it wasn’t pleasant. One fool standing further back in the room jumped in front of me waving his arms like some demented traffic cop, so I swerved the bike and raised a boot. Groin or hip, I’m not sure which I made contact with, but he doubled up and swung round like a top, his whooshy grunt affording me some pleasure. Short-lived though, because the angle of the bike caused it to slide along the room’s big rug, ruffling it up in thick waves. A few years’ dust powdered the air as I fought to control the skid.
I lost it, though. The machine slicked away from me and I let it go, afraid of catching a leg underneath if we both went down together. I rolled with the fall, tucking in a shoulder and staying loose the way I’d been trained. I was up, crouched and ready before the bike had slithered into a fancy chest of drawers halfway down the chamber, ruining painted panels and gold carvings.
One of the intruders, his face ugly with dirt and aggression, came lurching towards me while his two pals behind the crashed doors tended their hurts. Cagney trotted into view and stood in the doorway, interested in how things were working out.
The Blackshirt, almost on me now, clutched an M1 carbine across his chest. Now either he was too crocked to aim the rifle, or he was under orders not to shoot me. I figured the second was most likely, because I knew by this time that his chief, Hubble, would prefer me alive – my blood would be better warm and runny. You see, he had a crazy use for me. Real crazy. But then I guess only the crazies were left. The crazies and me. And who said I was sane?
Well fuck you, Hubble, you and your goons. Satan’s hell-house would be cooler’n a penguin’s ass before you took me alive.
Hubble’s stormtrooper caught the glint in my eyes and changed his mind about following orders. He began to swing the weapon towards me.
His action was sluggish though, as if he had to think about the move rather than just react, and it occurred to me he wasn’t only dazed by the slam he’d taken, but by the effects of the Slow Death itself: there was a darkness around his eyes and smudges beneath his skin, bruisings that were never going to fade; and the ends of his fingers were blackish, as if the blood had jellied at his body’s extremities. That didn’t make him any less dangerous though, just a little slower.
My own weapon, a Colt .45 automatic, standard US issue, was in the holster I’d stitched into the lining of my leather jacket. Buck Jones might’ve made the draw, but I was no gunslinger. So I made the only move open to me.
I took a dive, rolling forward under the rifle barrel, head tucked in, legs curled up. As soon as my back hit the deck I kicked out with both feet, catching the goon in the lower belly and doubling him up. He almost fell on top of me, but I used my legs again to push him to one side. He gave a kind of honk and collapsed. I was on him before he had the chance to get his breath back, pushing the rifle towards him instead of pulling it away as he’d expected. The breech cracked against his jaw and his grip relaxed. In one swift action I wrenched the carbine from him and smacked the stock against the side of his face. His head snapped to the right and his body went limp.
I tossed the weapon aside and sprinted towards the Matchless. Cagney decided things were going pretty well and scampered from the doorway to join me, yapping his approval as he skirted the injured Blackshirts. I ignored his licks as I hauled the motorbike away from the wrecked cabinet, angry that my cover was blown, my regal refuge now useless. There’d be more of them around, searching for me, combing every room, every corridor, every damn nook and cranny, no matter how long it took.
I pulled the bike upright and swung a leg over. Voices came through from the balcony room I’d been using as a bivouac and I guessed Hubble’s screwball army had been applying a pincer movement, working through the place from both sides. How the hell did they know I was here? I had the whole goddamn city – and there