one of Abbiati’s goons. They were all six foot plus and built like wrestlers on steroids. This shape looked slight. And Abbiati’s men didn’t skulk around hiding. They swaggered.
“Hey!” she shouted. “Over here. Help untie me.”
The figure moved again, catlike, and silent. Which was strange. The empty warehouse seemed to amplify sound and the walkway was metal. But this person didn’t make a sound.
And then they jumped. Brenda couldn’t believe it. The walkway had to be fifteen feet off the ground. But the person didn’t fall – they glided – and Brenda suddenly understood. She was looking at a ghost. A woman by the looks of it. She floated closer. A frail old woman with gnarled arthritic hands and a faded black dress which seemed to hang limp on what was left of her bony frame. A slightly putrid smell came with her.
“Ya can see me?” she said. Her voice betrayed none of the signs of frailty that her body did.
“Yes, can you untie me?”
The woman tilted her head to one side and peered down at Brenda’s dress.
“Are they lobsters?”
“Yes, they’re lobsters. Can you untie me, please?”
“What are they doing on flowers?”
“Who knows? They’re lobsters. Now, please. If you can, untie me.”
The woman’s attention switched to Brenda’s feet. “Why’re ya tied up?”
Brenda closed her eyes. This was going to be a long conversation.
“I was being tortured.”
The woman paused, her expression slowly changing from mild confusion to one of comprehension.
“Tortured, eh? Wish I was being tortured. Be a change from being dead.”
Brenda wasn’t sure if she’d heard correctly, but then she remembered she was talking to a ghost. They couldn’t help it. All those years living – well, existing – all by themselves. It couldn’t help but make them slightly batty and self-centered.
“Can you untie me?” she asked again, pushing her wrists out to show the ties.
The ghost shook her head in slow motion and raised a spectral, gnarled hand. “Sorry, dear. It’s my hands. They’d pass right through ya. Can’t touch a thing. Not even myself. I’ve had an itch on my neck for seven years. Seven years! What I’d do for a good scratch.”
The woman’s skin looked dry and paper thin – a good scratch would probably rip it to shreds.
“Could you go outside and take a look for me?” Brenda asked.
The woman looked towards the door. “Out there?”
“Yes,” said Brenda. “I want to know what’s out there. I heard an explosion and my friend was outside. I want to know if he’s okay.”
“An explosion, ya say?”
“Yes, I really need to know.”
The woman stared vaguely at the door, then began to drift towards it. She took an age. Surely ghosts could move quicker than that. Even old ones. Couldn’t she teleport? The ones in Brenda’s kitchen were always flitting in and out.
It must have been three minutes before the ghost returned. Via the door and a slow drift across the warehouse floor to where Brenda was lying.
“There’s a big black car on fire,” she said.
“Any bodies?”
“Not that I could see.”
“Not even a charred body? A big black husk?”
“Ya want me to look in the car?”
“If it’s no trouble.” And you could move a little faster.
Five minutes passed this time. Brenda counted the seconds, wondering if the ghost had faded into the ether, or forgotten why she’d gone outside.
Neither was true. The ghost appeared in the doorway and began her funereal glide across the concrete.
“Anything?” shouted Brenda.
“Nope,” said the woman. “No one in the car. I even looked in the trunk.”
The inner Brenda, always ready to chime in with a happy thought during times of stress, added her two cents. Brian’s dead and not coming back, and you, Brenda, are staring at your future. A dried up old ghost with an itch it can’t scratch.
“Feeling hungry?” asked the ghost.
“Yes,” said Brenda who, up until that point, hadn’t thought about food for a solid ten minutes. As if to make a point her stomach chose that moment to gurgle.
“Ya’ll be a sight hungrier tomorrow. Place like this. No one’ll find ya for weeks. Unless kids come along at night to run wild and shoot up them drugs and do their vandalizing. Huh, kids these days. Got no respect. They’re as likely to cut ya throat as call for help. That’s if they don’t rape ya first.”
“Haven’t you got somewhere you’ve got to be?” asked Brenda.
“Don’t worry, dear. I won’t leave ya all alone. I’ll stay and keep ya company. Ya look like ya need cheering up.”
“I won’t be alone for long. My friend’ll be back soon.”
“Yeah?” she said, tilting her head back. “A man is he?”
Give or take a chromosome or two. And maybe a horn and a cloven foot. “Yes.”
The ghost smiled, a knowing toothless smile. “Men,” she said, disparagingly. “Mark my words ya’ll never see him again. Men say they’ll come back, but they never do. I should know. I’ve had three husbands – all of them upped and left. Good riddance if ya ask me.”
“Couldn’t you haunt them? Get your own back that way?”
Like now? Don’t worry about me. Off you go. There’s a good ghost. Shoo.
“Wouldn’t waste my time on them. They’re all most likely dead anyway. Never was any life in any of them. Uh-oh.”
The ghost’s demeanor changed. She stared behind Brenda.
“What?” said Brenda. “What is it?”
“There’s a big black rat behind you.”
If Brenda hadn’t been lying on her side lashed to a chair she’d have jumped. She strained her neck instead, twisting it violently in a vain effort to look behind her. The chair rattled and scraped on the concrete.
“Don’t do that! Ya’ll frighten him.”
“Frighten him!”
The ghost shook her spectral head, wafting it from side to side. “Ya don’t want to go frightening no rats. Never tell what they might do. Unpredictable is rats. And where there’s one, there’s always others.”
Inner Brenda agreed. And it’s all your fault, Brenda. You had to ask if the day could get any worse. Sensible people don’t ask questions like that. Sensible people don’t hook up with Vigilante Demons and spend their vacations being tortured in smelly warehouses. Look at you, Brenda. You’re tied to a chair, lying on a cold, filthy floor. Your legs and arms are cramping. Your neck’s about to go into spasm and now you’ve upset a rat. A hungry rat, and you’re dressed like a seafood platter!