Strange Aeons [Book 1]

14. The Fast and the F.U.R.R.I.E.S. [part III]

«Turn in Ruthven, then jump in the taxi parked along the road.» said Garaham.

«Wait, wha...» the call disconnected. Banshee cursed in a very loud voice, thrusted the phone in her pocket and tried to accelerate her pace to reach Ruthven.

She thought better to try and get there with some zigzag, so she took a sharp left, getting into an alley. After some seconds, she stopped hearing steps behind her. She turned. The werepeople were gone.

She looked forward. The street continued, she only had to turn right again, and she would be on a parallel track to Ruthven, and another alley opened on her left.

She braked abruptly and doubled back as fast as she could.

Just in time to see the tiger come out of the two lateral alleys, as the mountain lion jumped down from the building right where she was going to run by.

«Hah! Fuckers!» she allowed herself a scoffing smirk.

She kept going, losing terrain after gaining some for her trick, but she couldn't keep that pace on for long. She was scraping the bottom of the barrel of her last energies, and she still couldn't understand what Garaham's plan could be.

But she trusted him.

Finally, she turned in Ruthven, a long straight road leading right to a shiny police block. Behind her, the werepeople were closing in.

She spotted the yellow taxi just a few feet ahead.

Silently praying in her head all the saints she remembered from Summer School, she reached it, tugged at the door handle and launched herself inside.

And she found herself staring into a barrel for the second time in a matter of minutes.

«What the...!» she instinctively raised her hands towards the sky, bumping them badly, and hurtfully, against a car ceiling. The barrel she had been looking into was the double barrel of a large rifle. Behind the rifle, now looking at the road while driving, there was the last person she would have ever imagined. With brown bed-hair spread all around his head, crusty eyes from the sudden sleep interruption, a dull white wife-beater and grey old man's shorts, Garaham looked like Prince Charming's grandfather come to the rescue.

«Chief?» Banshee took some time before she could believe her eyes. He lowered the rifle and brought back both his hands on the wheel. «Huh... nice rifle...» she was desperately trying not to stare at Garaham's night attire. His boxers were grey and the most sex-repelling item of clothing after Crocs with socks, but they were kind of revealing.

«I had to have something to react with, hadn't it been you to enter the portal.» he explained. Banshee tried to look around. The car's interior was as well-kept as an art museum. The black leather seats looked new, the dashboard was so clean it shone, and there was a good smell of wood wax and loved car. Vintage loved car. «I set a long-distance portal inside the taxi. I would have opened it in front of you, but you were moving too fast.» Garaham explained, strangely calm. Maybe he was still half asleep. «Now please do explain to me how the bloody hell did you end up chased by werepeople!»

«It's a long story for later, we have to get Chico and Vopros!»

«Of course, you were all together. Ok, where are they?» growled Garaham.

Banshee looked around trying to find their bearings.

«I don't know where they are. I left them in Perch Street, but they could have escaped.»

«Werepeople coming up against you and you left those two behind? Think fast, where could they...»

An explosion tore the clear Boston's night air.

«There.»

Garaham muttered something terrible and started driving in that direction.

«Chief?»

«What.»

«You're going at 30 mph.»

«It's a 30 mph zone.»

«Yes, but we're kinda in a hurry here...»

«I won't risk the integrity of my Bentley in a rat race or a police chase, so deal with it and hope they could manage until we get to them.» he grumbled.

Truth was that his Bentley S1 was quite the work of art. Perfectly kept, black with silver details, well cleaned and waxed. Banshee noticed just that moment that smooth jazz was faintly coming from the speakers.

So, she sat tight, while Garaham moved through the traffic with the rushing passion of an old man with a hat.(*)

(*) Fun fact: it's a common way of thinking in Italy that old men in hats drive particularly badly, as in extremely slow, always on the most annoying side of the road and stopping too early on traffic lights.