The Very Last Days of Mr Grey

by Jack Worr

  The missile struck at Ehd’s and Fredriks’s feet just as they were about to round a corner in order to get closer to Mr Grey. They couldn’t see Mr Grey, but they could see the dragon, occasionally letting loose bursts of flame and screeching, occasionally blocking out large swathes of the setting sun. They could tell it was fighting him.

  But then the ground was blown out from under them and they were tossed to either side, Ehd to the left, Fredriks to the right, into the sides of the buildings. Fredriks actually broke through the wall and went into the building itself—a restaurant, which was abandoned now, and would remain that way until the city died, and an elephant appeared on Madison Avenue.

  Ehd had fared better, and got up. He rolled his shoulders. This was the most pain he’d ever felt in someone’s dream. It almost felt real. He wondered if it was how Fredriks had felt when he’d gotten shot.

  Sight, sound, smell, touch. It was all there. He could smell the smoke, feel his eyes water, could even taste the dust in his mouth, the iron, the blood—

  He spit. Red blood splattered. He used his tongue to probe around. A small spot in his cheek was bleeding.

  He looked up, wondering if he could be pulled from here.

  But then Fredriks came crashing out of the restaurant screaming, and he did not look at all pleased.

  The guardsmen had been closing in on the ‘Men in Black’—the civilians, having finally realized getting up-close footage wasn’t worth their lives, were staying a safe ten feet behind the wall of guardsmen—but all halted when one of the men got up—after taking a rocket to the knees—and spit.

  Then a wall exploded, and the other came through screaming.

  Oh shit, Peters thought, and then the robot man crashed into him and he was tossed twenty feet away, landing on the edge of a dumpster, before falling in, unconscious.

  Fredriks was not happy. His arm was hurt, and now he could feel the bullet wound throbbing again, the one in his actual body, the one he’d impossibly gotten on the cliffs when they had been about to recall Mr Grey.

  Enough was enough, it was time to get rid of Mr Grey’s apparitions.

  He altered course to the nearest and threw it to the side without looking where it might hit. Then went to the next, which was still shooting at him. The bullets hitting his face were causing him to flinch, and it was seriously beginning to piss him off.

  “Uh… sir! He’s coming at us.” The apparition’s voice wavered. Fredriks focused on it.

  “Stand your ground! Keep firing.”

  “It’s not doing anything. We don’t have the contra code!”

  Fredriks ripped the gun from the surprised man’s hand, cast a glance skyward at Mr Grey, grunted, then broke the gun in two. He then impaled the apparition with both pieces of the gun.

  He frowned when the blood that hit his face was warm.

  Mr Grey’s dreams were indeed detailed.

  He saw Ehd leap into the air, over a line of soldiers firing at him, then land behind them. He shook his head. Too flamboyant. A bullet hit his ear and lodged there. It stunned him, and threw him off balance. He stumbled, fell to one knee. He stuck his pinky into his ear and finally managed to pop the slug out.

  His finger came away coated in red. He stared at it. It must have been the other man’s blood…

  Then he clenched his fists and shouted. “Mr Grey!”

  Now technically on another street, Private Peters roused from his slumber. He stunk. Had he—

  Then he saw where he was. He groaned. “Shit.” He felt around for his rifle, grabbed it, then made his way to the side of the dumpster and pulled himself up.

  And got his head over the edge just in time to see a body flying his way.

  It slammed into the dumpster, throwing him back into the garbage, whereupon he smacked his head on the back wall. He smelled vanilla for some reason, and he thought of Cinnabon.

  Yum, he thought. Then he blacked out.

  Grant, when he got over the shock of being thrown so far he could have sworn he was flying, a rocket stuck right up his asshole, was shocked yet again when he discovered Peters next to him in the garbage. “Private.” He shook the man. Nothing. He felt for a pulse. Strong and regular.

  He tried not to disturb the man as he crawled to the other side to make his way out—if Peters had a head or neck injury, he didn’t want to be the one to paralyze him.

  He peeked his head over the edge, spotted the two men in suits fighting the others in a hail of bullets, reached for his rifle, and cursed.

  He’d lost it. The man had grabbed it, bent the stock, and tossed it to the side before picking Grant up and hurling him to this very spot. At least he hadn’t been stabbed, like… what’s-his-name. Grant couldn’t remember.

  He looked again at the two men laying waste to all who stood in their way.

  Two very strong men. Bulletproof men. Men who could outrun a Yugo.

  Above, he heard jets and helicopters. He glanced at Peters.

  Well, he reasoned, someone really should stay here and look after him.

  Besides, there were jets.

  He nestled in next to Peters, and called in his position.

  Julia Chung looked into the camera with a grim look on her face as she described the events going on below her. Then a dragon flew by, blowing flames everywhere, followed closely by what looked to be a man, and then a jet. The view shifted wildly in the resulting chaos.

  When things calmed down, she interrupted her previous narration for an announcement: “I’ve just gotten word that civilian airspace over New York City and into much of the rest of the state has been shut down. We’re being told to evacuate the area.” There was a silence as she said something that couldn’t be heard over the air, then, “We’re going to get up higher and keep an eye on things. Stay tuned for the latest.”

  “Thanks Julia,” the anchor said when the screen switched back to him. There were two of them now. The other anchor appeared to be dressed far too casually. “We are getting reports that the man fighting the dragon is named Mason Grey, a screenwriter from Los Angeles.”

  “Where else?” the anchor in the hideous green shirt joked.

  Vague chuckle as the camera quickly cut to him, then away again.

  “It’s not clear what relationship he has to the dragon at this point.”

  “A troubled one.” This went over even less well than his previous joke, and the camera didn’t even bother to switch views.

  “Stay tuned for the latest, we’ll be right back.”

  Commercial showing a man in a suit of armor battling a dragon. The dragon roars and belches fire, the knight holds up his shield blocking it and—

  Black screen. Colored bars.

  New commercial. Puppies running through a field toward a fluffy bear.

  73

  The dragon screeched. Very close by.

  Ehd and Fredriks stopped their attack and looked up in time to see the dragon, followed by Mr Grey, followed by one of his strange mechanical apparitions, like an airship without the gasbag, fly quickly overhead.

  “Dammit.” Ehd tossed the man he had been about to punch aside. “We should go after him. He’s distracting us with these things.”

  Fredriks looked around at the groaning soldiers. None were firing at them currently. He nodded.

  Then the two took off in the direction of the dragon.

  Behind them, the military slowly, wearily, pursued, most who were still able loading up in vehicles and a few staying behind to look after the injured.

  The agents had a head start and soon they were out of sight.

  Not far from here, a tank rolled over a fence and out into the streets of New York.

  74

  “Shit,” the temporary gunner shouted at the driver. “You almost hit that guy.”

  “That’s why I went through the fence instead.”

  “We’re gonna get in so much trouble.”

  “Are you kidding? There’s a dragon! And the tank was just sitting there.”


  Sawyer shook his head, swiveling the turret around, getting used to how it moved. It hadn’t exactly just been sitting there: it had been running, and for some reason left alone while the soldiers ran back inside for something.

  Sawyer and Ethan had taken this opportunity to commandeer the tank.

  Ethan knew how to drive one because his dad had shown him. Sort of knew how, anyway.

  Sawyer knew how to shoot the gun because he was in the ROTC, and they had taken them out in a tank before, and the guy had explained in great detail how the gun worked. Ethan hadn’t been paying much attention, instead focused on the female tank commander—who had ignored him—but apparently it had stuck, because he now caused it to fire.

  The tank swerved as Ethan covered his ears. It took out a parked car, rolling over it and flattening its roof, before he got the sound-blocking comm helmet on and the tank back under control.

  “What the fuck!” Sawyer shouted, rubbing his face where it had slammed into the controls. He already had his headset on, and so this interjection was relayed to Ethan.

  “Pulls to the right,” Ethan muttered.

  75

  The supposed most powerful person in the world, though she usually didn’t feel that way and especially not now, stared in horror and indecision at the banks of monitors displaying the destruction.

  It was like something from Independence Day, the movie. This dragon had withstood all weapons from their jets—missiles, bullets, whatever else those things shot—and hadn’t suffered apparently from any of them. And they hadn’t even got in many shots, because soon after they’d had to stop firing on it when a man—who they’d found out just moments before the media announced it was named Mason Grey—appeared and started fighting it.

  Meanwhile, on the street, two men who looked uncomfortably like government agents—or Men in Black—had killed and were killing more people in their reckless “escape” than the dragon.

  And their escape was another thing… She wasn’t sure they were running away necessarily, just that her forces were following, and so it gave the appearance that the pursued were being chased. But a man with a stick chasing a lion pursuing a gazelle does not imply the lion is running away from the insane man.

  And then there was the flying man, Mason Grey, an American—though whether that warranted a thank God or a goddammit was yet to be established—who seemed to be at least nominally on the side of “good” and therefore America. He hadn’t directly killed anyone, though his body had destroyed several buildings. And he’d saved a kid. That was good if they decided to honor him. They could show that footage.

  Maybe hold back the footage of him grabbing the dragon by its tail and hurling it into the children’s hospital, and the subsequent explosion when the dragon—being far too large for the far too short ten foot ceilings—broke gas valves and fire suppression systems and blew fire everywhere as it slid through the floor before coming out the other side and crashing to the ground, crushing an ambulance and—somewhat ironically—a fire truck currently putting out an unrelated fire.

  At least no one had died there—well, no kids anyway. Which, now that she thought about it, was likely a reporting error.

  Whatever else Mason Grey was doing, he was the one who was staying her hand currently. She wasn’t going to break out the big guns until this superman was out of the picture, or he’d defeated the dragon—and the two Men in Black.

  She hoped for the second, but the “football” on the table in front of her was guard against the first.

  76

  The Premier of Nova Scotia sat at her desk, waiting for her secretary to get her a line.

  Finally, he arrived in the door. “I’m sorry Ms Hampton, there’s no answer.”

  “What! Don’t tell me that! You asshole. How can there be no answer?”

  The aide shrugged. “I’m sorry Ms Hampton.”

  “You’re a sorry sack of—”

  The phone rang. The premier glared at the aide.

  The aide took the hint, and left.

  “Yes!” the premier shouted into the phone.

  “Minister Hampton. This is the vice president, I’m sorry we missed your call.”

  The premier scowled. Of course the Vice President would just assume everyone knew you meant the American vice president when you invoked those two words. Not the VP of… American Apparel… Or the goddamn Macy’s Day Parade! she thought with vehemence.

  Or was that Parade Master?

  “Minister?”

  “Yes, I’m here. Now tell me, what in the hell is going on? Please, tell me it’s a training exercise.”

  “It’s a training exercise.”

  The premier breathed a sigh, a great weight lifting from her shoulders. Good. Now, the matter of why. “And just what the fuck were you thinking? A training—”

  “Oh, I’m sorry ma’am. That was a joke.”

  She refrained from making her own about Americans. “I see. Would you care to elaborate? Which part, exactly, was a joke?”

  “I’m sorry. We really don’t have a clue what’s going on. What you see on the news? That’s the gist of it, for once. We don’t have more information yet. We do know the dragon is real—at least, it’s a physical thing that is capable of causing serious damage.”

  “And this American?” She shoved papers around on her desk. She couldn’t find where she’d written his name. Grey something. “This Chris Grey?”

  “Uh, Mason Grey. Yes, he is American. That’s pretty much all we know. We’ve been unable to locate any family.”

  The premier muted her phone, cursed at him, then unmuted it. “And he can fly?”

  “Yes.”

  The premier waited for him to go on.

  Seconds passed. When she found herself looking at the clock, she couldn’t contain herself any longer. “So you have a dragon and a flying cowboy shooting up New York and we are just supposed to sit here with our thumb up our butts!?!”

  Laughter from the other end, then coughing. “Erm, sorry, bronchitis.”

  After unmuting her phone again, she said, “How awful.”

  Her aide came to the door looking concerned. She gestured for him to clean up later. He took in the broken lamp she’d thrown across the room, and quickly retreated.

  “Yes, well, I’m sorry I can’t tell you more,” the Vice President said pompously into her ear. “Look, I need to get back to the battle room. I’ll be sure to keep you updated.”

  “Of course you will.” She didn’t bother hiding the sarcasm.

  77

  Sawyer and Ethan had managed to navigate the tank through the streets of New York without running anyone over. That itself was a minor miracle (minor because most people were either inside, or chasing after the Men in Black, or trying to follow the dragon).

  Now, they had managed to get in front of the military and the Men in Black (they knew this because of the radio communication they were privy to, thanks to their commandeered vehicle), and were patiently waiting for them to come into sight, where they could put an end to this—or at least, this part of it. There was still the dragon to contend with.

  “I see them!” Sawyer shouted into his headset, looking out over the main gun.

  “Yeah,” Ethan replied.

  It was only somewhat surprising that no one had come after them. Sawyer wondered if there wasn’t some way to remotely shut down the tank. Maybe it hadn’t been reported, though that didn’t seem likely. Oh well, he had more important things to worry about, like this.

  Two men charged down the street they were waiting on, a little more than a city block away.

  This was Sawyer’s chance. He could hear news helicopters above him. No doubt thousands—millions—were watching them right now. And there were the two men, the men who minutes before had sent Ethan’s dad to the hospital. Last they’d heard he was alive, but that was beside the point.

  Sawyer took a steadying breath, picking one of the Men in Black and targeting him with the main gun. />
  Both leaped when they were around fifty feet away, like they had done several times before, choosing to jump over obstacles instead of going around.

  That would be their downfall.

  Sawyer released the breath and caused the gun to fire.

  He saw a flash, then the rocket hit, center mass. But instead of gutting the man, it continued on with him at its tip, but much slower than it had been going before it hit, as though the man were exerting his own force in the opposite direction.

  But it was still going forward.

  It exploded against a building, the man the cushion between the missile and brick, bits of depleted uranium breaking off and bursting into flames, catching the building on fire and Sawyer looked away and moved to follow the remaining target as he sailed overhead. Sawyer quickly switched to the front machine gun and moved it to track the target, but he wasn’t fast enough, and his shots hit air, then nearby buildings.

  “No way,” Ethan said over the radio.

  Sawyer glanced inside the tank, only the top of Ethan’s head visible in the driver’s compartment. “What?” he asked, ceasing fire.

  Ethan, unaware Sawyer was looking at him, said, “Look.”

  Sawyer looked outside. Noth— Then he saw it. The man, the man he’d just shot with a rocket, and that had exploded—he’d thought—against a wall, was walking toward them, swiping his hair back into place.

  “No way,” Sawyer echoed.

  The man’s walk turned into a run, then a charge, and he leapt into the air.

  “Uh oh,” Sawyer said, and scrambled from the tank.