THE BEGINNING OF THE GREAT LOSS
Arthur Aldridge, a thin, athletic young lad of thirteen, helped his father move the Christmas tree into position in their cozy living room. Comforting crackles emanated from the fire place and the scent of gingerbread wafted on the air from the nearby kitchen, where his mother and sister were hard at work on all sorts of goodies and treats. He could almost taste them now! He was so glad that, unlike his American cousins overseas, he lived in a country where such a wonderful holiday was still celebrated. Although he was much too old to believe in Santa Claus, he never let on to his little sister, wanting her to experience what little magic could be had in such an often cruel and chaotic world. Last Christmas, his father had been deployed to Darlington, some fifty miles away, to combat Illuminist protestors and strikers. This time, everything was as it should be in, like in a picture book.
"Bob's your uncle, lad, there we go! Do go fetch the string lights for your old man, won't you? My back is positively in a state!" Arthur's father Alexander said, winking, and feigning an exaggerated back injury. Alexander was 50 and in not the greatest shape of his life, but as those protestors could tell anyone, he was still in decent shape.
"Nice try, Papa!" Arthur laughed. "I know you just want to eat all the biscuits Mum and Bethie are making, while I go traipsing around in the cellar for God knows how long!"
Alexander punched him playfully in the shoulder and said, "Read me like a book! You'll make a detective one day, lad. Smarter than I! Maybe in the future you can boss old Constable Aldridge around!"
"Honey!" came a holler from the kitchen, followed by footsteps coming their way from the same direction. Arthur's mom Martha poked her head into the living room, her bright red hair standing out against the white walls of their farmhouse. "Do be a dear and hang up that new portrait of the General Director while you boys are working on the decorations! It's been sitting in the den on the window seat for weeks now. We'll look positively unpatriotic!"
"Yes, my little lovebird," Alexander said with a small sigh. "Have you seen where I put my hammer? I believe we have a box of nails in the shed outside."
"The hammer is in the cellar! I saw it when I went down to do the washing yesterday morn," Martha said, wiping flour from her hands with a dry cloth and then stowing the dusty rag in her plaid Scottish apron. Arthur's dad was an Englishman, tried and true, with a shock of brown hair, slightly receding, and a long, weary-looking face. Martha, however, was Scottish. She was almost 45, looked 30, and her general youthful demeanor contrasted with her husband's world-weariness. But Arthur supposed anyone serving as a Constabulary Sergeant in the Britannic Union would age a bit faster than others not exposed to constant civil unrest, violent protests, and widespread crime. Although, ever since the Populist Party rose to power, crime had drastically plummeted, partly thanks to increased punishments.
Alexander swiveled on the heels of his tasseled brogues and put a hand on his son's head, tussling the heavily-slicked brown hair. "Looks like you are going to the cellar anyway! Get the hammer and the lights, please. I'll go outside to that bloody shed and get the nails. Damned door is probably frozen shut right now, so I guess your old man is getting his calisthenics in tonight, after all. Be quick about it, kid. I'll be right back."
"Yes, Papa. I'll hurry. You don't have to tell me to do anything quick in that cellar. Places gives me the jeepers."
"Hah!" came the mocking laugh of his little sister, Bethie, from behind mother's apron. "Such a big boy is afraid of the dark! Chicken! Chicken!" Bethie let loose an imitation of a chicken sound and flapped her small arms about.
"Am not! But there's rats down there, big as your head!" Arthur replied in the voice of a radio horror-show narrator. "They'll eat you where you stand!"
"Stop scaring your sister, Arthur," said his mother. "Dessert is almost ready, so I hope I didn't stuff you too much at supper."
"Like a couple of geese!" Alexander laughed. "But we're Aldridge men! We also have a spare stomach at hand. I'll go check the shed for the nails. Behave yourselves! That means you, too, muffin," he said with a wink at his wife. Bethie gave Arthur an exaggeratedly grossed-out face and everyone went back to their chores.
Alexander shuffled to the front door and retrieved his thick wool overcoat from the nearby rack and threw on a red scarf and a pair of warm gloves. Whistling the Grenadiers march, he hustled out into about four inches of stow and made his way to the shed. He retrieved a loop of keys from his pocket and fit the correct one into the door. It turned halfway, but trying to go all the way made it feel like the key would snap. Alexander sighed, watching his breath move through the frigid air, before he turned the key back to the starting point and withdrew it to further examine the problem. The last little bit of sunlight was hitting the door, and it revealed a lot of ice buildup inside the keyhole. "Bloody stupid thing. I should have replaced this door two years ago when we moved in," he muttered. He drew a small penknife out of his pants pocket, flicked it open, and began trying to poke the ice crystals out of the way. The shed and the door were about 70 years old--about the same age as the two-story home. It wasn't old enough to be historically interesting, but it was just old enough to be a pain in the hind quarters on a daily basis. But it was what they could afford on his Constabulary pay, and he was thankful, although he definitely didn't feel very thankful at the moment thanks to this stupid lock.
As he labored on the frozen lock, he noticed the dimming sun joined by further lighting from about a quarter of a mile up the road: headlights, and lots of them, by the looks of it. He tried the lock again, the skeleton key turning with a click. The door opened with a stiff creak and Alexander stepped inside, retrieving a small box of nails from the duty workbench. He had done a lot of work over the summer and early fall on the house, but the early onset of the cold weather over the past few months and his own personal exhaustion had relegated home improvement to the back burner. He sighed, stepped back outside, and shut and locked door once more. Looking out at the road again, the headlights were much closer now. He stood by the shed, which was about fifteen feet from the little country lane, and he watched with confusion as the vehicles sped by. They were civilian autos, many with luggage tossed on top and strapped down. They were all going at about the same speed, which was far too fast for his road. What if his kids had been playing outside and were hit by these busybodies? He scowled. But then, a growing sense of dread filled his stomach when he saw even more headlights in the distance, up into the foothills. There seemed to be no end.
Sirens from constabulary vehicles flickered here and there, and some of them raced along the edge of the roads, cutting around the congestion at lightning speeds. One of the law enforcement vehicles pulled up into his driveway, and two unknown men stepped out. They weren't from his local department, that much was sure, and as he approached he could read "Darlington Constabulary" written on the doors of the sedan. "Can I help you, gents? What is the meaning of all this?" Alexander asked the burly coppers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his family standing at the doorstep, watching the strange traffic and visitors.
"You Alexander Aldridge?" the taller constable asked, his face pale and gaunt.
"Yes, Sergeant Aldridge, Willowbrook Constabulary. What is going on?" Alexander asked, putting his hands in coat pockets and closing the gap to the officers.
"There's a state of emergency. We have been trying to call officers and put out a bulletin for all members of your precinct to report for active duty, but the phone lines are swamped and the calls won't go through," the shorter, stouter constable said. "I'm Constable Hoddle, and this is my squadmate, Constable Barbary. We need you to get your duty gear and join up. Tell your family to pack their things. Only the bloody essentials, you see. They have about ten minutes."
"What is this? What is going on?" Alexander asked again, but this time fearing he already knew exactly what had happened.
"It's Maddie," Hoddle said bluntly and grimly. "Maddie kicked it about an hour ago. Went up like a bloody nuke, dammit."
"Oh my God," Martha said in a quiet, horrified tone from the porch, her hand moving over her red lips.
"M-Muffin!" Alexander yelled his petname for his wife, his voice shaking. "Get the kids packed! We're getting out of here! We knew this could happen!"
Constable Barbary shook his head and told Alexander, "They need to take care of themselves, mate. Everyone is right now. We need you to get your kit and come with us. It's our duty. It's your duty."
"Duty?" Alexander asked with a scoff. "Duty to abandon my family when a fucking doomsday machine has exploded fifty miles away, mate? Are you putting me on?"
Hoddle stepped between the two men and said, "That's enough! Aldridge, this country is on its last legs right now, man. We need you. Britannia needs you."
"Britannia has needed me for fifteen, sometimes twenty hour shifts at a time, Hoddle! I have slaved away for thirty years. This government built this machine, tied its own noose, and now it wants me to, what? Direct the traffic of the dead and soon-to-die? It's over, gents. I'm going to get my family, and we are going to drive as far south as possible and try to catch a fishing boat or dinghy off this island before we become corpses. I quit! Take my fucking badge."
"You sound like a fuckin' Wormist! Same kinda people are the ones who blew up Maddie tonight!" barked Barbary, scorn filling his voice. "You think me and Hoddle don't have families? We're doin' our fuckin' duty! We made a vow to this country, now hurry up, get suited and booted, or I'll dispense legal formalities and show you what happens to those who spout treasonous bullshit!"
"You're going to beat or kill me? Really? In the middle of all this? While my family is right there? At the end of the world?" Alexander asked, throwing his right hand in a gesture to the porch, where his people were filing out with emergency travel bags under hand, saved in the hall closet for just this unfortunate situation. They hurried over to their old red '41 Teague Motors Transportia sedan and climbed in, desperately wanting the leader of their family to hurry up. "I'm leaving with my family, and you gents can do whatever you like. Burn my damn house. Piss on my porch. I don't care. Sod. Off."
Arthur watched his dad step away from the two constables and begin walking toward their vehicle, a look of fury and sadness he hated to see his old man have, and that he had seldom glimpsed. Alexander always put on a brave face, even when the world or his job troubled him most, all to give his kids a decent life. Arthur was at the age where he understood this. No matter what happened, his father was always there to hold them together.
The sound of a .38 caliber revolver echoed over the din of passing vehicles. Arthur watched as his old man, sporting a face of shock, pain, and confusion, hit the snow, a dark spot growing on the back of his light gray overcoat. In a flash, the three family members, sobbing and screaming, were scrambling out of the car and over to Alexander. The two constables piled back into their car and sped off into the night, their back tires splattering the horrified family with mud and dirty snow. Martha held her dead husband in her arms and wept hysterically. Bethie was inconsolable. Arthur wanted to cry, but he knew what was happening and he knew what Maddie was and what it could do. He would cry later. His old man would want him to remind them to survive.
"Mum, we need to leave before the anthrax gets here," the lad said, gripping his mother's shoulder tightly. "Papa would want us to get out of here before we're exposed. I can drive. He's been teaching me. We'll be alright. We just need to get out of here. Come on, Mum, please. We need to protect Bethie, now."
His grieving mother now looked twice her age, tears and snot clung to her face. "Y-you're right, son. You're right. We need to leave." She gently laid her husband back on the ground and pulled the red scarf around his neck off to place over his face. She grabbed the set of keys from his gloved hand and gave them to Arthur. "Are... are you sure you can drive it?"
"I don't have a choice, Mum. We need to get out of here."
***
All over Britannia, this scene was repeating itself. It was the climax of a weeks-long operation by Oswald underling and public face of the Worm Cult, Big Bill Jennings. Jennings had been dispatched with a team of crack Wormist fighters and agents to make contact with the outcast group of acolytes who had burrowed their way into ChemCom and had access to Maddie. Foremost among these infiltrators was none other than Dr. Nolan Clubb, the hookhanded Facility Commander of Darlington ChemCom. Jennings had sat down with Clubb's henchmen at a secret meeting in late October and was told that a high-ranking ChemCom staff member was going to activate Maddie as a sacrifice to The Worm, to "finish what the Congo Sea should have been." Jennings told the men that he was the Grandmaster and that he was ordering them to stand down and put their plans on ice, for now.
One of the negotiators for the outcasts remarked, "You really have gone soft, haven't you, Jennings? Soft or afraid. Afraid that our real leader will awaken The Crowned and Conquering King, and you'll be some failed has-been who will be annihilated. Those are the only reasons you would want us to not blow Maddie sky high. The results are going to be delicious. Just wait and see."
Jennings slammed his fist on the table and said, "I am not afraid, dammit. I am, I say, I am the rightful heir of Armitage and the Grandmaster of the Order! My word is gospel here, not whatever self-aggrandizing punk you boys have built up into a sect leader. I demand to meet with this bastard and we'll sort this out real quick."
"Are you challenging him for authority as the Grandmaster of the Order?" one of the masked thugs asked Jennings.
"I
am the Grandmaster! He has no authority!" Jennings howled in rage.
"If you want to meet him, and you want to tell him to stand down, then you may have a trial by combat against him. No offense, mate, but you'd get your arse kicked. So unless you wanna fight a bloke half your age, keep your fuckin' mouth shut, mate."
The meeting ended abruptly and Jennings and his own squad left furious. Making contact with Oswald, the true Grandmaster, Jennings told him about the secret Wormist lord refusing to meet him and refusing to listen to anything he had to say. And then he mentioned the trial by combat.
"Do it," Oswald said, in his decoded reply.
"Do not fail me. Confront him. Have the boys whack him from a distance when the trial by combat begins. I repeat, accept their offer."
Reluctantly, Jennings, an older man with a tortured physique, agreed to a trial by combat. He was transported to a ruined Norman castle, in the hills far outside Darlington. The medieval fortress had become a home for the offshoot sect, with a series of catacombs and dungeons being converted into a base of operations far outside the watchful eye of the police. There were ancient chandeliers of iron and wood hanging from the ceilings, candles lighting the way, aside from a few lightbulbs here and there, provided by a petrol generator. Under the main tower, there was even a secret garage, so visitors and acolytes could remain completely unseen. Jennings was allowed to bring two of his own men with him, but he didn't like those odds at all, considering there were probably fifty outcasts running about the place. In the main hall, the former feasting chamber, stood Dr. Clubb, in a suit of black robes with cursed, eldritch symbols stitched about it. A red sash and black leather belt was about his waist, and a Scottish basket-hilt saber hung in a scabbard. His hooked left prosthetic hand rested atop the pommel and he scoffed as Jennings entered the room.
"Really, old man? You look as I imagined a man who was been fleeing international police for a decade would. Time is not on your side. Can you handle a sword, old boy?" Clubb asked him in a biting tone of disrespect.
"I sacrificed more souls to The Maw than any before or since," quipped Jennings. "And I say, you ain't gonna be the last. Gimme one of those damn things."
"We're doing this the Scottish style," said Clubb calmly. "Since I have a hook for a hand, a decided bloody advantage, I will allow you to use a buckler shield. I don't want to slice and dice an out-of-shape old pauper, chum. How would I sleep at night?"
An acolyte brought a saber and a small Scottish shield to Jennings, who kept shooting nervous looks at his men. They were supposed to assassinate and kill Clubb the instant they had the chance, but there were simply too many other people around to do so without it being suicide.
"I noticed a funny thing about you, Jennings," Clubb remarked as he swished his sword through the air to limber up before the trial by combat began. "And I'm not talking about your hillbilly accent or your face. No, old boy, I'm merely pointing out that I have tendrils throughout the world, as well, and it surely seems that, more often than not, whenever you reach out and take control of a sect, that sect either disappears completely or is arrested or massacred soon after. You're bad juju, old bean, as the Negros in the Congo would say. Don't your men think that's funny, too? It's almost like, perhaps, you turn them in or have them killed. Now, keep in mind, I am not judging you. All the power in the world should be yours if you are ruthless enough to take it, but the bad thing about constantly killing the people under you is that, eventually, when you genuinely need help that no spell or magicks can render, you'll find that people will throw you to the wolves. Maggots, leave us."
Without saying a word, Jennings' two cultists turned around and left the feast hall. Sheer horror appeared on Jenning's face as he realized his men were traitors. He was now alone with this man much younger than he, with no way to salvage the coming battle, if and almost certainly when it went south for him. He though of all the adventures and deeds that had taken him this far, about just how close to the sun he had flew. And this man about to spear him with a 17th century saber didn't even know that Oswald was the real Grandmaster. His death would mean nothing. He considered laying down his weapon for all of a second, before he remembered Clubb would almost certainly just kill him anyway. He was old. He was sickly. There was pretty much nothing he had to offer but perhaps some spellwork or rare information and forbidden knowledge, but nothing a man like Clubb couldn't figure out along the path to infamy. Big Bill's heart felt like it was going to pound out of his chest, and a cold sweat was dripping down his face. His fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of his sword and his eyes locked with Clubb's.
"Were you there when Armitage conducted the first Grand Slaughter?" Jennings asked, his voice emotionless.
"No. I was but a Maggot of the Order then. I have heard stories," Clubb answered, taking steps forward on the ancient stone flooring, stepping around the long dilapidated table. Old Union Jacks from the 1700s hung on the walls, covered in spiderwebs and devoured by moths. A portrait of George III still hung glumly in a regal frame, covered by layers upon layers of dust. Clubb raked his hooked hand across the painting, ripping its dried canvas as he approached his enemy.
"I was there," said Jennings. "I was at the Grand Slaughter in '37. It was how I earned my stripes, so to say. You should have seen it, Clubb. Fields of bodies, as far as the eyes could see. Each one, the heart ripped right out of their chests. It was so baleful that not even the Yankee propaganda machine published anything about it. Said the desecration of those victims would cause pandemonium."
"Armitage knew how to have a good time," sneered Clubb. "But that didn't save him from dancing the hangman's jig."
"I was there, Clubb, in the Canadian tundra. And I was the one who did the dirty work for Armitage. How many men have you personally killed?" Jennings asked as he braced himself to fend off the fellow's pending attacks.
"Enough," said Clubb dryly.
"Well, I have killed, personally, over a thousand people, Clubb. I ripped their hearts out and made the Maw run red. And when this is over, I'll rip out yours too. And I'll eat it."
Clubb readied his saber and leveled to a guard position. "Ooh. Full of piss and vinegar, eh, hillbilly? Well, show me what you got before you have a heart attack or stumble over your shoelaces. Defend yourself, old boy!"
With that, Clubb lunged forward, nearly dealing a killing blow on the first attempt. Jennings staggered out of the way before regaining his footing, deflecting another blow with the buckler shield and then another before slicing at Clubb's waist. The fit Englishman dodged out of the way like a dancer before raining another hail of blows down on the shield. Worrying that he would never regain his footing if he let Clubb beat him down, Jennings pushed with all his strength and got Clubb to back up a bit.
Breaking off, Clubb smiled and paced the floor, the pencil-mustache on his lip rising on one side cockily. "Still have my heart, old boy. I hope that isn't the best you have!"
Desperately trying to recall his fencing lessons from his time in the colonial New Raleigh Lancers during the Great World War. He unleashed a flurry of well-timed attacks, only to be met with better-timed deflections. But still, he got Clubb to back up even further. Hastily, the Englishman jumped atop a table and struck a victorious pose. "Good show, old man. But the curtain's about to fall on your last act, and on this entire island. When I meet The Worm, I'll be sure to tell him how I put down the Heartbreaker of Canada! It's an Ouroboros, old boy! An infinite bloody cycle! It's like poetry--it rhymes. You rip out hearts, I rip out yours. The Maw runs red either way. Maybe one day, someone will do the same to me! But I live for now, and I serve no Grandmaster but myself. Defend yourself."
At that, Clubb jumped off the table and brought the full force of his sword and body down upon the buckler shield, which shattered into splinters. Jennings went flying backward, shouting in pain and flinging what was left of the shield away. The sixty-three year old Cokie scientist pulled himself back up as quickly as possible and clashed blades with his rival again. In a flash, he felt the cold steel of the hook hand drag across his lower jaw, barely missing his neck. Blood splattered out and flecked onto the face of Clubb, who licked the liquid off his lips. "Mmmm, tastes like an excellent sacrifice! It's almost over, Jennings. It's almost time for you to journey into the Void."
Jennings pushed him away once more, using all his strength. The two circled around each other, swords extended, points almost touching. A flurry of fast, quick strikes saw Jennings getting slowly backed into the corner of the feast hall, almost stumbling over the overturned remains of a century-old chair. Before long, he would be trapped. He need to do something, and quickly. He kept defending against the quick blows in decent form, but he knew Clubb was merely toying with him to get him trapped in that corner. And now Clubb was actively incorporating the hooked hand into the battle, making it far more difficult to avoid getting lacerated. Trying to think fast, Jennings grabbed hold of an ancient Union Jack and ripped it from the wall, hurling the dusty thing at his advancing opponent. Making his was through a broken-down set of huge doors, he was now in an old library, full of lawyer bookcases with the little glass doors. In the center of the room was an altar table adorned with Wormist memorabilia and alchemy ingredients.
Clubb stormed in in a fit of rage. "Get out of my study! Come face me in the feast hall, you broken-down old wizard!"
Jennings grabbed a nearby beaker and hurled it at Clubb, who managed to shatter it midair with his sword, but the ingredients within flicked onto his face as the blood had, sending him backward, shrieking in pain. It was some sort of acid, and the flesh on his face seemed to be boiling as he continued to savagely scream. The formerly handsome doctor now sufficiently disfigured and hurt, Jennings pressed his own attack, striking quickly, nicking the Englishman's arm, and then sent a bookcase shattering down on top of him. Clubb quickly scurried out from the pile of debris and deflected a few more blows. The fight rolled to Jenning's right, deeper into the inner sanctum of this madman, passing the huge amounts of bookshelves and arriving in a laboratory of some sorts, full of formaldehyde jars and electronic equipment. The light was dim and now produced by a few bulbs hooked up to a generator.
As they battled, a maggot acolyte rushed in, screaming for Clubb. "Master! The government men are here! It's a massacre outside!"
"What?!" Clubb screamed in disbelief and pain. "What do you mean?"
"Special forces! They are here! This fucker led them here!" the maggot accused Jennings with his words and a shaking, pointy finger. The young man drew a Germanian Mauser pistol from his dark red cloak and leveled it at the Cokie.
"No! This is my fight! My kill!" Clubb declared before driving his sword into the gut of his own cultist, sending the lad and the gun tumbling to the ground. The sudden murder stunned even Jennings, who backed further away, trying to think about his next move.
"Did you think I didn't know my men's loyalties were dubious at best?" Jennings smiled. "When the troops outside finish massacring your men, there will be nothing left of your little congregation. Defend yourself!"
A shocked and furious Clubb fended off the older man's attacks, but only barely. Several bits of radio equipment were hit by the blades, sending a cascade of sparks through the air. A fire began to lick the stone wall and spreading through more electrical devices.
Outside, as the two men continued to duel, some of the true Grandmaster Chuck Oswald's ORRA special forces, wearing trenchcoats and suits, were advancing against the Wormist defenders. One man in a business shirt and tie had a Liberty Torch tank mounted to his back, and he spewed flames from the nozzle into a turret where ten Wormists were holed up. The sounds of their screams could be heard over the din of battle. Several of the burning men took plunging leaps off the ancient castle and hit the grounds with merciful thuds. An ORRA commander, his rank denoted by a bright red handkerchief wrapped around his upper arm, used a shotgun to take out three fleeing maggots in two blasts and the ordered his men to blow the doors off the main entrance of the keep. A grenade went rolling over the cobblestone and erupted into a fireball. Several cultists cowering behind the doors and unaware of the explosive coming their way were instantly blown apart in the blast. Stacking up single file, the bulk of the ORRA team entered the keep at a brisk pace, lighting up resistance along the way with grinder fire, while the Torchboy and a few others continued to set fire to nearby structures. Their order were to completely eradicate the sect here, and they were not going to leave any stone left unturned.
Jennings and Clubb could hear the advancing troops and gunfire as they continued to brawl and poke at each other. After deflecting one of Clubb's tiring blows, Jennings said, "It's almost over, Clubb. Even if you kill me there is no way out. And you know what's funny?"
"I'll flay the flesh from your bones and eat your heart before I let those cretins mow me down, you damned son-of-a-bitch!" Clubb said, missing Jennings again and staggering against a worktable before pushing himself back on course.
"What's funny is that I'm not even the real Grandmaster. I'm an agent of chaos, Clubb. If you strike me down, you win nothing but a fight against an old man. I merely needed to lure you into this battle. My master will be pleased."
"Then why doesn't your fucking master want me to blow that damn doomsday machine?" the Englishman asked, his chest heaving and his eyes burning from the acid.
"Because it's not your doomsday machine to blow. Not your sacrifice to make. He has other plans," shrugged Jennings.
"
Fuck you, Jennings," cursed Clubb, tossing his sword aside and grabbing hold of a small device from his suspenders. It was a tiny metal box with a single black button, and a small antenna sticking out the top. It looked like a walkie-talkie with no speaker or receiver. He held it up and asked, "Do you know what this is? If I touch this fucking button, you leacherous old hillbilly twat, Maddie goes up in flames. The Worm will
know. I already performed my rites! The Worm will know that I took down this island in its name! The greatest sacrifice of all time, Jennings!"
"OFFICE OF RACIAL AND RELIGIOUS AFFAIRS, DROP THE SWITCH!" came a cry from behind Clubb as the group of ORRA troopers entered the study. "
DROP IT NOW!"
"May the Maw Run Red! Oh, Serpent, accept this my sacrifice! For I am your true servant!" Clubb cried out, his eyes bulging and a huge, manic smile stretching across his face.
"LIGHT 'EM UP, BOYS!"
Jennings saw the world move in slow motion as he desperately lunged away from the hail of oncoming fire. Blood splattered the floor as bullets riddled the English cultist. With a dull groan, the hook-handed man collapsed to the floor, his thumb death-locked onto the button. In Darlington, an explosion ripped through the main corridor, setting off a chain reaction.
"Well,
shit," muttered Jennings as he tossed his sword down and he felt ORRA agents tackle him to the ground and place him cuffs. "
This isn't going to be fun to explain to the boss."
