Clockwork Firefly

Clockwork Firefly - Chapter Twenty

Shaking his head, Peter Walter the second rose and shook off the effects of the blow. The now broken board which had previously covered the window caught in his hands was pulled back over one shoulder and brought down hard against the back of the man who charged at him, a sick sound of bone breaking and his assailant fell flopping to the ground, his blood pouring out a muddy, thick brown that steamed green even as it brightened to a crimson puddle underneath him. No time to think on it, he dove back into the fray, the board still clasped tight in his hands.

Hatchworth had his own hands full, and his father was doing the best he could, wedged into a corner with a broken portion of the chair, wielding it like a club. High up on the top of several crates stacked, the bokor, Okonkwo, was directing the quartet of Green Matter influenced men. When Hatchworth had broken through the door, they had seen only Peter the first, bound up in the chair. Hatchy had made very quick work of the ropes, but it had not even taken a half minute for the room to be swarmed. There had been seven when the fight began and now it was down to five.

Hatchworth was doing his best not to do any actual damage, choosing instead to do a great deal of pushing and tossing away. His father had two on him, that was quickly reduced to one, then none with the aid of the plank and the blind rage that made it possible to detach his actions from the gory consequences. The wood was cracked and splintered now, useless and he threw it aside, looking toward Hatchworth. He cried out as the robot went down under the onslaught of eight hammering fists, bursting into a run. He plowed into the pile and knocked a pair of them off balance, drug to tumble across the dust-coated floor with him, every collision jarring. He could hear the bokor laughing, calling out something though the words did not ring clear in his ears.

A moment later, his father was there, the jagged arm of the chair he'd been tied in swung against his attacker's temple, and the other was now Peter's to deal with, the pair scrapping and rolling across the floor. Peter got the upper hand, grabbing the man by his throat and squeezing. These were not the sort of zombies which were reanimated dead, and death, even by strangulation, was sufficient to stop them. Two still attacked Hatchworth and he knew that he would not be too badly injured, but he could see the blood and pain his family was suffering. He'd avoided it all through the fight, the memories of the wars he'd fought, both in Africa and Europe, rushed up at him and broke his heart even as he reached into his hatch, intending to pull out something to end this once and for all. A gun, a sword, a cannon even would have done the job. He had not expected a carrot cake. The white cream frosting in whirls of glossy deliciousness, little orange marzipan carrots with tiny green tufts at the top sat perched at the center of the cake. A weapon was a weapon though, and Hatchworth shoved it at one of his attackers, the plate shattering as it struck his jaw, sharp shards of glass driving into his throat and sending him sprawling backward, clawing at the icing and cake that covered his face as he sank down to his knees. Hatchy could not bear to look at it, turning his efforts to the last of the mindless attackers.

"Enough." The bokor spoke as he slid down from crate to crate, speaking all the while. "You cannot win, and further fighting may well negate the agreement we made with you, Colonel Peter Walter. Your son's freedom for the ... merchandise." He looked at Hatchworth as he said the last word, making it as insulting and degrading as possible. He needed to prevent that hatch from opening again. Next time it might be a real weapon.

The colonel only glared, unable to speak to the vile lie, he caught Peter's eye and shook his head, not wishing for his son to think he would make such a deal. The swollen, purpled mass of his left eye was now bleeding, and the other eye was not seeing very clearly either, but as his head swiveled toward Okonkwo, the man's progress halted a moment, his hand rising to the necklace on which hung his oanga bag. Okonkwo stepped onto the floor, walking toward them. Hatchworth plucked up the last of the men by their collar, waiting a moment and then shoving them hard flying a good hundred yards only to stumble and trip toward the bokor, falling at his feet. Okonkwo cried out, knowing they would attack the nearest thing to them, even as they were rising. He pulled a revolver from his hip underneath the voluminous robe, firing off shot after shot until the Green Matter cursed men lay unmoving and the empty gun clicked several times.

A voice rang out and Okonkwo turned swiftly to see the woman framed by the door. She had removed the kerchief, and her hair, twisted braids that turned from inky black at the tips to a pure white as they ascended toward her scalp were adorned with tiny golden bands. Her dress was a soft dove gray marked in intricate designs in silver and white, though the hem and edges of the long sleeves were a deep purple. "I have come to bring justice to you, Kawuna Okonkwo."

He laughed and turned to face her as she walked toward him. Peter could feel the anger radiating from her, like static electricity making the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. "You have slain my sons. This will be marked as your last crime. Legba awaits your coming. Eshu carried the message to all the orishas who see your darkness. Who will demand answer for the imbalances you have allowed to prosper, for the evils you have encouraged."

He laughed as she spoke, her words strong despite the derision, and his laughter began to sound hollow and false even to his own ears. A few feet away still, she suddenly moved with a swiftness that Peter would not have thought possible for a woman of her build, her heavy black cane lifted overhead and swung down at the bokor, its copper-covered elephant head grasped tight in her fist. He caught it in the air, his fingers curled around the polished wood, his other hand shooting out to curl around her throat. Whatever he said, it was not in English, nor was her reply as with a jerk she pulled her cane hand back, the hollow shaft left in his hand as the wicked blade revealed an instant before it was driven into his heart.

He yowled like a jungle cat and tried to pull it free, but the blood that was pouring out around it made his fingers slip in their efforts. He did jerk it loose at last, dropped to the ground with a clatter. He fell to his knees, then sideways, his dark skin made ashen by the carpet of dust. For several moments, there was only the rapid breathing and groans to break the silence.

"You must go. I have obtained the nkondi. I will meet you at the Hotel Caesar. I must perform the proper rites now to see that this man's spirit is properly dealt with. Go." She paid them no further heed as Hatchworth plucked up the Colonel with care and guided him out toward the car, keeping an eye on Peter as he limped behind, his arm cradled to his chest, his mouth bleeding, and generally scraped up, but far better than his father was doing. It seemed five miles back to the car, and a year to cross it. Eventually, all were loaded in and with neither haste or skill, they drove toward the hotel. Colonel Walter informed them how the night had begun, and advised they get a new room. Peter went in first, booking the room and joking about the bar brawl he'd been in.

"So, could you send up someone with some iodine and bandages and so on? Gracias."

Peter signed the book and, once he had the key, slid it into his trouser pocket, he flashed two-one-four on his fingers. Hatchworth who had been watching from just inside the lobby door, his face mostly hidden beneath his bowler {which thankfully he had left in the car} and the turned up collar of his jacket, noted the numbers and from the other side of the lobby managed to get the Colonel to the room with only the notice one might pay a guy and his too-intoxicated pal which was no attention at all. Once the room was reached, Hatchworth lowered the Colonel onto the edge of the bed. The next few hours were passed in just getting their wits collected and their wounds dressed. The Colonel's jaw still hurt him terribly and so he wrote out what had occurred since last they spoke. Of the attack in his room and of Becile's plan. Peter agreed that it was imperative that Becile never get his hands on any of the robots, and the first thing they intended to do when they arrived home, after Pete was well again, was bulk up security measures around the Mansion.

It was near to nine in the morning when, at last, the knock came to the door. Hatchworth rose to answer it, and stepped back to admit Madam Adjanye. She looked weary, and heartbroken, but her posture had not flagged, and her resolve seemed equally stalwart. At her side was a large black suitcase, scuffed and battered, which she pressed into Hatchworth's hands. "Come, we must get to the boy before the sun is high." She did not wait for them, but stalked out without looking back. They rose with groans and muttered cursing. The adrenaline had long ago worn off and now they felt every injury keenly as father and son, the former with his arm around the latter's shoulder for support, limped after her.

The bag put into the back of the car, Hatchworth, collar turned up to hide his face and bowler pulled low, then took up a spot beside the lady in the back seat, He would only have to hide with the bag when they crossed the border. He wasn't looking forward to it, but he understood it had to be done. The trip held no further complications, and after only the requisite do-si-do at the border crossing, they stopped for nothing on their way to the mansion. Within an hour, they were pulling into the drive and creeping out, the last portion of their task now the goal upon which each eye was fixed.