X-Calibre Trilogy: Dead Run

“God is dead.”

The wind was coming in something awful off the coast,
bringing with it the noise and the stench of the dropping bombs. Ricky and I
were looking up at our Dad for whatever guidance he could give us before the
Nazis made landfall.

“God is dead,” he repeated, “so don’t rely on him for
anything.”

I remember thinking it was an odd thing for him to say – my
Dad, who had been praying for a miracle hours before, who used to sneak us to
Anglican services . . .

The echoing blast of the guns off the coast made me jump.
Things were different now. Things were worse, much worse. The Churchill
Bulldogs had been discovered, and all of Britain
was going to pay for the treachery. We were there when they shot down the
doors; Ricky and I ran with the others while Dad struggled with Mum’s bloody
corpse.

“Please God, no, don’t take my Maggie away . . .”

He wouldn’t talk about Mum after that. I always reckoned
they dragged him along without her. He was alive, she wasn’t. Simple, and when
you’ve got to run you don’t get choices.

There weren’t any choices then, either. The Bulldogs were
scattered, the pack being hunted by the dogs of war. And me
and Dad and Ricky were waiting for the evacuation vessel, a gift of solidarity
from some Yank in New York.

The ship was huge. I thought so. Everything looks big when
you’re eight. It didn’t make me feel safe to go up the gangplank behind my
brother; I knew what it meant for us. Children and women first . . . I was
gently shuffled along, hurry up now dears . . .

They missed. I’m almost sure of that. The ship pitched
violently and those closest to the doors were hit by shrapnel from exploding
rounds and shattered dock. The crew shouted orders and we were gone, heading
out to sea. Ricky and I weren’t the only ones crying. We weren’t the only ones
who had to leave someone behind.

God was dead, and now so was our Dad.

They left us alone almost the whole way. We dropped anchor
near what someone called “Cajun Country” and that was when the Irishmen running
the ship came to talk to us.

<&nbs 

“Here’s the deal, boys,” the older one, the captain, spread
his hands. “You can get off here and make your way in the States. Or you can
come on with me an’ Mike for a while.”

“Why should we?” Ricky eyed him suspiciously.

“We’re a family on-ship,” Mike hinted at a smile. “We take
care of each other. We’ll show you the ropes and show you how to defend
yourselves.”

“How long?” I’d asked, equally
skeptical.

“Tours are for two years at a time. After ship’s expenses
are met, all profit is shared equally.”

The men were pirates. We had nothing left and no desire to
wander with a bunch of refugees through America
just to hide in a frozen wasteland in what used to be Canada.
So we stayed on. I figured it was fair to steal from the Nazis after all they’d
taken from me, so I gladly pilfered everything I could get my hands on.

We were pirates for six years, give or take a few months.
Things fell apart when John lost his head over the skirt and got himself
killed. Mike was a mess and got us fired on bad enough to have to jump ship. We
were on Europe side then and those who survived divvied
up what was left. Our contracts were over by default – it was what saved
McMurray from full-blown mutiny.

We took our share and ran. We learned Spanish real quick. We
joined the Sicarii because it was still pirating in its own way. I laughed when
they told me what the tattoo was for. Magic is bullshit, and God is dead; but I
took the mark anyway. We both did.

The door is opening now, the presence of my captors driving
away my memories. They will not sustain me now that they are back to ask their
questions again. I shift my attention to them, whether they see it or not. I
have to keep my wits and a stiff upper lip, or others will die. In situations
like these, we don’t get choices.

The telly confuses me. The confusion tempts me to be scared.
So I react the way I always do. Right sporting of you chaps to let me see the
rugby matches. Or is it cricket? I’ve sort of lost the time you see, but it’s
still dashing of you gents to be so civilized . . .

Bravado is next to worthless, but I find it comforting
somehow. It’s familiar to me, this acerbic barbed tongue in my mouth, and it’s
all I have left. Nightcrawler’s dead. They just showed me, on the telly. At
least he died peaceful and oblivious; that’s something not many of us can hope
for. Normally I’d envy that, even be angry that someone got another break that
I’m somehow not cut out for.

But he’s different. As much as we bickered, I’d actually
come to respect the bloke. Sure he’s ugly as hell – and downright terrifying if
you’re on the business end of his swords – but he had a good heart. Oh, he
tried to hide it. Emotion is a weakness when you’re in this business. But it
slipped out every now and again. Like holding onto that Spanish kid on the run
over here. He could have pawned her off on his priestess or anyone else, but he
took care of her personally; for just a second or two – if you looked close –
those yellow eyes would soften in sympathy, his tail would “accidentally” sweep
a curl off her sleeping face as he passed by, or something else subtle would go
on that betrayed an instinctive need to protect that lamb from the wolves
around us. He bitched about her to save face.

It’s a bleedin’ shame he’s dead. I was really starting to
like him. When things got rough for me and Ricky I’d sometimes fancy what it
would have been like to have an older brother. What I pictured was a lot like
him, although I can’t quite pin down why right now. If I live through this I’ll
be sure to explore it so I can tell him what it was. Not that he’ll be able to
hear me, but it’ll make me feel a little better.

My death ain’t gonna be pretty and quick like Nightcrawler’s
was. The bitch in silk just told me so, gloated about how she had cameras set
up to watch me die and decompose so she could speed it up and watch it later
when life got too depressing for her. She showed me the feed from Miriam’s cell
to give me another situation to envy. Unlike her, I’d be sane when I died. I’d
get to feel it and I’d get to realize what my body went through as it expired.

She lights a fag and blows the smoke in my direction. Bloody
hell, what I wouldn’t give for one right now. Instead of easing my cravings it
makes me painfully aware of the withdrawal I’m going through. It was a subtle,
insulting kind of torture. If I hadn’t known better I’d have wondered if she
knew what she was doing to me. She loves to mindfuck, that one.

If I manage to live through this, it’ll be my life’s goal to
kill that bitch, whoever she is.

If I live through this . . . it used to be a definite When I
Get Out Of Here. Shit. I’m finally acknowledging that
for once, I may not live to plunder again. The depths of the ocean aren’t waiting
for me anymore; neither are the oppressive confines of the Sicarii underground.
I’m going to die here, alone and forgotten by everyone else.

Great. Now I’m mindfucking myself.
I’m letting that bitch win! Bullocks to that. Not that
it’ll help anything, but I start humming to the song in my head.

She came to me one morning, one lonely Sunday morning –

“My, you’re chipper.” Puff, drag, exhale.

--her long hair flowing in the mid-Winter wind—

“You’re more resilient than Shaham was. I’m impressed.”

--I know not how she found me, for in darkness I was
walking—

Puff, drag, exhale, narrowed eyes.

--and destruction lay around me from a fight I could not
win—

Oh, this is rich! It’s annoying her! I crack my bloody lips
into the smirk that annoys everyone and stare into her eyes before opening my
mouth for the chorus. The death glare makes me wonder if she knows the song. I
taunt her with it.

“C’mon luv! Ye know it’s too catchy
t’not give in!”

Her eyes narrow further as she crushes out the fag.

“She asked me name my foe, then I
said the need within some men to fight and kill their brothers without thought
of love or God!”

Oh, she knows it alright. The flare of her nostrils gives
that away. I belt out the chorus again and watch her face turn interesting
shades. I repeat the chorus over and over until she stalks away, fuming, and
gives orders to the guards on her way out. They nod and follow her, the heavy class=GramE>door’s slam echoing around me in the darkness.

I laughed for the benefit of any microphones in the room
before singing the song again. I’ve been singing it a lot lately, mainly to
keep my mind off the pain. I have to – if I think about it they’ll break me. So
I don’t think, not really, not too much.

It’s getting cold in here now and I can smell the faintest
scent of dirt and grass. They’ve opened a passage to the outdoors from
somewhere and I start to wonder why. It’s not going to be the courtesy of
airing out this cave I’m stuck in. Bugger, but it’s
cold! Now I smell snow too . . . ice. Guess we’re in the mountains somewhere.
Oh, I get it now. It’s the exposure – they’re going to let me die from the
cold. I try to shut off my mind but it’s too late, the gears are turning again.
When the chill starts to bite and I shiver madly from it, I sing the song as
loud as I can to keep from screaming.

Goddammit, I’m too young to die. I didn’t even get to see my
twenties dawn; I’ve never swept a girl off her feet; I got to pillage and
plunder but was always too young for the wenching. Now I won’t get to. I won’t
get to carve that cold smile off the Nazi bitch’s face. I won’t get to tell my
dead friend that I’m sorry he bought the farm. I don’t have time for fuck all
anymore . . .

Oh lady lend your hand, I cried, oh
let me rest here at your side . . .

It’d be nice if there were a lady waiting. Luck is a lady,
maybe Death is too. Too bad I’m about to find out.

My throat was parched, most of my body
numb, and my cave engulfed in frigid darkness. It was later, but how
much later I did not know. I was still singing. Sow itw it came as an automatic
reflex, like the beating of my heart or the drawing of breath. If the song
remained, so did I. Somehow there was still that hope – no, just the simple
fact really. I’m not dead. Now is all that matters. In this moment I am alive.

I was too spent to feel the pinprick tingling along the lines
of my tattoo; I only barely acknowledged it when the room suddenly exploded
into flames. Is this what I get for apprenticing under the Devil? I vaguely
remembered someone telling me once about some book from a long time ago, and
how Hell is in different layers. Some are with fire, and some are ice. I can’t
remember now if it’s a good thing to be in one of the firey
rings of Hell; but at least I’ll be warm for the rest of my afterlife.