by Nick Pollota
Yep. It was the Scion.
“Yee-haw!” I saw and heard a grinning slab of muscles scream, his long body hair flying in the wind. “About time we attacked!"
A heavily scarred werewolf brushed his whiskers with a clawed paw. “Our sorcerer had to finish these bikes first, fool."
Magical motorcycles? I didn't like the sound of that.
“Freaking, deacon,” a crewcut werewolf laughed, revving her supercharged Twin V88 engine to near overload. “On these, those Bureau bastards will never escape us again!"
“What if they teleport?"
“Deudonic shields are up to stop them,” another smirked confidently.
“SOBs deserve to die!” a werewolf shouted, an ear dripping with feathers. “Everybody deserves to die!"
The crewcut agreed. “And if we're successful, soon the whole world will be dead!"
“Yowsa!” the muscle-boy howled, flipping back and balancing the Harley motorcycle on its rear wheel. “I'm gonna eat me some Pentagon porkchops! Washington white meat! Federal—"
“Nothing fancy,” a big werewolf barked, his fur having a slight touch of mange. “Let's hit-n-git!"
The slab wildly shook his head, lashing himself with his own mane. “No! I wanna eat some of them first!"
“Alive?"
“Of course!"
Another laughed. “You wanna eat everything!"
“Not if it looks like you, fuzzball!"
“Enough!” the front werewolf ordered, extending the launch tube on a LAW as a prelude to firing. “Time to get nasty!"
I glanced at Raul, and he nodded glumly. We were trapped. Damn! The trucks dropped back and the motorcycle pack grouped into an attack formation. A shiny metal tidal wave, they surged forward.
“Trouble. We are in trouble,” Jessica muttered, holding the Uzi firmly between her thighs and yanking on the spring bolt to chamber the first automatic round.
“Battle stations,” I announced, and the Armorlite glass of the rear window became illuminated in a vector graphic of holographic squares as an aid to targeting.
As Jessica urged the huge RV on to even greater speeds, Father Donaher passed out flak jackets, George began activating the scientific defensives of the vehicle, and Mindy laid out medical supplies and started sharpening her sword. Meanwhile, Raul and Kathi were throwing colored powders about the van and chanting as if our very lives depended on their spells.
Finished loading and priming my twin .357 Magnums, I worked the radar trying to get a more detailed reading of our unusual adversaries. They were proof to magic. Had the Scion considered shielding themselves against technology? Nope!
“We have eighty-five bogeys confirmed,” I announced in a crisp voice. “Range: three quarters of a klick and closing fast."
Shocked murmurs rose from the team. That many?
“Jess, any chance of outrunning those bikes off the highway?” Raul asked, mixing vials of bubbling chemicals.
“Zero,” my wife brusquely answered, concentrating on her driving.
“What about on the highway?"
“Almost zero."
“So stay on the highway."
“Thank you, Captain Tactics,” she said between clenched teeth, as we zigzagged through traffic.
The digital speedometer blinked 145-146-147 mph. Cars flashed past us at an increasing pace. Only then did it occur to me that we were butt deep in civilians. Crap!
“Saints above, we need some combat room,” Father Donaher said, obviously thinking along the same lines. “Ed, should I release the oil slick, or the nail-clusters?"
I vetoed that. “Too great a chance of the cars going out of control and crashing into each other. Where's the EMP pistol?"
“We left it in the station wagon,” Mindy reminded me.
“Damn!"
Leveling her wand in a grip similar to playing billiards, Kathi pointed the steel staff out the window and jerked it forward a nudge. Instantly, the car alongside us faltered and began to slow as its engine conked out. Then the vehicle behind it started to swing around and Kathi got that one also.
“Good shooting, Tex,” Raul complimented, picking off a Subaru, Volvo, and Pinto in a neat three-banked shot.
Closing an eye in concentration, she only grunted in acknowledgment. Another nudge and a station wagon full of nuns stalled. Father Donaher doffed an imaginary hat as the puzzled sisters fell behind us.
Together, the mages neutralized engines until there was a solid wall of dead cars, vans and trucks coasting to a stop behind our RV. Suddenly, some smartass from New Jersey tried to get by on the berm, and another attempted the same on the grassy median. They also got the Big Stall. Sputter, shudder, wheeze, clunk!
Then the barrier of cars shook, windshields cracking, as a wave of motorcycles with their heavy passengers bounded over them in tight formation. The bikes hit the pavement hard, but stayed upright and now revved their massive engines to full throttle. The distance between us began to shorten with alarming speed.
Kathi and Raul tried the same trick with these guys, but nothing happened. I would have been very surprised to learn that the Scion hadn't magically protected their bikes from such an obvious ploy. The members of the Scion of the Silver Dagger were insane, but not stupid. Which was unfortunate, as that sure would have made our job easier.
Barely perceptible, the 16-cylinder motor under our hood lowered its screaming output.
“Jess, why the hell are you slowing?” I demanded.
Both hands tight on the wheel, she pointed with her chin. “The cars ahead of us are too damn close! We have got to get more room!"
Great. Swell. Wonderful.
“George!” I barked.
His chair turned around. “Yeah, Ed?"
“Slow the Scion. Buy us some time."
He grinned. “Yes sir!” Swiveling to the Fire Control Board, he threw a few switches and shoved a gangbar to its furthest setting.
“On my mark, Jess,” he said, face tight against a hooded viewer.
“Ready ... set ... go!"
Tortured tires squealing and smoking, Jessica swerved the van to a strategic position midway on the road and enticingly slowed, bringing the oncoming motorcycle pack within optimum range of its weapons. Then the heavy RV began fishtailing and the aft .50 caliber machine guns hidden in our bumper cut loose, the big copper-jacketed bullets sweeping through the motorcycle pack. On and on, George poured hundreds, thousands, of rounds at our hairy enemies in a seemingly endless fusillade. Windshields shattered and several riders doubled over, clutching their stomachs. But as we had no silver bullets in the hopper, not a werewolf fell, not a bike slowed.
Finally, our reserves of ammo became exhausted and the guns fell silent. Although seriously rattled, the Scion bikers maintained formation and kept coming. But now, both the cars in front and behind us had enough of a lead to be relatively safe.
“It's showtime,” Mindy announced at a control board, and flipping the top of a joystick, she pressed the red button inside.
The phony pile of luggage atop the van dropped its rear flap and out whooshed a pair of Amsterdam heat-seeking missiles. Caught by surprise, the werewolves were too stunned to react. Zeroing in on the red-hot engines, the Amsterdams dipped and leveled smooth. Frantically, the motorcycles tried to scatter, but seconds later, a series of resounding explosions annihilated a goodly portion of the dogs of war. Pieces of hairy corpses flew everywhere. Our aft machine guns may not have had silver bullets in their load, but our missiles sure did!
Struggling to regroup, the remaining bikers retaliated with their machine pistols, clumsily hosing the rear of the RV.
Mindy sent three more rustling firebirds from the nest to add their destructive bid to the flaming ruin on the road.
A score of badly aimed LAW rockets streaked past us to violently impact on the highway, flame-formed geysers throwing tons of concrete skyward.
Far ahead, the disappearing traffic was apparently trying to perform a mass audition for t
he Indy 500. Good for them.
A few more shots were exchanged with little additional damage done, when a lucky shot from the Scion landed inside the missile pod on our roof. Instantly, the volatile cargo of spare missiles detonated in a blinding thunderclap. The baggage rack blew into a million pieces, denting the ceiling and cracking windows, and the flame spread downward from tiny cracks in the ceiling armor to fill the inside of the RV. Automatic extinguishers in the walls and seats spewed fire retardant foam everywhere, and the blaze was quickly smothered.
Coughing from the acrid fumes, I somehow managed to eject the missile launcher. It hit the road in a crash. With hot shrapnel zinging everywhere, the bikers expertly wheeled around the raging inferno on the highway.
Accepting a wiggling something from George, Father Donaher tossed it out the window. “Sick ‘em, me boyyo!” he cried.
Amigo?
Tumbling through the air, our pet lizard hit the pavement and bounced directly into the exploding missile pod. Half of the Scion had passed, when from out of the roaring flames there appeared a huge reptilian figure. Now metamorphosed into his true form, the baby dragon spread wide his iridescent wings and shrugged off the mass of burning metal. Cawing a war cry, the enfant terrible lumbered straight into the motorcycle pack and extended his splayed claws. Moving fast, Amigo managed to snatch six of the werewolves off their bikes and stuff them into his gaping maw.
Horrified, the rest of the Scion veered well past the dragon, careful to stay far outside his deadly reach, and continued on, leaving the frustrated juggernaut behind. Filling his lungs, Amigo blasted them with a lance of brimstone flame, then started after us in his infant's waddle. It had been a good try.
As the vents heroically struggled to cleanse the air, the Scion regrouped and fired a volley of rockets past us. The rockets exploded in front of the RV, issuing volumes of brackish smoke that clung to the hull as we sailed through.
“Nerve gas!” George shouted in warning, watching a meter on the environmental board hit the red-line.
Wow. It hadn't done that since our last visit to the Buffalo NY Chili Cook-Off. I glanced at the cracked ceiling. Only our velocity was keeping the lethal war gas from entering.
Slowly, Mindy removed her hand from the window handle. “Then we can't open any of the windows or gunports to fight!"
“You got it, toots,” George said, frowning deeply.
From the look on her face, George would pay for that ‘toots’ line later. If we lived. But that was becoming a doubtful proposition. The Scion of the Silver Dagger wanted us seriously dead. Or more correctly, they wanted us dead and to get their claws on all the information we carried on the Bureau and its operations. Our organization was the only real deterrent they had ever faced.
“Ed, what do we do?” Raul asked, biting a lip. Hindered by the sheet of unbreakable glass between us and the Scion, even magic was under severe limitations.
“Anything we can,” Father Donaher said, releasing a flood of oil from the bottom of the van, followed by a rain of nail-clusters. There was no appreciable effect on the Scion.
“First, we're doing a Clean Sweep,” I announced. Removing the cigarette lighter, I shoved a finger into the hole where no sane person would shove a finger. As my prints were identified, a small panel swung out from the dashboard and I hastily typed in a Go code. The tiny computer screen repeated a request for authorization, asked several secret questions and, when finally satisfied, gave a good long beep.
With a sigh, I reclined in my seat. There! Every computer file in the RV was deleted and in the process of being overwritten with the collected works of Oscar Wilde, my favorite author. Afterwards, the disks would be deleted again, melted, and then diced to pieces. Go ahead and try to reconstruct those records, ya bozos.
Brutally, our vehicle was pounded under a hail of armor-piercing bullets. Which didn't. Score another win for TechServ.
In less than a minute, the rest of the team had performed similar procedures to their own private records, and Jessica had armed the self-destruct on the RV. With six hundred pounds of thermite packed into the hull, the werewolves might capture our dead bodies, but not in large enough pieces to even make a zombie hors d'oeuvre. The Scion was getting nothing from us. Period. End of discussion.
A rocket streaked by taking the side view mirror. Uh-oh, they were in trouble now. That's seven years bad luck.
“What next?” Father Donaher asked, crumbling a sheet of ash into an unrecognizable mess.
More bullets ricocheted off our vehicle.
“We'll use the lasers,” I declared, holstering my Magnums.
Smiling, George fumbled at the vault in our arsenal and withdrew four sleek pistols. Top-secret weapons built for the Pentagon, the futuristic power pistols delivered the punch of an angry lightning bolt, but occasionally exploded on users, removing their hands. They also took a week to recharge. We saved them for dire emergencies only.
Dutifully, we switched the pistols’ setting from Flash, a disabling light burst that would temporarily blind anyone not wearing polarized goggles, to Beam, a polycyclic ray that cut steel. We didn't want the werewolves wounded, we wanted fried corpses. When we play, we play for keeps.
Crowding to the extreme right side of the van, Donaher, George, Mindy, and I braced our pistols in our hands while, on the other side, Raul and Kathi copied our positions with their wands. They had a Deadly Light spell very similar to what our pistols could produce. And with the same limitations. Technology and magic, the only real difference was who held the patent: GE or God.
The motorcycles came closer. A LAW struck the highway just aft of us, clouding our view with flame and hunks of concrete. A chance chunk of shrapnel impacted off the rear Armorlite window and a small crack appeared. Horrified, I held my breath, but the crack did not penetrate all the way through.
“On my mark,” I commanded, with a dry mouth. “Ready ... aim ... fire!"
Straight through the clear glass rear windows of the Bureau RV there lanced out half a dozen scintillating energy beams. Only a fleeting touch of each beam was necessary for the werewolf rider to fall, minus a head or arm. Systematically, we cleared the road. But, as the charred remains dropped to the highway surface and bounced away, the motorcycles leaped forward with renewed speed.
“Tricked!” Donaher roared, slamming a fist onto his knee. “The motorcycles are the attackers, not the drivers!"
Sweat running off her face, Mindy brushed away a strand of damp hair. The temperature of the RV must have risen twenty degrees from the secondary effect of the lasers. “Got to be demonically possessed,” she guessed.
“Ah, not necessarily,” Raul said with a pained expression.
Oh, what now? “Report,” I ordered, annoyed. The power level on my laser read 50% charged.
Trying to radiate innocence, Kathi started studying the ceiling and Raul cleared his throat. Twice. “Well, there is this theory. Only a theory, mind you—"
“Talk!” George yelled impatiently.
Raul sighed. “It is believed by some wizards that if werewolves could ever become sentient, they would have the ability to decide what the curse would change them into."
Silence filled the van for a small eternity.
“Anything?” Mindy gulped, swallowing a small internal organ.
The mage gave a solemn nod.
“So those might not be from the Scion,” she started.
“But Scion members themselves,” Raul finished. “Correct."
Intelligent, hostile, paranormal were-motorcycles. Should we lodge a complaint with Consumer Reports or the ASPCA?
“Here they come!” Jess shouted, veering the vehicle from side to side.
With a whining roar, the motorcycles surged ahead, and we fired again. But this time, the nimble bikes wheeled crazily about in a Gideon knot of confusion, making it impossible for us to get a clear sustained shot. Switching tactics, I ordered the highway destroyed in an effort to make the cycles crash. The lasers brutaliz
ed the highway before they winked out. But the sleek two-wheelers merely bounced over the buckled ridges of asphalt. Some of them wobbled badly and almost toppled, but then miraculously righted themselves.
Shocked expressions filled the van. The damn things must have gyroscope stabilizers. They couldn't fall over!
As the rest of the team heaped verbal abuse on the Scion, a dozen plans went through my mind, each critically flawed by the fact that we couldn't open the windows. Vestiges of the nerve gas still adhered to the outside of the RV.
I gnashed my teeth in frustration. Missiles gone. Out of bullets. Lasers drained. Low on magic. No help was coming. Yet, if we didn't do something fast, those kamikaze kooks would soon reduce us into covert Federal hamburger. Desperately, I tried to think of something clever, and succeeded.
“Kathi prepare to cast a Hook,” I commanded, drawing my Magnum. “Raul, get ready to do a mass Meld. Mindy, get me a stick from Storage. George grab a map, and everybody get ready to go EVA!"
Nobody bothered to reply. They just did it.
Handing the stick to Jess, she shoved it in between the gas pedal and the dashboard, holding the pedal to the floor. Using rope, she tied the steering wheel into position.
“Kathi? Raul?” I asked, filling my pockets with ammunition and grenades just in case this didn't work.
The wizards nodded.
“Hook!” I ordered.
Kathi gestured and from the side of the RV there shot a glowing green chain appended with a giant anchor. It hit the highway and embedded. On screeching tires, the van brutally arced about on the ethereal tether.
This had to be done perfectly. Timing was everything. “Ready and ... release!"
Poof. The chain was gone. Now facing in the wrong direction, the huge RV hurtled itself towards the enemy bikes.
“Meld!” I shouted.
Suddenly, we became insubstantial and moved with ghostly rapidity through the physical mass of the Bureau vehicle. We found ourselves standing on the highway watching our twenty-four tons of armored Recreational Vehicle race straight at the oncoming array of motorcycles: a solid wall of Detroit metal moving at a relative velocity of 300-plus miles per hour. Without a doubt, ramming speed.