Galefire I : Fade Rippers

by Kenny Soward

  Contents

  Title Page | Copyright

  Praise for Galefire

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  What Next?

  Acknowledgements

  Notes About Locale

  About The Author

  Other Books by Kenny Soward

  Galefire I : Fade Rippers

  by Kenny Soward

  Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved. This electronic book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Published by Broken Dog Press

  Edited by Tim Marquitz

  www.tmarquitz.com

  Cover Design by Eloise Knapp Design,

  www.eloiseknappdesign.com

  Praise for Galefire

  “What really makes this book work is the fact he manages to make the 8th Street Gang come alive as people you would probably find a lot of fun to hang out with once but would be dearly unfortunate to actually be friends with.” ~ Charles Phipps, United Federation of Charles

  “Galefire is one very twisted story and takes its time unraveling, but it is ultimately satisfying and features a well-written final conflagration. Plus, there are monsters and fiends and atrocities...oh, my.” ~ Frank M Errington’s Horrible Book Reviews

  "The characters are fun for the most part with a nice mix of personalities. Actually one of the things I really liked was how Kenny got specific accents across in the dialogue. I found myself actually reading Elsa and Ingrid with a German accent in mind. Very cool." ~ Rob Hayes, author of The Ties That Bind series

  For Michele, who lights my world on fire.

  Chapter 1

  Lonnie dipped the red-stained mop into the bucket of hot water, lifted it, and dropped it into the strainer, swinging the handle over to wring it. He pushed hard. His stomach curdled as the bloody strands drained into the steaminess. A pungent copper-soap scent wafted up to greet his nose.

  He pressed even harder, an obligation—nay, an obsession—to get every last drop out.

  The plastic groaned and creaked, forcing him to ease up before he broke it. Cheap, piece of shit.

  Lonnie stood straight to let his back rest and wiped his arm across his sweaty forehead. He’d need another bucket of water soon. His third one cleaning up another mess left by one of the sisters, Ingrid or Elsa. Most likely, Elsa. That bitch didn’t care where she left corpses. Luckily for him, he hadn’t had to move the body. Just get the stains up off the hardwood in their third-floor parlor.

  There was a lot of blood. An amazing amount. Always was. The pattern told the story. The victim died standing up, neck cut and blood spraying wildly around their shoes, big drops of it splashing as they fell to their knees. A big clear spot to the left where the body collapsed, blood pooling around their head. Smeary marks where they clawed helplessly in their dying moments. And then a nice, thick, undisturbed ring spreading out another two or three feet in every direction.

  The bootprints of the murderer always close, lingering, the killer satisfying their morbid curiosity.

  Lonnie stared numbly at the scene. He was getting way too used to this. Cleaning up bloody messes. Keeping desperate clientele supplied with drugs (might as well be poisoning them) and when they didn’t pay, making sure to deliver painful reminders via the gang’s designated muscle. Avoiding cops at every turn. Yeah, it was a shit job, but it was his shit job. The job of a junkie drug runner who didn’t ask too many questions. A lackey for the nefarious Eighth Street Gang.

  He tried not to think about his old life, the one before the gang. Of being home in bed with his wife, soft smooth legs against his, the sound of her light snores because she’d had too many glasses of wine the night before. Of his daughter, sleeping in the next room, seven years old and the world still very new to her. He tried not to think about it because reminiscing would do him no good. It only brought pain and despair. That life was a world away, too far gone to ever get back.

  He sighed. Best to finish before the gang returned from their drug run. Lonnie rolled the sloshing bucket down the hall and into the bathroom, removed the mop and strainer, and dumped the bloody water into a bathtub colored pink and yellow from hard water deposits. Filled the bucket up with hot water again, pouring in some soap, and drove the entire contraption back to the parlor and over to the shuttered windows.

  The morning news played on the TV while he worked on the stain. The reporter droned on about some political event. “Governor Lindsey Walls, former CEO of Turu Corp, will be in Newport today to show her support for the latest referendum on casino gambling, stating there was no better way to boost the local economy.”

  Not that Lonnie liked the news much, but his wife used to get ready for work with it on. A small thing, really, to leave the TV on while he smeared crimson circles on the hardwood floor. It was fine as long as he didn’t get too carried away. As long as he didn’t go down the rabbit hole of memories.

  Thankfully, Lonnie’s cellphone blared to life, sending sound and vibration everywhere, shaking loose change on the coffee table and keeping his head in the now. In the today.

  It rang again, and then a third time.

  He dug the mop in hard, really working the edges of the stains where the blood had dried into a thick ridge. The phone continued to ring, the person on the other end not willing to give up. After the tenth time, Lonnie took it as a personal challenge. A battle of wills. Fuck them if they thought he’d pick up just because they wanted him to. On the other hand, might be a good idea to take the call in case it was someone from the gang and not a buyer.

  Goddamn it.

  Lonnie put the mop back in the strainer, balancing it, then went to the couch and sat. Pushed his hands across the messy coffee table, over an ashtray filled with butts, layers of baggies and crumbs, and a half smashed McDonald’s bag, to find his phone.

  Where the hell was it?

  Ah, there.

  Lonnie picked it up and turned it over to see who was calling. The Brit’s name shone on the screen. The Englishman was one of the Eighth Street Gang’s leaders, a lieutenant of sorts. A charismatic dude with movie star looks. Real sneaky motherfucker when it came to criminal activity. Dangerous if you got on his bad side. Otherwise, okay. “An okay chap,” as the Brit often said. He claimed to be a former British intelligence agent left hung out to dry after a secret mission in South America. He couldn’t return home because all traces of him had been wiped out and the SIS would kill him if they found out he was still alive. Lonnie’d caught him falling out of character once or twice, but he liked the guy’s story so he never called him out.

  Lonnie clicked ‘Accept’ just as the caller surrendered and the phone went silent.

  Relieved, and realizing he was thirsty, Lonnie leaned forward and plucked a soggy fast food cup off the table, put the straw to his lips, and sipped. Melted ice and the remnants of berry drink. Disgusting, yet refreshing. He swallowed, coughed deep, and set the sweating cup down. Felt around for his pack of smokes, locating them in the mess where they’d been partially hidden by the fast food bag. He retrieved his lighter, too, shiny black with a golden dragon emblazoned on the side. Lonnie lit up, took a long drag, and rested his arm in his lap, holding t
he lighter while rubbing his thumb over the emblem.

  His head grew woozy, a vision on its way. They’d been coming hot and heavy these days. No rhyme or reason to them, other than being scary as hell. Straight from the fucking Lord of the Rings. A bunch of swords and sorcery bullshit. And for the life of him he didn’t know why. He didn't watch fantasy shows or read fantasy books at all.

  And he was completely at their mercy.

  In the dream, Lonnie rode a dragon the size of a school bus through an endless crimson sky cut with sharp swaths of ashy clouds. That’s right. A dragon. The beast flexed beneath him as he gripped the saddle with his knees and pressed his boots firmly into the stirrups so he wouldn’t go tumbling into oblivion. He clutched the curved saddle horn with one gloved hand while holding the reins with the other, half-guiding the beast as they slid through the sky as smoothly as a leviathan through an ocean. When struck with turbulence, the dragon lifted its wingtips and angled its body to shed the rough air.

  Lonnie knew to lean into the updrafts.

  The wind whipped past his ears, and he noted the flat color of the dragon’s scales; somewhere between black and red, a shade so deep it sucked up the surrounding light. The beast’s head swung right. Lonnie followed its gaze, spotting a flotilla of oblong, engine-clanking air ships bearing down on them. A keen sense of betrayal gave rise to his anger, although he couldn’t say why. Like most dream things, it was unexplainable, yet present. Palpable through his discomfort at being so damn high.

  Of its own volition, the dragon banked upward toward the ships, beating wing against an updraft which carried it into the underbelly of the formation.

  “Hey, wait,” Lonnie said, pulling on the reins. “What are you doing? We can’t just charge in. It’s suicide.” But his efforts to stop the beast were in vain. A rolling boulder might have responded better.

  Lonnie cried out as harpoons and crossbow bolts flew by, glancing off dragon scales and pinging against his armor. Armor.

  The dragon twisted in the air, banked hard between two air ships, and poised at the apex of its climb, wings folded back, chest sucking air. From his perch between its shoulders, Lonnie saw the ship’s crew running along the deck. Mercenaries, Lonnie thought. They hadn’t signed up for this. The men and women pointed upward, fumbled to reload their weapons, or dove for cover. Someone standing on a control platform in the center of the deck, Lonnie suspected it was the captain, slammed a lever and spun the wheel hard right, eyes terror-stricken.

  The dragon beat its wings one more time, then exhaled, unleashing a swath of gold-flecked fire across the ship’s deck.

  Galefire.

  The flames engulfed the starboard side of the ship, reaching every crack and crevice and leaving nowhere to hide. The crew screamed and spun like fire dancers, slamming against the rail, falling to the deck in smoke. Some pitched over the side. The galefire blossomed and burned them to cinder and ash and bone dust. The heat was so intense Lonnie forced himself against the dragon’s back, holding his breath as the toxic cloud rose to meet them.

  The dragon dropped from the sky, leaving the yawing, crackling ship behind.

  Lonnie’s stomach lurched. His head swam. He blacked out.

  He awoke still clinging to the saddle horn, the dragon having taken them a safe distance from the flotilla to inspect its handiwork. The ship they’d torched had pitched into several others, setting two more ablaze and scattering the rest. From the blazing ship, an egg shaped escape pod ejected and arched toward the horizon. Lonnie’s heart fell with it, anchored to it. Someone on board was important to him.

  Eyes watering, lungs burning, he tried to command the dragon to follow but choked on dust instead. The choking grew into a hacking cough that rattled his lungs until his chest ached. After the fit passed, he searched the sky for the escape pod, but it was nowhere to be found.

  And then he was back in the third floor parlor, choking on berry drink that had gone down the wrong pipe.

  Some fucking dream all right.

  The good life with the wife and kid ended three years ago after he’d gotten into drugs and lost his business, an auto repair shop called Worthington’s Transmission. The downhill slide had started with a little blow to keep up with demands. Then downers to help him sleep. He didn’t have a trustworthy partner to help bear the burden or to make him stop, so it had escalated to the point where his books were a mess and his clients abandoned him.

  It hurt, missing his wife and little girl. No matter how many times Lonnie tried to tell himself they'd be there when he got cleaned up, he knew they were long gone. Moved so damn far away they might as well be ghosts.

  Lonnie snatched up a post-it pad and pen from the table. Scribbled on it. Clarissa, Claire, Chris, and then, Rose, Reggie, Reese, hoping some curve of a letter or dotted ‘i’ would help him remember their names. Bugged the hell out of him, his memory failing after all their years together. It had to be the drugs. He’d heard of drug abuse and its relationship to temporary, early dementia, and he hated his dependence on the stuff. And while his wife’s name escaped him, her last words to him rang clear. “Get your shit together, Lonnie, before it kills you.” Then she’d walked out with his daughter, leaving him with a home teetering on the edge of foreclosure and the lingering scent of her hair.

  His replacement for the ‘good life’ had been recruitment into this bizarre gang of ruthless suckers called the Eighth Street Gang. There was the handsome Brit, as previously described. Elsa and Ingrid, goth sisters. Crash, the biggest sonofabitch Lonnie had ever seen. And Selix, the spiritual leader of the group. Well, if spiritual meant keeping them high as hell but functional. Thieves, pimps, and drug dealers who used their own product (bad news right there) and probably dealt in other things Lonnie didn’t know about. Not a fair trade, considering the way they treated him; a hair shy of shit. But fuck, he deserved whatever he got.

  And the weird dragon visions, growing more vivid by the day.

  Wasn’t life just great?

  His cellphone buzzed in his lap, and he thought about throwing it across the room. He stared at the chipped black case, wondering if he was in trouble. Only a few people ever needed to call him, and if they had to call him twice he was likely in for verbal abuse. That was the best case. Worst case? Well, he didn’t want to imagine the worst case.

  Lonnie hit the ‘Accept’ button and put the phone to his ear. “Yeah.”

  “Fuck, Lonnie. About fuckin’ time.” Recognizing the Brit’s accent, tense with fear, Lonnie’s gut kicked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Get your ass down here, Lons. And bring your gun. We’ve had a little trouble.”

  Lonnie winced. He hated being called Lons. Drove him nuts. He didn’t mind if Selix said it, though. She was damn fine for a junkie chick, but anyone else saying it made him want to punch them right in the nose.

  “What trouble?”

  Gunfire answered through the tiny phone speaker, so loud he pulled the device away from his ear. He listened, eyes wide, heart kicking up a few notches. He only brought the phone back when the shots stopped. The Brit was screaming at him now, calm demeanor elevated to manic. “…said get your gun and get your ass downstairs. You got that, man? You got it?”

  Lonnie grabbed his boots, put them on, and tied them, phone jammed between his shoulder and ear the whole time. Found his Springfield XDS in its holster on the cluttered coffee table. “No.” Lonnie said. “I mean, yes.”

  Another gunshot ripped off, throwing distortion across the line.

  “…fucking pronto.”

  Lonnie hooked the holster to his back hip and hit the stairwell, taking three or four steps at a time. “Yeah, I’m coming.”

  “Good. Hurry, mate.”

  Their apartment was a hundred-year-old German structure with tall ceilings and fancy crown molding. Banisters constructed of thick wood, chipped and faded with age and neglect. The place had that baked-in aroma reserved for old buildings.

  Lonnie’s feet pounded on th
e creaking steps. He hit the second floor landing and descended the last flight. “Almost there.”

  He wasn’t sure the Brit heard him. The phone barked with shouts and crashes, panting and more gunfire. Other things too; howls and squalls in animal distortion through the tiny speaker. His connection faded in and out as he went.

  Lonnie leapt the last five steps and landed with a thud on the bottom floor. He clutched the banister, swinging around in a three-hundred sixty degree turn, and sprinted the long hallway to the kitchen, then down another short hall to the back door. Punched in the security code on the panel of buttons controlling the alarm. “I’m here. Popping the door.”

  “Meet us in the alley.”

  Lonnie stopped. “You want me to come out?”

  “Yeah, Lons. That’s why I told you to bring your gun.”

  They’d never asked him to leave the building through an obvious exit. He was their undercover runner, only allowed out when he could sneak out. Limited to traveling through the sewers and back alleys whenever something needed doing. Even hanging out in front of open windows was off limits to him. They didn’t want him identifiable as an Eighth Street Gang member. The only way anyone could know his allegiance was if they found the tattoo on his upper right shoulder.

  “Selix is okay with this?”

  “Lons, I will find you and kick your nuts if you’re not outside when we get there.”

  “Are you fucking with me? Selix said I can’t leave out the front or back doors. That’s what she fuckin’ said, man.” Lonnie grew alarmed at the level of panic in his own voice.

  The Brit’s tone calmed. “I’m not messing with you, lad. We ran into some bad shit. Really fucked up shit. So, consider this a momentary lax in policy. You are officially aloud to join us in the light. Do I need to send you a text confirmation?”

  Lonnie pursed his lips. “No.”

  “Then get your ass—”