Reality Page 5

  “You can fly that thing?” Scott asked excitedly.

  Maxine shrugged. “I’m a fast learner.”

  Yet, despite Maxine’s response, he was somehow filled with renewed vigor. A new lease of life washed over him, and his thoughts on survival increased dramatically. A couple of hundred meters is all it would take. Then they’d be away from that place and the people who had attacked it.

  “Just like everything else,” she said. “We’ll take this in stages. First, we’ll get to the door. Once I confirm it’s clear to do so, I’ll signal us towards the Valor.”

  “Is that what it’s called? Valor?”

  “It is today.”

  With the butt of the rifle once again against her shoulder, and with her sights trained, she moved towards their freedom, and out of the cover of the tunnel. Scott followed closely behind; pointing his handgun in every direction. They wedged themselves behind some barrels just short of the door, with Scott resting on his haunches beside Maxine.

  “So far, so good,” he said.

  “So far,” she repeated. “Once we get—.”

  She didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. The butt of a rifle flew from the shadows and struck Maxine in the side of the head. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she crumpled unconscious onto the polished concrete ground.

  Maxine’s words played in his head at triple speed. Keep going. Scott bolted from his position towards the aircraft. He clenched his eyes shut, waiting for the bullets to strike his back and cut him down. His mind was a jumble. He was alone. No app. No backup. No Xavier coming to rescue him as he did at the police station merely days before. All he had was covert operation training that refused to show itself, an aircraft he didn’t know how to operate, and a hundred meters of open ground to get to it.

  As he crossed the invisible barrier between shade and sunlight, something heavy hit him in the chest. The impact caused his legs to be taken out from under him and the time he spent floating in the air felt like an eternity. He speculated what had hit him and contemplated what it would feel like when he landed. Then he did. His body came to a skidding halt on the tarmac. Skin burned. Blood flowed. He just wanted to lay there in the sun for an hour. But they had other plans.

  Hands picked him up and thrust him against the shed wall.

  “Where is he?” they said. His voice was so familiar that Scott couldn’t place it.

  He looked at the eyes through the holes of the balaclava. They were superior, all-knowing. They pulled him away before thrusting him hard against the wall, resulting in Scott banging the back of his head.

  “Where?” they repeated.

  Scott tried to speak, but he didn’t know what to say, primarily because he didn’t know the answer.

  The attacker slowly pulled off his balaclava.

  Scott’s eyes went wide. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The voice. The tone. Every last detail he remembered was identical. But it was impossible. How could it be? He thought he had somehow ventured into his fantasy world for a split second. Yet it was there in front of him, as real as anything he had ever experienced.

  The man pulled out a handgun and pressed it to the side of his head.

  “Where is he?!” the man demanded. “Tell me where Xavier is.”

  “But... but...”

  His fingers were numb.

  The man’s eyes burned deep into his soul.

  He couldn’t breathe.

  The man’s head was shaved, but there was no mistake.

  He was looking directly at Xavier.

  And then the hands of unconsciousness dragged him under.

  TO BE CONTINUED

  Acknowledgements

  I was always going to write a sequel, a continuation of the story of Scott and Xavier. It was inevitable. But I put it to the side to concentrate on other projects. However, after I received feedback and reviews on both sides of the ‘star rating’, I dug in to create the story. To everyone who loved it, to everyone who thought it ended on too much of a cliffhanger, thank you. It really spurred me on. Now I can’t wait for the next installment. And if you’ve read this far, maybe you can’t either.

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  About the Author

  I started writing in 2008, and after years of professional rejection, I started my self-publishing journey in 2020. I enjoy any story that keeps me guessing, hate contradiction, and fear spiders and hypodermic needles. Writing is my meditation. I became an Amazon bestselling author through my first two publications IDENTITY and MACHINES. When I’m not writing in Brisbane, I’m facilitating workshops, MCing conferences, and keynote speaking all over Australia—both face to face and virtually.

  Find out more at my website https://kennethjamesallen.com/

  Don’t forget to check out my other books

  Special Extract

  ONE

  Murder.

  The word screamed at me from my hand machine. I read the accompanying communication many times on my journey from the capital, yet that word drew my eyes like a siren’s call. The electronic communication I had received from Professor Pyke the day before was so curious in nature it had regarded my attention immediately.

  Special Detective Finch,

  I am writing to you to ask for your personal assistance.

  Someone is trying to murder me and there is nowhere else to turn.

  I am holding a demonstration in but a week’s time to showcase an invention. Since the announcement, I have received many threats, including attempts on my life. The local constabulary seem incompetent or unwilling to assist me in this manner. There is no one else I can trust, nor has your mental fortitude to ascertain the identity of the culprit.

  I recall seeing you at your conference last year and know that someone like you will appreciate and respect my efforts. It is you, Special Detective Finch, that can help me, and no one else.

  I realise the inappropriateness of such a request and apologise most sincerely. I am aware this application for your services is outside the bounds of the Catcher’s Office. However still, I invite you to meet in person, at my address, so we may continue this conversation further.

  Please come post haste.

  I recalled the conference Pyke mentioned in his communication. I had delivered my revolutionary presentation in a lecture theatre full of those that were connected to, or interested in, understanding the idiosyncrasies of the criminal mind, titled ‘Criminal Profiling & The Future of Police Work’. In attendance included members of regional constabulary, the wardens who master the prison barges, right up to the militaristic powers that take ownership of the prisoners undertaking their prescribed conscription. And, of course, who could forget the standing ovation I received when I ended the presentation with my catch cry.

  I seemed to have gathered quite a following after publications reported my efforts in disabling a supply chain of root beer and dynamite to our foreign enemies by members of local parliament, no less. The culprits in question had done their mightiest to throw other Catchers off the scent, directing them towards a series of criminals who had been dismissed from their sentences. However, one piece of evidence led me to the masterminds–a single rose petal.

  Consequently, the Catcher’s Office has undertaken several propositions to move into administrative or training roles in an effort to better disperse my skills to others. The Chief Magistrate himself has sequestered my attention to his private office. However, I politely refused all invitations, informing that I shall desert my current standing when the last breath has departed my body.

  The carriage pulled up at the house, the squeaky brake sending screeching waves echoing into the still evening. The horses stamped their hooves impatiently on the wet cobblestone thoroughfare. Miniscule rai
ndrops dotted the windows. I clicked off my hand machine, transforming the interior into obscurity, my face once ablaze now confiscated by the shadows. The only luminance that infiltrated the carriage originated from the dull street lamps and the half-moon that slipped between heavy clouds.

  With a gloved hand, I pulled back my sleeve and positioned my watch in a slice of light. I had arrived only slightly ahead of schedule. The two-hour ride from Everington contained only a whisper of trouble: a slight drizzle as we left the capital that slowed initial progress, as well as the potholes that scattered the tracks in no-man's-land. They had been so numerous I had lost count.

  The carriage driver descended from his seat and opened my door while clipping down the folded step. I stuck my head out the portal and inhaled a lungful of the crisp night air. The soft scent of burning pine needles filled the air, mixed with the cold of the northerly that had blown for a week.

  I had missed places such as this, moments like this. The calm before the storm. When I ventured to the regions for business, I never appreciated my environment. My mind was always on achieving something, my thoughts elsewhere. This trip was an unexpected foray into my past.

  I stepped down, my boots landing soundly on the stone. Looked at my driver. He smiled in return. He had introduced himself as Jace.

  “Welcome to Grace, sir,” he said.

  I never forgot a name... or a face... or a place for that matter. Those things had a way of securing themselves in my mind and cataloguing themselves accordingly. Then, of their own volition, they would connect to form a whole picture, one where everything became clear and made sense. If I had had my way, I would have filed Jace and all he represents into a section called ‘Superfluous’ or ‘Unnecessary’. However, it was not up to me.

  Despite the shadow thrown across his face from his driver’s cap, he looked thirteen but might be as young as eleven. Soft blond hair fell from the front of the cap and covered his eyes. His clothes and shoes were dirty, not unforgivable considering his position as driver of the carriage, yet the backing of a bright silver pin was visible on his vest.

  I drank in the clues as I looked over him. He stared back and puffed out his chest.

  “Everything alright, sir?”

  “You were a Runner in his Royal’s Command and have recently been medically boarded. You’ve chosen the position of driver in order to reinstate yourself amongst the other officers and re-join the front. Also, you have an affliction for Sugar May’s Extra Coated Jellybeans.”

  He blinked, stepped back in disbelief.

  “How on earth did you know that, sir?”

  “Simple, really. The first giveaway was your stance; your back is straight and your shoulders are back. The pin you are wearing, which you are required to wear on your vest, has a particular pressed mounting only deriving from the Command. The fact it is silver denotes you as a junior rank. However, the pin is turned inwards, suggesting you aren’t proud of the fact you’ve been released. You were boarded because of a leg injury, hence your slight limp. Given your build, I would suggest a muscle strain, rather than shrapnel, was the cause of the issue, making you a Runner. The care you took in descending from the driver’s perch suggests you are looking after your injury, for any other driver would jump the final steps. You could have retired on the pension, however know that once you do, you could not re-join the line, hence your role of driver, where being able to navigate from one point to another on a map is critical, just like that of a Runner.”

  He blinked again in disbelief. “And the jellybeans, sir?”

  “From the colourful substance between your teeth when you smiled. Something to keep your mouth busy on the long rides. The grimy markings on your pants told me you had purchased Sugar May’s Extra Coated Jelly Beans for this journey. There are but two shops in the capital that stocks this variety, one of them being opposite the Magistrate’s court, where you picked me up.”

  Jace applauded. “Well played, sir. A true Catcher, you are.”

  I tipped my bowler hat and felt my long hair fall in front of my face in the process. I swept it aside and tucked it behind my ear. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a silver coin. Jace backed away as if the currency were diseased.

  “Oh, no, sir. I couldn’t possibly take the private earnings of a Catcher, sir.”

  “Nonsense,” I cried, flicking the coin into the air.

  He clapped at it energetically and caught the silver between his hands. He drove it into his pocket with a grin. “Thank you, sir.”

  He turned, retrieved my bag from the luggage compartment under his seat, and tipped his cap to bid farewell. And with that, Jace clip-clopped off into the evening towards his next engagement.

  Alone with the night, I took another breath as I viewed the house. A solid two-story concrete structure, modest by all accounts of who the owner was, or claimed to be. The wooden shutters on the upper story were closed to keep the cold air out and the hot air in. On the ground level, shadows of light danced on and decorated every transparent surface. I was excited to smell food on the cooker, for I had nothing beyond a beef sandwich during my trip.

  I stood at a small iron gate, affixed into a short stone wall that ran the length of the frontage. It was hardly the heights of security I was expecting, especially, very especially, because of the electronic communication he had sent me but a few days ago.

  I checked my watch. Precisely on time. I picked up my bag and placed a hand on the gate. It protested loudly as I pushed. Then a smell. Peculiar and harsh, encircled me, attacked me. I covered my nose.

  Then light. An incredible amount. A white ball grew from the centre of my vision as the sound was sucked from the air. A silent wave of hot air attacked me, picking me up and throwing me backwards. Flames emanating from where the house once stood licked the night like thirsty serpents. Bricks, bits of rubble, wood, everything, was sent in all directions at pace. The sound quickly caught up and blasted my eardrums.

  As I sailed back through the air, a single thought occurred to me.

  My landing would hurt.