Junkyard Speedball - Chapter seven

Junkyard Speedball - Chapter seven

This is the seventh part of an updated version of the novella, Junkyard Speedball — a symbiot story, which was first written a couple of years ago and introduces a couple of characters that subsequently play major roles in Van Hallam’s Hellsborough Chronicles, as well as providing some insight into the region of The Dark Peak known as the netherlands.

Museum

Willow coaxed the sportster into the air at murkrise. Overnight, she had opened her mind to Mold and their dreams had become united and now they shared a symbiotic closeness. From Firthwood, they retraced their steps of the night before in search of the lost ones and, more importantly to Mold, Willow knew, Lomas. Back at the previous night's dump zone, they could see the massiveness of the operation. Maybe a thousand gruizers lay twisted and dead in the wreckage. It was too early for looters now and the bodies languished in the early murklight. After surveying the dump zone, Willow did an about turn and, under Kibble's tutorage, headed back to the pub on the outskirts of Parkwood, and the site of Mold's original fight with Lomas. A few gutterballs were up early messing in the murkrise, but there was no sign of human activity.

Where to now then? Said Mold.

Let's scan awhile, get a feel for the area, said Willow, pointing to an area close to he summit of Parkwood.

Land it, we'll search on foot, we might see signs of activity, all I can see up here is tree tops.

Willow landed the sportster close to the summit where there was a clear area of asphalt.

You go that way, she said to Mold and Kibble, indicating a pathway to the left, I'll head over here. We'll stay in contact, just in case.

Mold meandered through the endless carcasses of gruizers, looking for evidence of Lomas, but saw none. He entered the wood, the murk thicker than usual, meandering through the tree canopy.

We don't stand a chance of finding him through all this, Mold said to Kibble, fighting his way through the vines that blocked his path, how did he find me so easily last time, when I had only been here a few hours?

Who knows, maybe he saw your drop?

Yes, maybe, or just luck perhaps, or maybe his hideout was nearby all along. Which way was the location of the fight?

About half a click back, said Kibble.

They re-traced their steps and began heading in the same direction that Willow had taken, by now, she was several moments ahead.

We're behind you now, Willow, Mold communicated, but there was no answer, for some reason, despite her last message, her mind was in closure.

Looks like we're on our own then, he grumbled to Kibble, nothing new there then.

They continued along Moonshine Lane, passing an old, stagnant, reservoir. The going was muddy and thick with footprints. He thought he recognised Willow's and Kibble confirmed they were recent, they still resonated a pattern of heat that was no more than a few tics old.

Without warning, radio communication was restored with a short, painful gasp that made Mold and Kibble think that Willow was choking. Mold began to run, as best he could, slipping and sliding on the black peat. Nothing further was heard, despite his efforts at making contact. Eventually, in what seemed like hours, but was only a few tics, the pair, now out of breath and breathing heavily, reached the top of a rise.

Mafu! Willow screamed in Woodspeak into their heads, the shock sending them reeling from the power of the word, she repeated it time and time again, becoming more frantic and emotional with each outburst until, silence. But Mold could still hear the telepathic scream, although more distant. He began to regain his composure and look around him, the scream still audible, but fainter. He realised that Kibble was still in contact, but his mind was not and briefly wondered how it was possible that Willow has closed off her mind to him, but not Kibble. Then he became aware that it was he that had done it. He was selectively blanking out Willow's cries of pain, but still picking her up in miniature through his symbiot. He straightened now and scanned around him. Still early, there was no movement he could see, but he knew he could locate Willow with Kibble. Using him as a homing beacon, he continued to where Kibble thought Willow was transmitting from, and as he reached the top of a hollow, he saw Willow, invisible from the pathway, her back facing him and her face, he knew without seeing, contorted in silent pain.

As he approached he saw her collapse onto her knees and went to support her, but she hit the ground unconscious before he could reach her. He checked her pulse, she'd fainted, consumed by mental stress. It was only then that he turned his attention to the source of her horror.

Before them, naked and covered in lesions was an emaciated corpse of a human, face down, but clearly a woman, bound tightly to the bulkhead of a long dead gruizer. So decayed was the gruizer that the woman has begun to sink into its bonnet and tendrils of bindweed and filchgrass had grown through it and over her wraith like form. He approached tentatively lifted the woman's head by her hair. A handful came loose and her head slumped forward on the windscreen. Mold pressed his fingers to her neck and detected a faint pulse, slow and variable, but present nonetheless; yet there was no emanation of alphawaves from her mind, she was, Mold supposed, based upon Willow's previous cries, in a state of closure. Mold removed his coat and placed into over the woman, feeling the chill morning air touch the sweat that had formed all over his body making him shiver involuntarily.

Now he studied the enclosed hollow more closely. Other bodies, some male, others female, six more in all, adorned gruizers in various poses, all naked and bound, and all in the same emaciated state as the first, Willow's mother and all, by the unmistakable breeding, Firthwood foresters. The first he approached, a male or indeterminate age was in an advanced state of decomposition, biceps and calf muscles sunken and melted away. The second, a woman the same and the third. The fourth had been a child of maybe eight years old. The final two, a male and female, were bound together in a perverted state of penetration, their faces and fingers in a putrified embrace.

If I could, said Kibble, I'd retch.

Mold did.

A twig cracked above them and a cross-bow bolt catapulted Kibble to the ground with a sickening thud.

If you know anyone else that you think might find this interesting, then please forward this email to them :)

I have launched a new series of diary entries that I call “Pip Rippon — Stranger in a Strange Land”, in which I describe my struggle to survive as an immigrant in Hellsborough and The Dark Peak, and how I make ¢hits, and how you can use my knowledge to make money in the off-world. I think you’ll enjoy it, check it out here: Stranger in a Strange Land.

In other news, Hellsborough Chronicles book one “Dark Peak” is now available on Kindle and paperback.

If you can leave a review of Dark Peak on Amazon, I'd be more than grateful.

Hellsborough Chronicles book two “Darker Peak” is now being worked on — look out for early releases.

Cheers, until next time,

Pip :)