Crossed Wires 1.1

[Tox]

Ow ow ow ow ow.

Crossed Wires 1.1

  The first days of May were rolling through New England with a rage of
gusting winds and heavy mid-Atlantic rain. Route 9 through western
Massachusetts was an inch of muddy water coursing over black asphalt. In
the eastbound lane, blurry headlights cut into the night as a lone pickup
truck forged through the storm, its bed occupied by a long box strapped
down under red and black tarpaulins.

The pickup's driver peered into the impenetrable gloom ahead, then
glanced at the rear-view mirror. He thought he could just make out the
three dark forms shadowing the truck about sixty yards back. Motorcyclists,
riding with no lights through the teeth of the storm; probably the same
ones who had been following him since Monterey. There was no way to tell
if they were friend or foe, and not much to be done about it either way.
The driver rubbed his bloodshot eyes and forced his attention back to
the slippery, winding road. A boarded-up gas station flashed by on his
left; he checked his gauge and saw that the pickup was running on fumes.
Windsor Mountain had eaten up more fuel than he'd anticipated, draining
the last precious drops of gas from the external tanks he'd had rigged
up for the return trip from California.

The lone driver, Sir Scott Heller, a Knight of the Hawk, lifted a thermos
of barely-warm coffee to his lips and drained it in one go. It helped a
little, but his sleep-deprived system needed more than caffeine to sustain
it through the grueling last leg of his transcontinental mission.  Sir
Scott took a weary hand off the wheel long enough to increase the volume
of the truck stereo. The reinforced surge of *Assault and Battery* lent
strength to his ravaged nerves; and with any luck, he thought, the
powerful Hawkwind emanations would help camouflage the nature of his
precious cargo from those who had sought to block him at every turn.

The green slopes of Pioneer Valley rose up on either side of the road. On
the right, the Westfield River was in full flood, lapping over its banks
and sending eddies across the road's rainswept surface. Sir Scott held
the truck steady as the road curved around the foot of stone-crowned Deer
Hill. The bikes behind him kept pace, silent and nearly invisible. As the
dark bulk of the ill-omened hillside fell away to the left, the
dark-haired knight saw his exit: an unpaved, unmarked road that split off
to the left, just preceding a large concrete bridge that was already
half-awash in rising floodwaters.

The truck driver hit his directional, milked the brakes twice and threw
the wheel over hard. The pickup's skidding tires sent up great sheets of
water as the vehicle slewed around, righted itself and then shot down the
side road which curved unexpectedly hard right, forcing another desperate
hairpin in the rain. The truck stabilized just in time for Sir Scott to
catch sight of the three dark cyclists as they shot across the bridge in a
wild hydroplaning skid, impacting against the concrete uprights in a
colossal eruption of spraying petrol and twisted metal. He would never
know if they had been friends or enemies, but as the afterimage of the
blossoming gas-tanks faded from his eyes a strange feeling of completed
destiny - of redemption - settled over him. Galvanized now against the
fatigue, the hunger and the need to pee really bad, Sir Scott bore right
down a dead-end dirt road, past two long-abandoned farmhouses and up the
drive to a sagging, ancient red-roofed building.

Standing in the drive was a hooded figure with a flashlight. It waved him
along a grassy track, up the slope of the hill into which the old
farmhouse had been built and now seemed to be sinking. Past the house
stood a crumbling barn, its double doors open. Sir Scott navigated the
pickup through the low doorway, parked the truck and switched off the
ignition. The little pickup seemed to sigh as the motor was finally
allowed to rest and cool.

The hooded figure stepped into the barn and the great doors slammed shut
behind it. The figure hastily shot several locks and bolts, then drew a
heavy bar across the doors. Sir Scott wearily reached for the door handle
and swung his legs out of the truck. He walked in small circles across
the hay-strewn floor, trying to work the stiffness from his joints, while
the hooded one finished securing the barn entrance by fastening two heavy
lengths of chain with a fist-sized padlock stamped with a certain
alchemical symbol. Satisfied, the figure stepped back and drew back its
waterproof black hood. Sir Scott instantly recognised the pale features
and lopsided grin of Thinwire Boy, the Renegade Agent who had enlisted
his aid for this crucial mission...

"You look like hell warmed over, Scott. Let's take the stuff downstairs;
I've got the stove going and there's food." The knight and the agent
pulled the box out of the truck bed and manhandled it down a narrow, unlit
stairway to the lower level of the barn. The knight went slowly, testing
his weight on the splintered planks.

"You've got to fix these stairs, man. Somebody's gonna get themselves
killed trying to walk down here..."

"True enough. In August, actually."

"In August you're gonna fix the stairs?"

"No, in August somebody's going to get killed trying to walk down here.
Nobody you know, though. Mind the last step, it's got dry rot."

Sir Scott was fairly certain the Thinwire Boy was just shitting him.

The lower level of the barn was crammed half full of cobwebbed, decrepit
wooden cattle-harnesses, screen windows, cider presses and assorted
debris. the remaining area was partitioned into two rooms with stone
flooring and new-looking reinforced half-timber walls. One room was
secured by a chicken-wire door and smelled strongly of hay and feathers.
The other was a typical Thinwire Boy nest: papers, equipment, books and
weaponry piled in heaps around a bedroll, two chairs, a faucet and basin,
a Franklin stove and a locked antique cabinet. They dropped the box in the
corridor and stepped into the nest. Sir Scott caught the smell of homemade
stew and nearly drooled down his beard. He hadn't had a bite since he'd
crossed the Mississippi. He sank into a chair while the Thinwire Boy
ladled out a bowl of chicken stew and passed it to him, along with an
Anchor Steam.

The agent waited while the famished hawk-knight devoured the stew and
washed it down with the beer. A little life seemed to return to Sir
Scott's features. "That was good, thanks."

"Want seconds? There's plenty."

"Maybe in a minute. Umm, is there a phone I can use here?"

"Not a secure one. But your ladyfriend has been notified that you made it
back safely, and will see you tomorrow in Boston."

"Okay, then." Scott shook his head. "That was one hairy trip out to
California, toxic one. A helicopter buzzed my outside of Boulder. I had to
swing down into Texas to lose some guys in a grey limo. And there were
these three really spooky guys on motorcycles...were they on our side?"

"Kind of."

"They crashed on the bridge, by the turn-off."

"Yeah, I know. They did what they had to do."

Scott shot his ally a look. Thinwire Boy held up his palms. "If I could
explain, I would..."

"Okay, okay. But now is when you fill me in on what's in the box, right?"

"Sure. Hang on." The Thinwire Boy rummaged around for a magnesium strip
and a blowtorch and stepped out into the corridor. White sparks flared
for a few moments while he lanced the box's welded-shut lock and sprang the
lid. The agent set down the torch and smiled, silently regarding the five
velvet-wrapped objects laid out in the box. "Perfect. These are perfect."
He motioned for the knight to come and see. "sir Scott, you've been a
fantastic help and a great friend. It's past time you heard the full
story..."

to be continued