Lurk

Chapter Eleven

“Easy now...”

A fragile and bruised Duster had a smile on his face as he was helped through the window, like an old age pensioner on a stair-lift. He’d been ready for death – no, he’d been resigned to the concept. That was going to be his fate, to end up in the same dark place as most of his old friends in the service, but he was alive.

Gathered in the control room was the whole group, relieved to be in the clear. Smith had pulled out collapsible metal chairs, which everyone fell into like tired sloths.

“God, my head’s fucked up...” Duster clenched his dripping forehead. “You never forget an explosion like that.”

Everything was a blur, but his eyes were drawn to one silhouette in the corner of the room. Broad shouldered, with a disfigured face... no, it was a mask. As his vision cleared, the vague silhouette solidified into a dark eccentric.

“Duster...” Lurk nodded his small greeting, but looked more threatening than welcoming, with the blunt piece of 4x4 implying the presence of violence.

Duster cracked a dry smile. “Wow, the sadistic traitor himself!”

Attempting to compress the escalation of rage within, Lurk turned away from the rocket victim, and headed back out into the blind darkness of the hangar. The door slammed shut in his wake.

“What was that for, Dust?” Chalky fumed, lightly kicking his chair away. “That traitor is the only reason I’m alive!” with exaggerated arm gestures he emphasized his point. “Now if you want to believe that I’d still be standing here if it weren’t for him, go ahead, but it won’t change the truth...”

What had become of him? Private White, the outsider, coward and mere convenience of DMB was standing his ground. A rippling feeling ignited in his chest, building up to a relentless flare.

Duster leapt to his feet in protest, but when he realized that it would not change the private’s mind, he shrank back down. A smile broke free on Chalky’s face. That’s right, bitch.

Snake and Spider unhooked the rifles from their shoulder straps, beginning to set up a post at the window. With a couple of expert marksmen on watch, Smith felt a lot more relaxed about being within the walls of H6.

As a matter of fact, everyone in that room felt a buzz of some sort. It was the sort of buzz that came with great victory, but was emulsified with uncertainty about the future.

After rooting through a broken filing cabinet, Smith’s eyes lit up. From the old compartment, he retrieved a small and spherical container. It reminded him of old science fiction comics, where the hero would discover a doomsday device in the most unlikely of places, which threw him onto a crash-course of destruction and peril. This technology was less doomsday device, however, and more Magic 8 Ball.

As he turned it over in his hands, there was a click, and the entire hangar became enveloped in scorching bright lights. Wherever he was, Lurk had found an alternative light switch.

“Try not to touch anything!”

Everyone but Duster rose to their feet, looking out of the control room window which overlooked the hangar. Standing beside the one remaining aircraft – a silver-black Viperhead IV – was Lurk, whom seemed pleased with his finding. He patted the aircraft like a pet dog, inspecting the wings for rust damage.

It was a one-of-a-kind model, previously scrapped due to expense and safety issues. But the designer - a Scot called Walter Bridge – was too proud of his work for it to be crushed and destroyed. Mechanics was the bane of his life, and some rumoured that his wife left him after he chose the profession over family. Lurk remembered the stories very well, even if he meant not to listen at the time. Walter Bridge’s love became an obsession, and as soon as the fourth Viperhead model took a pilot’s life, it wrecked his own.