Dragonfire: A Gulliver Swift Adventure

Into the Fire

A cacophony of FDNY sirens, horns, and alarm bells blared through the night, engine companies from Red Hook, Brooklyn Heights, Prospect Heights, and Brownsville converging on what was now a five-alarm inferno, Seagrave pumper trucks, Baker fixed and split-tilt hook and ladders, hydraulic turntables, aerial extenders, water cannons, Ferrara rescue response vehicles and hazmats going to work on the blaze. Even before they roared in most of the uniforms and EMTs at the cement plant had already hurried to the burning structure, making sure anyone inside could get out.

Not that the Deputy Chief cared—"squatter crash pads, these old loft buildings."

Commissioner Rose knew better. "Artists, more likely these days," she said, intercepting Isis, the rookie rushing to catch up with her squad. "Better you stay with Beatrix." In the midst of the commotion Rachel had managed to sneak a few glances at the two of them in the rear of the patrol car; "looked to me like rapport developing—like maybe there's something Dr. Caravalho wants to get off her chest."

Officer Swift had the same impression, "but I wasn't sure how far I could push it I didn't read her her rights. And the fire was breaking out—"

"You're not pushing, you're not questioning, you're listening. Consoling a grieving widow, not interrogating a person of interest."

"Yes, ma'am."

Isis turned back toward the unit, her father stepping up; weighing in—not that Swift had an objection to his daughter's assignment, "just the conversation should take place someplace else." If the theory was right, "that that thing out there came back for someone, it can't be someone it doesn't know. It's already killed Felix; who else is left?" They should have gotten Bea away from there long ago.

"Fire broke out so fast we were too busy getting our guys to it," an explanation on the Commissioner's part, not an excuse. "Lives could have been at stake."

"Lives could be at stake here," said Gulliver, "and too many of your troops are still over there." A yard full of police personnel had suddenly become too depopulated for comfort, "and this isn't a time you want to be at less than full strength. The faster you call them back the better."

"He really thinks the creature is smart enough to start a fire to divert our attention." Vicar shook his head at the absurdity.

"Smart enough to take advantage of it and double back."

"Let it," Larrabee ambled over to scoff. "If it's not roasting in that hell over there Yancy and his crew have it covered." The cannons were now in place, wifi controls operative. "And maybe we don't want to get the lady away so fast, you say it's coming for her."

"Always good to have a lure, you go hunting," in the Aussie's view. "Next thing it knows it's wrapped up in a mesh blanket so heavy a tyrannosaurus couldn't break out of it."

"It's not going to go for the lady," grated Swift, "because she is not going to be here." Isis was already back at the squad car and starting the engine—but why was she backing the unit up instead of shifting into drive and making a run for the gate?

Too many untended police vehicles in the way, something Lloyd recognized as he returned from the blaze, blackened face small price to pay for several solid minutes of firefighting B-roll: it would take more than a few minutes to squeeze the unit through the obstacle course unless something was done, and quickly.

"Okay," Commissioner Rose ordered, "every van, truck, car gets moved, now." Everyone was to pick one and clear a path—except no one was springing into action because an agonized scream was suddenly exploding from Beatrix's throat, her face contorting, the soles of her shoes pounding against the rear door of the unit so forcefully it flew open and flapped on its hinges. Lurching out onto the asphalt, the paleoanthropologist was howling, sweating, swearing, clutching her abdomen in excruciating pain as though something was gnawing at her insides, clawing its way out.

"What is it?"—the ragged cry ululating from her gaping mouth. "What's happening to me?"

Several EMTs raced to her side, Swift on their heels, Robertson and the Commissioner behind. Officer Swift bolting from the car plunged through the circle around the stumbling woman, helping to hold the flailing arms and thrashing legs, the ghastly shrieks emerging from her throat hair-raising. Reading her vital signs was impossible; Bea was writhing and jerking as though electrocuted.

All they could do was look at each other, at a loss. If she was to be transported to an emergency room she would have to be stabilized, and that was unthinkable while her belly was bubbling from within, the flesh stretching, caving, protruding, gnarling, the eyes rolling in her head.

"Stop it," she seemed to be wailing, although it was hard to tell. "Get it out! Get it out!"

"Give her a shot." Vicar expected the paramedics would have a sedative in their kits.

"Hold her still we can find a vein!"

"Oh, shit," Gulliver suddenly gasped, galvanized, comprehension flooding his brain. "Get her slacks down!"

"What?" What kind of perversion was this?

"Shot won't do any good." He leaned into Beatrix's face. "Listen to me. Bea. Did you"—how do you, how does anyone, put this?—"did you and the creature—?"

Was she laughing at him amidst the seizures?

"Did you have sex with it? When? How long ago? How many times?"

"Get her pants down," Rowdy Rodam Rose shouted, catching on. "She's giving birth!"

"To what," the Deputy Chief not the only one who wanted to know—not that any of them had to wait till the leggings and panties were peeled off, the slimy fetus with razor sharp teeth and spiked claws was tearing out of her uterus, slashing through the gauze.

Fountains of blood sprayed into the air, splattering the paleoanthropologist's face, her flesh, the pavement, and those around her—none of them aware, not when the ferocious little imp was ripping its umbilical cord out of the placental villi and attacking them. They scurried backward, Vicar and several officers trying to draw their weapons, others tripping over each other and falling. The newborn monster exhaled, a river of flame streaming from its mouth. Two of the cops caught fire, the Deputy Chief singed and yelling—

"Shoot it! Kill it! Blast it to hell!"

The banshee coiled, launching itself at him, at the Commissioner, talons extended and slashing. Gunfire erupted before it could get to its prey and it danced in mid-air hissing and spitting, scraps of it flying. Dropped to the asphalt, writhing, alive, implacable despite its wounds, it leaped up, lashing out at Isis.

"Fuck you, you son of a bitch," Vicar said, grabbing a Glock from the paralyzed fingers of the patrolman frozen beside him—

Before he could empty the clip a ferocious roar suddenly filled the air, a horrific black shadow twice the height of anyone present rising up out of the darkness, blocking the stars. An enormous hand swiped the weapon out of the Deputy Chief's grasp and swatted him aside like a hockey puck, three fingers all it needed to clamp down—but not on Vicar or any of the humans.

On the suckling—for daring to attack the unattackable: the Redheaded Girl With the Eight-Pointed Crown. The penalty was death, for the son he hadn't come for and for the mother he had—the still-convulsing Beatrix Caravalho, She Who Had Shown Him the Light. She Who Had Betrayed Him. She who had brought him face to face with his destiny:

Rookie Police Officer Isis Swift.