by Ian Withrow
Clark and Kent began tearing down their cameras, microphones and other gear in preparation to leave when a loud rumbling interrupted them. It had been general practice since day one that vehicles were expected to avoid the area, and no one had tested the unwritten rule yet.
Nonetheless, Kent could hear what must be dozens of motorcycles approaching. People were shouting and scrambling out of the way as a roaring pack of cyclists worked their way through the camp.
Kent had enough journalistic chops left to smell the change in the air, the electric feel of potential energy building.
“Start rolling. Clark, start rolling right now.”
As soon as the lead motorcycle came into view Kent knew he had struck gold again. The man riding the chopper was decked toes to collar in black leather and shiny chrome studs. A large, winged tattoo adorned on his bare chest, visible through a part in his jacket. The man wore no helmet on his shaved head, which was similarly covered in tattoos.
By far the most striking feature of the imposing figure was a bright red armband with a stark white and black swastika on it. The man laughed as he rolled over a tent, a pair of children barely scrambling from within before he crushed it under his tires.
“Get out of the way!”
Motorcycle after motorcycle roared by, every rider with the same bright band of hate on their arm.
“Tell me you’re getting this…”
Clark kept his lens fixed on the leader, but gave Kent a solid thumbs-up as answer.
“Good. Call the studio and follow me in.”
The group of motorcyclists was forming a loose mob at the edge of the shrine, where the old police barricades halted their progress. The bright plastic wall sections had been colorfully decorated with messages of peace and faith, and in a show of solidarity the city had left them there when they pulled their people out.
Kent shoved through the gathering crowd, only slowing down when he got within a few feet of the riders.
Jesus, there must be fifty of them.
He steeled himself against the potential dangers, but his narcissism would not allow him to hold back.
“Excuse me! Kent Dailey, WNG-TV can I get a statement?”
Kent shoved his microphone out like a sword as he pushed closer and closer to the leather-clad brutes in front of him. The pack had assembled in a rough semicircle around their leader, the roar of their engines drowning out even Kent’s loud voice.
Kent was so fixated on the leader, now standing on the seat of his motorcycle and addressing his comrades, that the steel-toed boot of the rider next to him caught him totally unprepared. He felt the blow in his stomach like a baseball bat and doubled over in pain.
It had been many, many years since he’d received more than a papercut or a stubbed toe, and the unfamiliar feeling of pain kept him on his knees. The woman dismounted her bike and placed a spike covered boot on Kent’s hand, grinding it slowly into the sharp asphalt as she bent to retrieve the microphone he had dropped.
Her prize retrieved, she left Kent there whimpering. Clark followed her movement as she walked through the gathered bikers and handed the microphone to the ringleader.
“Alright! Cut ‘em!”
As one, the bikers cut their engines, leaving behind a silence that was nearly as deafening.
“Where’s the fuckin’- Ah there we are. Hey fatty, get the fuck over here!”
The man pointed at Clark, and a pair of goons stepped up and led the cameraman into the crowd. He did his best to keep the camera steady as he was shoved and jostled on the way to the stranger. He was stopped several feet away by the two bruisers flanking him, and he knew better than to move any further.
“We live?”
Clark nodded, the camera shaking as he did so.
“Good, cuz I got some things to say.”
The man straightened back up, his piercing blue eyes scanning the crowd around him.
“Good morning sheep!”
His clear, powerful voice perfectly matched his stage presence. His audience was utterly captured.
“We, are the wolves.”
A dark chuckle rolled through the bikers. The citizens who had not yet fled looked uneasily at each other.Kent was able to stumble to his feet in time to see a cruel smile on the speaker’s face.
“Consider yourselves evicted! If you remain in this area, I will-”
“You are unwelcome here.”
Eyes widened everywhere as a small voice rose to match the man. A woman had stepped forward from the shrine. The woman was known to the crowd, she spoke softly but with authority. Her hawkish features told of a strength beneath her frail form.
“Oh imagine that, one of your kind that doesn’t know how to listen.”
The man gestured rudely at Caroline, eliciting some cheers from his gang.
“Something about that dark skin make you deaf? That it?”
“As I said before, you are not welcome here. This is a place of peace.”
Tension clouded the air like poisoned gas and the whole crowd held its breath.
“Bring that mouthy ape up here,” he growled.
Eddies of discontent swirled through the onlookers, but no one made a move as a group of men grabbed Caroline and dragged her forward.
“You will call me Sigurd,” he was again addressing the crowd. “We are the Sons of the Valkyrie, chosen soldiers of the glorious Fourth Reich. If that don’t sit well with you, then you’re welcome to join this animal up here.”
As he spoke, Caroline was brought next to his motorcycle. He looked down at her, a sneer of pure hatred on his face.
“You wanna beg for your life?”
She opened her mouth to speak but he spit in her face, forcing her into shocked silence.
“Don’t bother. You’re nothing. Killing you is like breaking a lamp, in a civilized society I could just go buy another.”
As Caroline moved to wipe the spit from her face, Sigurd reached down and grabbed a handful of her hair, yanking up on it as he did so.
She cried out in pain as her tiny frame was hoisted up for the crowd to see. With his free hand, Sigurd ripped open his jacket. A massive tattoo dominated his powerful chest. It depicted an armored angel, clearly styled after Lauren, holding a burning sword in one hand and a flag bearing the Swastika in the other. At her feet was a world on fire.
“Your time is up! All of you! All the homos, the little rat-jews, these animals!”
He cast Caroline down to the pavement.
“When The Valkyrie rises again, it will be with the banner of the Iron Eagle! We, her soldiers, will execute her will, and clear the filth as we were meant to do!”
The assembled bikers dismounted and pulled bats, brass knuckles, and chains from their saddlebags.
“Clear it out!”
At Sigurd’s command, the marauders began tearing apart the camp. Any tent that had survived the motorcycles was torn to shreds, campfires were kicked into sleeping bags, and anyone who didn’t immediately run was shoved to the ground and beaten.
Kent made to run, his eyes wild with fear.
“Kent! Kent, don’t leave me!”
It wasn’t that he didn’t hear Clark, but Kent was far more concerned with his own safety at the moment. Unfortunately he was surrounded. He curled into a ball and sobbed, hoping that they wouldn’t notice him.
“Hey, get me that little news guy, bring him over here!”
Sigurd’s command was answered instantly, and Kent was roughly dragged across the pavement until he was laying beside Caroline.
“Stand up.”
Sigurd’s voice was low, deadly, and Kent dare not disobey.
“Good boy, you a jew? I know all them jews own hollywood.”
Kent shook his head.
“Even better. We’re gonna do an interview, got it?”
He didn’t wait for an answer, instead he slipped down to sit on the seat of his bike and motioned for Clark to get closer to them. He was relaxed, immune to the violence around t
hem.
Sigurd pulled a small tube from his pocket, unscrewed the cap and poured a pinch of white powder onto his hand where his thumb met his forefinger.
He sharply inhaled the powder, holding his breath and then shaking his head to clear it.
“Nothing like it, want a hit?”
He offered the tube to Kent, but he carefully shook his head no.
He settled more comfortably into his seat with a shrug. As he sat, he placed his right boot upon Caroline’s head, keeping it pressed to the ground. Kent tried not to look at her, his stomach churning.
“So, ask me some questions! You’re supposed to be a hotshot right, if I gotta do this my damn self what am I keeping you here for?”
Kent jumped, barely holding back a scream.
“Right, um, yes. S-Sigurd, is it?”
A nod.
“Sigurd could you, ah, tell us more about your organization?”
A loud crackling explosion interrupted them. This time Kent couldn't help himself, he let out a terrified squeal like a teapot boiling over. He could feel warm liquid running down his pant leg but was too scared to be ashamed.
A smoking crater had appeared a short distance away. A motorcycle that had been occupying the space had been reduced to slag, only the front wheel remained untouched at the edge of the circle.
A giant of a man was standing in the crater, he was wearing nothing but a kilt and a pair of gold bracelets. His skin was deep black, and his eyes glowed a dull orange for a moment before cooling to a dark brown.
The commotion in the street came to a screeching halt in light of the strange man’s appearance. People stood still and more than a little afraid, unsure what was happening.
“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch…”
Sigurd stared a moment before he could compose himself.
“You’re a big one ain’t ya, boy.”
Weyland ignored him, taking stock of his surroundings instead. He could sense his prize was nearby. As he laid eyes on the shrine, he knew he would find her there.
“Hey, I’m talking to you!”
Weyland took a long stride toward the building when a loud bang and a tiny projectile interrupted him. It flattened against his chest and fell to the ground, already half melted when it landed.
His gaze turned to Sigurd, who was standing slack-jawed pointing a tiny metal device at him.
Several motorcycles filled the ten feet between Sigurd and Weyland, but to Sigurd’s eye the distance was far to small.
He fired off another round, and then a few more, watching in awe as they crushed themselves uselessly against the bare skin of Weyland’s chest. Sigurd’s eyes widened with horror as Weyland continued calmly walking towards him. The motorcycles between them caught fire, and then melted as Weyland approached. As he stepped across the puddles of smoldering plastic and molten steel, his skin darkened and cracked. It looked like fresh lava, deep jagged breaks in his flesh revealing a red-hot glow beneath.
It was the eyes though, that captured Sigurd. The deep, white-hot coals stared into his soul and held him motionless in fear. As Weyland approached the mortal he could see the stark, senseless terror in his eyes. He lowered the intensity of the heat surrounding him as he drew near.
Good.
Sigurd felt the waves of heat washing over him as Weyland came within arm’s reach. Even dialed down, the heat was like a blast furnace against his exposed skin.
Weyland’s skin cooled and sealed itself back together, until he resembled a mortal man once again. The only telling sign of his power a dull and fading glow in his arms and chest.
Sigurd tried to speak, but found he had no words.
“Sie wagen mich zu schießen?”
The accusation was barely more than a whisper.
Weyland’s hand shot out with lightning quickness, his fingers wrapped firmly around Sigurd’s throat. He plucked him from the ground with the effort a man might need to lift a small child. Again the dull red spread through Weylands powerful arm, creeping slowly towards his tightened grasp.
Sigurd tried to scream, but the air in his lungs was too hot. Instead, his mouth worked silently as steam and then smoke poured from between his lips.
To the onlooking crowd, it was the stuff of nightmares. Sigurd’s body flopped like a hanging man as his throat and chest slowly darkened and the foul smell of burning flesh filled the air. Eventually, the body stopped moving, leaving only the grisly sizzle of cooking flesh to fill the air.
Weyland dropped the upstart and peered around, testing the waters to see if anyone else would be so foolish as to challenge his rule.
No such challenger presented himself.
The silence in the street was absolute. Even the wind seemed to freeze in deference to his power.
“Natalie!”
Weyland’s voice dripped with irritation.
Natalie, until now unnoticed, lay huddled on the ground in the crater that Weyland had created upon his arrival. She struggled to her feet and rushed to Weyland’s side, keeping her eyes dutifully downward.
Natalie’s movement spurred action within the crowd. Stunned silence gave way to screams of terrified disbelief. More than a few onlookers vomited as the smell of burnt meat reached them and lent credence to the grisly sight. Only those bystanders too terrified to move were left behind as the people dispersed.
Weyland didn’t care.
His chosen aide at his side, he resumed his interrupted walk. Inside the shrine he found her at last. The pins and wires that had held together her splintered bones had been removed before the physicians left her to her followers. In the time since they had left she had very nearly finished healing her body, the deep purple bruising remained only in her hands and feet now. Everywhere else it had given way to the palest porcelain skin.
To his keen eyes, Lauren was a vision of beauty. Raven hair cascaded down around her youthful face and slender neck. Her ebony wings were tucked gently in at her sides. The hospital gown she wore couldn’t hide the sleek, trim figure beneath it. Weyland drank in the sight of her. His heartbeat quickened at her presence.
He was careful to keep his face expressionless as he approached her. By the time he was standing beside her he could barely keep his hands from trembling. How long had he waited for this moment? What countless lonesome centuries has passed?
He reached out, gently sliding an arm behind her knees and across the back of her shoulders. Her skin was cool to the touch, and she didn’t react at all to his attentions.
He lifted her slowly. She was as light as a feather in his powerful arms. With a careful step he strode back out into the sunlight of the street. The scene was mostly as he had left it; people stood around in a daze, minds reeling at what they had seen.
Weyland gestured with his head, indicating to Natalie that she should stand closer while he prepared to transport them. She set a non-confrontational look upon her face and braced for the horrid, twisting feeling of his abnormal method of transit.
Chapter Three
Lauren curled her exposed toes at the unexpected caress of a cool draft. She snuggled deeper into the silky blankets surrounding her, struggling to slip back into slumber. The cold had kick-started her mind, however, and her efforts were in vain. She remained willfully in denial, trying to convince herself if she just lay still enough she could be dreaming in no time.
She had almost drifted off when a irksome noise interrupted her. The light scuff of a servant's feet against the stone floor of her room.
Sitting up, she let out an exaggerated sigh.
“Your Majesty, I am sorry to disturb your slumber.”
The servant before her was little more than a girl, she was holding shiny silver tray and a decanter, her eyes dutifully downward.
An oddly familiar smell reached her nose, causing Lauren to narrow her eyes. She sat up straighter, tucking her wild blonde hair behind her ears.
Pancakes?
Something stirred in her mind. A nagging sensation she couldn’t expla
in.
“Girl, what did you bring me to eat?”
“I-it’s a tray of fruits and cheeses your Majesty, a-as you always have?”
Lauren shook her head, already wondering what she had been thinking. She didn’t like pancakes. Why would she like pancakes? These summer mornings were much too warm for food that heavy.
She must have had very strange dreams.
Lauren waved a hand at the young girl, who set about preparing her breakfast. When she was finished she bowed low and left the room. Lauren looked at the silver tray. With it’s cover now off, she could see it was laden with succulent fruits and berries, artisan cheeses, and fresh bread.
Despite the bounty offered, she couldn’t help but feel an unusual disappointment at the meal.
Still, she was famished. Her stomach growled as though she hadn’t eaten in a week. Lauren rose, keeping one sheet wrapped around herself to cover her unclothed form. Walking to the edge of her bed, she stepped down onto the marble floor and walked to the table. Her hair fell in waves down to her shoulders and her feathers rustled softly as she stretched out the kinks of the night before. She felt cramped and sore, like she’d been still for too long.
That’s new.
Lauren cast a suspicious look at her bed, it was nearly a dozen feet square, a massive pile of silk, down, and satin. It dominated her large circular bedroom, and would have been the envy of any queen.
“Ellian!”
“Yes, your Majesty”
The response was instantaneous. A young woman appeared through the curtain-covered archway that led to the rest of the palace. As soon as the handmaiden entered, she knelt and waited for instructions.
“Have my bedding replaced, today.”
“Your will be done, your Majesty.”
Lauren was inexplicably annoyed with Ellian’s total subservience.
“Get up, Ellian.”
Her frustration must have crept into her voice, because Ellian seemed nervous when she answered.
“Y-your Majesty?”
If anything, her servant’s fear made her even more frustrated.
“Just... have my bath drawn, prepare my clothes, and clear this food away.”
“Your Majesty, you haven’t eaten anything. Is everything ok?”