by Gary Ballard
“Feel like I should be passing out tacos,” Stonewall quipped. Bridge raised a questioning glance. “Reminds me of the last time I went home.”
The ride was uncomfortably bouncy, the van’s suspension as tight as a drum, the route taken full of twists and turns. Bridge tried to ascertain their general direction by staring through the windshield, but within minutes was utterly lost. The driver avoided the main highways, sticking to the lower roads of Denver until they reached the outskirts. The lights of urban Denver gradually gave way to the lower lights of the suburbs until with surprising swiftness, darkness swallowed the road whole. Bridge looked to either side of the road. They were still in the suburbs, houses on either side in neat, compact rows, but all the lights were dark. Nothing moved. No streetlights buzzed. No traffic passed. Wherever they were, it was a ghost town.
As the van’s lights began to flicker, it shrieked to a sudden, jarring stop. “Get out,” the driver said sharply.
“Which way?” Bridge asked as he climbed out.
“If you’re smart, you’ll go back the way you came. The first checkpoint’s about a mile that way. I’d suggest going around it. Now shut the fucking door.” The driver made a point of showing the pistol stuck in his waistband. Bridge threw him a mock salute and slammed the door angrily. The vehicle screeched away and just like that the group was alone in the dark. Bridge couldn’t help notice t heolor=he silence. No buzz of electric air conditioning, no murmur of people and pets and children, no humming undercurrent of street lights, no distant sounds of cars, not even the chirping of birds or crickets or anything living broke the eerie silence. All he could hear was the labored breathing of the people around him.
Bridge could feel something now, something that had been growing more noticeable with each passing block. Something tugged at the jack in his neck. It grew stronger as he walked in one direction and weaker in the opposite direction. Feeling like a needle on a compass, he looked around at the escapees with him and pointed in the right direction. “Yeah, that way.” They all nodded in mute agreement and started walking. Aristotle and Stonewall exchanged uneasy glances. “If anybody gets nicked by the Army or the Rangers or whoever else they got out here, make like you’re just getting out of Boulder. They’ve got to help you get back to the aid stations, I’m sure.” It sounded plausible but based on what he’d seen so far, he wasn’t so sure.
*****
Stonewall led the group through the dark, cutting cross-country in the general direction Bridge indicated. Over backyard fences and well-manicured suburban lawns, the group staggered along slowly for miles. Bridge lost track of time, as the clock in his HUD blinked in and out of operation indicating interference with his slow wireless GlobalNet connection. Somewhere around the first hour, a light snow began to drift through the woods, dusting the ground with a ghostly powder and chilling the group to the bone. Bridge tried to engage the rest in conversation but none were interested in getting acquainted.
Corporate cops or National Guard squadrons blocked off every road they found into Boulder proper. The corporate cops were armed to the teeth with the latest gear while the Guard’s equipment appeared substandard and threadbare. Stonewall skirted around the roadblocks with professional efficiency despite his unfamiliarity with the terrain. They must have been walking for at least three hours when Aristotle called a halt. Bridge was exhausted, sweating underneath his heavy coat while his exposed face was chapped and dry from the freezing wind that swirled the snow around their heads. “What is it?” Bridge whispered in the darkness. His voice sounded deafening in contrast to the hours of silence they’d observed.
“That’s the road into the university. About three miles up that four-lane road is the campus.” He pointed down a grassy hill towards the road curving off to the northwest. Bridge could see a roadblock about a half-mile ahead.
Arc lights framed the National Guard post but the lights were flashing sporadically, as if their power source was unsteady. The checkpoint was a makeshift barrier with cars pushed haphazardly together. Bridge expected the checkpoints, whether corporate or military, to be staffed with some kind of vehicle, whether a personnel carrier or a tank or even a jeep, but none were. Seeing the state of the lights, a th Seeing ts well as the difficulties he was having with his GlobalNet connection, it was obvious that the dome’s presence was affecting electronics in the area. That must have been why the driver had refused to take them any closer. He guessed that the soldiers he saw below had been forced to set up the checkpoint with whatever was available, hence the slap-dash arrangement of cars blocking the road. As best he could tell, there were six well-armed soldiers manning the post.
Unlike the other checkpoints they’d passed, this one was a beehive of frantic activity. The soldiers were busy keeping a mass of people, perhaps fifty strong, from crossing the checkpoint. The crowd was an eclectic bunch, many of them with the sallow skin that instantly marked them as crèche-bound hackers. Tensions were high. The crowd was slowly but unconsciously pressing the soldiers, trying to work themselves past the checkpoint and onward towards the dome. With every civilian that stepped forward to crowd the checkpoint, the soldiers grew visibly more nervous. Weapons crossed over their chests, they shoved the crowd away one step only to be leveraged back two steps by the insistent mob.
“We need to be down there,” one of the escapees said. The short pudgy man who’d identified himself as Roddy stepped out of the shadows and strode towards the checkpoint quickly. Bridge tried to grab him but was too late. The others followed suit. Shuffling slowly at first, the closer they got to the checkpoint, the faster they walked. Bridge could feel it too, the tugging at his jack practically burning a hole in his head. He wanted, he needed to go down that road, and every nerve in his body screamed with the desire to follow.
“Where the hell are they going?” Stonewall hissed.
“Based on the itching I’m feeling in my jack, I think they’re going to the dome.” Aristotle and Stonewall eyed him warily. “Don’t ask me why or how, but ever since that seizure in the club, I’ve felt like something is calling me here. Right now, I want to run down there like the rest of the lemmings. I know that sounds crazy. This whole goddamn thing is crazy. But I think we gotta go that way.”
Aristotle stared into Bridge’s eyes with solemn resolve. “Is my grandmother in there?”
“I don’t know, Marcus,” he replied with real empathy. “I don’t have any idea if your grandmother is in there, is in Denver, is even alive. I don’t know if any of them are. But I do know that if we go that way, we’ll find out.” Bridge didn’t know, not really, but he knew where he needed to be and he wasn’t above lying to Aristotle to get there.
Aristotle nodded at Stonewall. “Then let us join the lemmings,” he said with cool determination. The Mexican nodded in agreement.
“Let’s go start a riot then.”
The trio jogged up to join the crowd, which by now had swamped the troops. The soldiers were shouting orders at the crowd from behind the makeshift barrier, their voices aimed like bullets, but the desperate mob ignored them. Bridge could see fingers twitching on triggers.
And then 000my jaa sound drowned out the shouting, a reverberating roar like thousands of modems screaming out a triumphant command. The arc lights sputtered and died, then exploded in a shower of sparks. A flickering torchlight illuminated the scene as if a giant candle was descending on the road. Bridge had flashbacks to the riots of last year, to savage mobs burning cars and attacking anything within reach. One of the soldiers raised his rifle skyward and fired wildly, his incoherent screams chilling Bridge to the bone.
The gunshots broke the spell that had settled over the crowd. Self-preservation instincts kicked in and they dispersed like cockroaches, running in every direction away from the shooting. Bridge, Stonewall and Aristotle ran together to huddle behind a nearby fence. Peeking over the fence, Bridge saw that the soldiers had forgotten the mob and were firing into the air. His eyes tracked upwards as the flick
ering light grew stronger. What he saw was impossible.
Swooping down through the snow was a construct made of fire, an impossible being of pure, shifting flame. It landed on the middle car with a metallic crunch, a talon crushing the vehicle before tossing it aside like a twig. A swishing tail slammed into and through the line of soldiers, scattering all six of them like leaves in a hurricane. That screaming modem shriek erupted from the being’s mouth as a ball of flame engulfed a second car. The soldiers’ frazzled nerves snapped and they ran. Wings of flickering orange flame spread wide in victorious celebration. Eyes like white-hot coals fixed Bridge in a burning gaze.
The dragon spoke directly to Bridge with a voice of grating digital shrieks. “Welcome. We’ve been waiting for you.”
*****
Chapter 12
November 7, 2028
12:13 a.m.
Bridge knelt dumbfounded behind the fence for a long moment. Nothing moved. The crowd had frozen where they crouched, fell or stood, staring in awe at the impossible sight towering over them. The only sound was the torch flicker crackle of the dragon’s fiery body and the flaming car. “Well, are you just going to stand there holding your dick or are you going to say something?” the dragon finally said rudely.
Bridge inspected the creature from head to tail. It stood a good twenty feet, the bottom of its barrel chest an arm’s length above Bridge’s head. The flames that made up the dragon’s body were shaped intricately into various hues, making the beast appear frighteningly solid even though its form shifted chaotically in a constant rhythm. Unnoticed at first, it finally dawned on him that the wind, which was busily tossing snow a000">teningly sround them in a lazy swirl, never seemed to affect the flames. They burned where they would in conspicuous indifference to the environment in which they existed. Stonewall nudged Bridge out of his staring stupor. He finally responded with painful uncertainty. “What is it you expect me to say?”
“Thank you would be a good start.”
“Umm, thank… you?” He walked warily towards the mythical beast, his hand reaching out to touch the thing, to feel the reality of impossibility, to ensure he wasn’t just fucked in the head. “What am I thanking you for?”
Noticing that Bridge was close to touching its leg, the dragon barked, “Don’t do that.” Bridge withdrew the hand as if he’d been slapped. “Driving off those soldiers so you can go on to where you’re supposed to for starters. We’ve been waiting.”
“Who’s we?”
“Come with me and you’ll find out.” With a graceful shrug, it pulled its wings in towards its body then stretched them to full extension. Its wingspan was massive, spreading a shadow over the entire roadblock. Some of the crowd lost their nerve and bolted, while most could only stare glassy-eyed with whispered incredulity. The cars underneath its talons crunched and sighed as the beast propelled itself into the air with one swift motion.
“Wait, where are we going?”
The dragon had already flown a good twenty feet ahead. It banked back to hover in the air above Bridge. Though its face expressed little emotion, its voice dripped with pissy irritation. “To the dome, you nob. That’s what you came out here for, isn’t it? You weren’t just harassing the National Guard in the freezing ass cold for shits and giggles, were you? Do you want to go or not?”
“Of course I want to go,” Bridge replied with equal peevishness. He motioned to Stonewall and Aristotle. “Come on, guys, let’s move it.”
The dragon shook his head. “Uh uh. Just you, Cochise.”
“These are my bodyguards. You expect me to follow a flaming dragon without bodyguards?”
“I don’t expect anything. But if you want to go with this flaming dragon, you lose the man-muscle. Your safe passage is guaranteed. Scout’s honor.” The dragon raised its front talon and crossed its claws while placing its other arm over where a heart might beat within its massive chest. Bridge returned a puzzled look.
“Scout’s honor? What is this, summer camp? Who the fuck says Scout’s honor?” He muttered as he turned to his friends.
“What about us?” one of the crowd shouted at the creature. “Can we come?”
“No,” the dragon said. “And if you try to follow, I’ll nuke you where you stand.” His eyes burned in threatening red pulses.
Ignoring the crowd, Bridge pulled Stonewall and Aristotle into a close huddle. “Ok, guys, I’m going to go with him… it… whatever.” Aristotle started to protest. Bridge cut him off. “No, I’m going. I’m going to look for your grandmother and I’m going to try to find out what the fuck is going on. But I want you two to follow me. Get as far back as you can without losing me. Don’t even get within eye sight but you know where we’re going so either get there before me or after me, but make sure that fucking thing doesn’t see you, you feel me?” Stonewall nodded.
“You’re going to go alone… with a dragon?” Aristotle asked incredulous. “I can’t even believe I’m saying dragon. Have you taken complete leave of your senses?”
Bridge fixed him with a cold stare. “That ain’t no dragon. Ok, maybe it looks like a dragon and flies like a dragon and has flame breath, but something ain’t right. Where’s a dragon going to pick up a phrase like ‘scout’s honor,’ huh? That may impress the rubes but I ain’t no rube. Just come up behind us and don’t get seen, got it?” Aristotle agreed hesitantly.
“All right, Mister Dragon, let’s motorvate. You gonna carry me or do I have to hoof it?” The dragon turned and flew off. Bridge tossed a Sicilian salute at the creature’s back. “This dragon is a real dick.” Stonewall couldn’t help but chuckle. Bridge just shook his head and started walking in the path of the monster.
*****
Bridge walked along in darkness, tripping here and there while trying to keep an eye on the flickering form of the dragon. The creature often flew too far ahead and would have to circle back to allow Bridge to keep up. Feeling petulant, Bridge did nothing to quicken his pace. On one of its return circuits, Bridge tried to engage it in conversation. “So should I just call you Mister Dragon, or do you have a name?”
The beast pulled up sharply, hovering beside Bridge with tight flaps of his fiery wings like a monstrous hummingbird. “Carl,” he said flatly before flying off again.
Bridge yelled at the dragon’s back. “Carl? Really? Carl? What kind of a dragon name is CARL? Shouldn’t you be called Firebelly or Phoenix or something?” Carl looped back and landed forcefully in front of Bridge, his feet melting the snow. Bridge pulled back. “Not that Carl is a bad name, I’m sure your mother was quite happy with it. But I mean, really, Carl the Dragon doesn’t inspire fear, you know what I’m saying? You need something with mystery, excitement. Like Draconis.”
Rivulets of steam escaped from Carl’s nostrils. His front toe tapped on the pavement, making a sound like striking matches. “You think I should change my name?”
Bridge shrugged. “I’m not saying it’s crucial, just that if you’re going to try to intimidate someone once they wrap their noodle around the idea of a giant flaming fucking dragon, telling them to obey the commands of Carl the Lizard King ain’t cutting it. You’re going to end up having to blow something up again, and pretty soon you’re out of shit to blow up.” Carl responded by breathing boiling gouts of fire on a nearby tree, exploding it in a shower of sickly orange light. “Yes, very impressive. I’ve seen that, not feeling it.” Carl bent down even further until they stood nose to nose. Bridge could feel the waves of heat coming off the dragon’s body. But he was surprised to note that the dragon didn’t smell. There was no scent of brimstone or charcoal or anything burning. Though he could feel the flames, his sense of personal space did not feel violated by the dragon’s physical presence, almost as if the creature occupied no corporeal space.
“What are you doing out here, Carl the Dragon?” Bridge asked, standing defiantly straight despite the attempt at intimidation.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you closed off Boulder, you
downed a news chopper, you blew up some shit and chased off the National Guard, all to get me to come with you. Why? Why me? Why are people with interface jacks compelled to drop everything and come all the way out here? You’re holding most of a city hostage, you know and after four days, you haven’t released any demands, haven’t appeared other than these two times. How does a dragon hide away from satellites and soldiers and cops for four days?”
Rather than answer, Carl took off again, rising into the air with a snort. “Do you ever stop gibbering?”
“No,” Bridge replied with a smile. “My girlfriend says the only way to kill me is to gag me. Says silence is my kryptonite. She’s probably right.”
“I’m not the person to answer your questions, Mr. Bridge,” Carl said. “I’m just supposed to bring you here alone. Balfour will have your answers.”
“Fair enough. Who’s Balfour?”
“You’ll find out,” was all the answer Carl would give. He flew on in silence for a minute then abruptly switched back to hover over Bridge. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t torch those two following us.”
Bridge didn’t bat an eyelash. “Because they’re my bodyguards, like I told you. And if you think I’m going to tell them to just let me go alone with a flaming dragon, you’re crazy. I’m lucky I can go to the can without one of them on shaking duty. You want me in Boulder? You leave them alone.”
The dragon turned back towards the dome without comment and Bridge let out a slow sigh of relief. He glanced around trying to get some idea of where Stonewall and Aristotle were, but couldn’t see them. They were good. He walked on, staring up the road and trying not to get too fatigued. The day’s walking was starting to wear him down. “Hey, can we take a rest? I’ve been walking foren e’ hours.”