Nolan's Ark Page 11

  Nolan found it hard to take the bird shit man seriously. Half the guy’s face was buried inside a giant bird head.

  “I don’t know,” Nolan said.

  “Are we at war?” Typhoon asked. “Is this Pearl Harbor all over again or some shit like that?”

  “It’s an inside job,” Axel said, speaking up. “The American government man – they did this. We’re pretty sure of it.”

  Typhoon frowned. “Are you high kid?”

  Axel shook his head. “No.”

  “Tell you what,” Nolan said, cutting in. “Why don’t you guys talk about it up the back and I’ll do the driving. Time to hit the road.”

  Nolan stood beside the cabin, watching these five strangers settling down in the apartment. Viking Chick took the couch, which offered plenty of room to lie down and stretch. Nolan shook his head. How did this happen? How had Nolan turned into a glorified Uber driver for four fake superheroes and a skinny black kid who wouldn’t shut the fuck up?

  The dogs and cats were okay. He’d invited them on board.

  “First chance I get,” Nolan said, climbing behind the wheel. “You guys are out of here. This ride’s only temporary, got it?”

  He leaned his head over the cabin door, pointing at Axel.

  “That goes for you too kid. Once you get your girlfriend back I’m setting you both down somewhere.”

  Nolan might as well have slapped the boy on the cheek.

  “Sure,” Axel said in a meek voice.

  “That’s fine,” Viking Chick said, both hands still guarding the baby bump. “We appreciate the help Butch.”

  “Call me Nolan.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Hey mister,” Cowboy Samurai said, raising his hand as if he wanted to ask the teacher a question. “I mean, hey Nolan.”

  “What’s your problem?” Nolan asked, turning around again.

  Cowboy Samurai – or rather the actor who played him – was a Japanese-American with the ripped veiny arms of a gym junkie. He sported a neat Fu Manchu mustache and wore a black Stetson, which was tilted at a slight angle on his head. In the movies he was a gun-slinging samurai, as deadly with a six-shooter as he was with a razor sharp katana. The studio made a racket with all the Retaliator merchandise but Cowboy Samurai was definitely the fan’s favorite when it came to making money outside the Retaliator films. Apart from the usual merchandise options he’d already made at least three spinoff movies apart from the others. The bastard’s face was everywhere – on posters, on buses, on TV – but Nolan still couldn’t remember his name.

  “I’m allergic to dogs,” Cowboy Samurai said, shrinking back from the lilac collie. “Do they have to be here?”

  “The dogs were here first Cowboy,” Nolan said. “I’ll lower the ramp for you if you want to walk. Just say the word buddy.”

  Cowboy Samurai frowned. “My name’s not buddy. It’s…”

  “Don’t give a shit,” Nolan said, revving the engine over the sound of the man’s voice. “What’s the point of getting to know one another? We’ll be saying goodbye soon enough.”

  Nolan double-checked the doors before setting off. As he did so he heard voices up the back talking about him.

  “He’s a real charmer isn’t he?” Typhoon said.

  “He’s pissed,” Axel said. “The President killed his dog.”

  “Whaaaaaat?”

  Nolan slammed his foot off the pedal. Goliath howled, drowning out the yappy voices at the back of the apartment. He sighed with relief. It felt good to be moving again. There was something soothing in the sensation of movement and it worked like a charm for Nolan. Movement was his sedative, slowing down the constant flow of anger. Who was it that once said angry men were blind and foolish? Nolan didn’t know but he suspected whoever said it was right. He had to control his emotions tonight, at least until he caught up with the dog killer and his people.

  Nolan’s ears pricked up.

  Was that music?

  He looked right and left, fishing for clues about the sudden noise. Moments later, a large vehicle shot by at the bottom of the road where Western joined onto Santa Monica Boulevard. It was only there for a few seconds before it disappeared again. Nolan leapt forward in the driver’s seat like he’d sat on a tack. He digested snippets of moving information as he saw them – the ocean blue exterior, bloated wheels spinning over the Hollywood asphalt, and crude banners draped down the side and fluttering in the breeze.

  There was something else – a small crowd of people walking alongside the vehicle. Doing their best to keep up with the blue MBT.

  “It’s Kong!” he said, hitting the steering wheel. “Holy shit it’s Kong!”

  In his excitement, Nolan’s foot accidentally scuffed the brake. Goliath briefly kangaroo-hopped down the middle of the road before he got it together.

  “Sorry about that,” he said to no one in particular.

  Axel sprinted down the aisle, taking up his familiar spot beside the driver’s cabin. He stared through the windshield but Kong and the people following it were gone, having moved off in a westerly direction along Santa Monica Boulevard.

  Nolan could still hear the music. Barely.

  “Are you sure?” Axel asked. “That was Kong?”

  “Sure I’m sure,” Nolan said. “And that music – you hear it?”

  Axel’s face wrinkled up in concentration. “I think so.”

  “That’s Kong.”

  Nolan turned to Axel, pointing a thumb back towards the apartment. “Tell everyone to sit down and hold on tight. That goes for you too Axel. We’re going for a ride.”

  The boy’s eyes were bright with excitement. “Aye aye Captain!”

  Goliath charged towards Santa Monica Boulevard at full throttle.

  Axel howled in protest. Nolan hadn’t given the boy any time to run safely back to the apartment before hitting the gas and bringing Goliath up to light speed. Now Axel clung to the railing with both hands, working hard to stay upright. He wasn’t complaining.

  “Sit down and hold onto something!” Axel yelled to the Retaliators in the apartment.

  “Good boy,” Nolan said.

  Nolan swung a hard left at the end of the road. The tires shrieked as the MBT’s massive bulk swerved, then straightened up again on Santa Monica Boulevard. Nolan hit the gas, gripping the steering wheel tight. His arms were as rigid as iron bars.

  The music grew louder. And then there it was – the back of Kong in the distance, a giant slab of blue chrome, gleaming before a Hollywood half-cloaked in darkness, half lit up by a sea of fire.

  Nolan’s body shivered in anticipation. Hadn’t it been Jezebeth Black who’d taken Kong out of Paramount? Black wasn’t Rage and in a sense, finding her was like winning second prize but it was a start. She might be able to pinpoint Rage’s location for Nolan, which would save him a hell of a lot of time driving around hoping for a break.

  Jezebeth Black could’ve stopped Rage from killing Diesel. She could have done something but the old bitch had just stood there watching.

  Kong was cruising at low speed. The admirers followed at both sides of the vehicle, singing along with the music and waving their arms in the air as if this was a mobile festival. Nolan wondered if those sing-along admirers were in fact terrified citizens begging Jezebeth Black for refuge.

  Rock and roll spiraled from the MBT, drifting over the neighborhood. Leaning forward in the driver’s seat, Nolan saw the tiny shape of a man standing on Kong’s roof. He was dancing like an out of shape dad trying to embarrass his teenage daughter in front of her friends.

  “That’s Run Baby Run by Tom Tremblay,” Axel said, fingers still gripping the handrail. “And that guy on the roof. That is Tom Tremblay.”

  “Go figure,” Nolan said.

  He peered at the denim-clad rocker. Tom Tremblay was an iconic, blue-collar rock and roll singer whose successful career had spanned five decades and was still going strong. Tremblay had never been quiet when it came to politics, neither in life nor song, and his support of Jezebeth Black was well known even amongst casual music fans.

  “Was Tremblay at the Paramount party?” Axel asked.

  “Don’t know,” Nolan said.

  “Yeah he was,” Viking Chick called out from the back. “I spoke to him for a while. Nice guy actually.”

  Goliath raced after Kong. As the gap closed Goliath’s snarling engine blotted out the music. At last, the people on the street realized something big was happening. When they turned their heads around they saw exactly what was coming after them.

  Heads turned. People pointed at the silver giant and words were exchanged.

  Nolan was surprised when the crowd cheered Goliath at first, summoning the MBT closer. They must have thought it was another part of Black’s mobile carnival.

  Nolan slammed the horn and soon the cheers turned into screams. The penny had dropped on Sunset Boulevard.

  Kong sped up in response, leaving a trail of confused and frightened people in its wake. So much for loyalty to the voters. On the roof, Tom Tremblay fell flat onto his stomach.

  Nolan pushed forward, seeing nothing but the blue MBT in front of him. The target was inside Kong.

  “Jesus Christ!” Eagle Boy yelled. He appeared beside Axel, next to the cabin door. “Back off for God’s sake Nolan. Are you trying to kill all those people out there?”

  “Don’t tell me how to drive bird shit,” Nolan said.

  Outside, groups of terrified people tried to dodge Goliath. They scattered on the road like ants running from a lawnmower, moving in all directions, which made it trickier for Nolan to avoid hitting them. He frantically steered Goliath left and right through the gaps, missing some of them by inches.

  Screams filled the air.

  “Take it easy
Nolan!” Typhoon said.

  “Listen,” Eagle Boy screamed, his face glistening with sweat under the bird cap. “There’s a pregnant woman back here and we need to take it…”

  Nolan hammer-fisted the steering wheel. But his eyes stayed on the road.

  Eagle Boy took the hint. When he spoke again, he tried using a calm voice.

  “Okay,” he said. “I get it. Axel told us about your dog but those people on the road back there had nothing to do with that. Okay? Are you going to kill hundreds of innocent people if it means getting your revenge? Are you willing to do that Nolan?”

  Nolan wasn’t paying attention. He saw Tom Tremblay hanging on for dear life on the roof of Kong. With a smile hidden under the bandana, Nolan brought Goliath closer to the back end of the blue MBT, pushing the steel bumper closer.

  The audio of Run Baby Run cut out. The sound of Goliath and Kong hurtling down Santa Monica Boulevard was the only music now.

  Nolan yanked the steering wheel to the left. Goliath switched lanes, accompanied by a spurt of loud barking from the two collies in the back. He put the pedal to the floor, pushing Goliath’s diesel turbine engine to the limit. The silver MBT pulled level alongside Kong.

  “Hold on!” Nolan yelled to his passengers.

  He jerked the wheel to the right, ramming Kong hard on its left side. There was a delicious, crunching noise as chrome sliced chrome. This was followed by a high-pitched scream from Kong’s roof. Nolan glanced up just in time to see the denim blur of Tom Tremblay falling overboard.

  “No!” Axel howled over the sound of barking dogs. “Did you just kill Tom Tremblay?”

  Nolan shrugged. “Get back in your seat Axel, I won’t tell you again.”

  Reluctantly, Axel disappeared down the aisle.

  Nolan looked to his right and saw a gallery of horrified faces pressed up against both the lower and upper deck windows of Kong. He saw SS, politicians and all the celebrities who’d hitched a ride at the Paramount party. Every last one of them had probably watched Diesel die in the parking lot.

  They were all staring at Goliath as if it was Hell on wheels.

  Nolan couldn’t see Black, but she was in there. Somewhere.

  The black gun barrels on Kong shuddered into life. The left barrel stretched itself out, turning towards the speeding Goliath.

  “They’re going to shoot!” Cowboy Samurai screamed. “Nolan! They’re going to shoot us for God’s sake! Back off.”

  “Heads down!” Nolan barked.

  Axel and the Retaliators dropped to the floor with a sharp thud. Seconds later, Kong unleashed a volley of ferocious machine gun fire at Goliath’s right side. Nolan slammed the brakes, dropping back into the left-hand lane. Kong’s gun followed its target and only stopped shooting when Goliath had slipped back into the right lane, taking up position behind Kong, safely out of firing range.

  “Holy shit,” somebody yelled from the back. “What are we doing?”

  “Stay down,” Nolan said. “This isn’t over.”

  Nolan kept Goliath at Kong’s rear, pondering his next move. The windows on all the MBTs were bulletproof but that didn’t mean they were impenetrable. There was already a significant crack on Goliath’s right side window. At close range, anything was possible.

  Or maybe they’d try to shoot out the tires next.

  “Think,” Nolan said. “Think damn it.”

  As he stared at Kong his eyes wandered back to the empty roof where five minutes ago, Tom Tremblay had been miming his greatest hits.

  “Think.”

  The idea hit Nolan like a slap in the face.

  He didn’t bother to think it over. Instead he followed the nudge of instinct, pushing Goliath back into the left-hand lane and bringing its massive silver chrome alongside Kong once again.

  “Hi,” Nolan said, waving at Kong’s frightened spectators.

  Kong was shooting again. The bulletproof glass on Goliath’s right side withstood the initial blast but Nolan saw the cracks forming and fast. At this range, the bulletproof sheets could only stand up to so much hell on earth firepower.

  “Why aren’t you shooting back?” Axel asked. “Nolan! Shoot dammit!”

  “Don’t shoot!” Cowboy Samurai said. “Get us out of here.”

  Nolan didn’t respond to any of them. He glanced up at Kong’s roof again, ready to gamble on the possibility that Tremblay had left the sunroof open during his concert for Jezebeth.

  It was a gamble. But if it was open then it was an opportunity to launch a surprise counter attack.

  “Nolan!” Eagle Boy called out from the back. “Pull back for God’s sake. We’re getting creamed out here man. Lisa’s pregnant remember?”

  Nolan’s eyes scanned the dashboard, his finger scrolling along the display panel. This was the weapons dash and Nolan was searching for the little oval-shaped icon that highlighted Goliath’s supply of smoke bombs. When Nolan found it he held his finger down over the icon and a flashing red light appeared. This light signaled that a panel on Goliath’s roof was sliding open.

  “C’mon,” he said, pulling Goliath back a little to avoid sitting directly in the line of fire.

  There was a shrill, whining noise above his head.

  Nolan watched the 3D simulation on the dash – it was an electronic reconstruction of what was unfolding elsewhere on Goliath. The mechanical dispenser arm on the roof was at present emerging from the upper deck panel, unfolding a set of steel fingers – the claw. This steel claw was carrying a Grade One smoke bomb.

  The 3D display flashed, indicating that the set up maneuver was complete.

  Nolan lowered his bandana and sucked in a hit of cool air. He’d launched smoke bombs at targets before on the show but this time it wasn’t scripted.

  He pushed the gas pedal.

  Goliath rolled up alongside Kong. This time Nolan fired Goliath’s right gun, hoping that it would cover his ploy to line up the steel claw. There was little chance that the SS man behind the wheel or anyone on board Kong would suspect what Nolan was doing. These people didn’t know the MBTs – didn’t know everything they were capable of.

  Goliath and Kong drove side-by-side, exchanging gunfire like two old warships on the high seas.

  Nolan heard a beep on the dashboard. The steel claw was fully extended and ready to launch.

  “Alright,” he said.

  Nolan opened up the targeting display. He gripped the black joystick, his eyes darting back and forth between the road and the navigation panel, which was a blur of speed, distance and accuracy predictors.

  He targeted the steel claw using the simulation screen. One hand was on the wheel, the other on the joystick. He knew he was going too fast but he couldn’t slow down, not if he wanted to stay in line with the fleeing Kong.

  The target was locked.

  Nolan’s thumb kissed the launch switch.

  “Work dammit.”

  He released a series of smoke bombs in rapid-fire succession. Three loud beeps told Nolan that the bombs had been evacuated. With this confirmation, he touched the brakes, pulling Goliath back out of the firing line. But this time Nolan kept the MBT in the left lane.

  He watched and waited.

  A second later, Kong jerked backwards on the road.

  “Yes!”

  Nolan pumped a fist in the air.

  The blue MBT swerved left and right in a frantic rhythm that was picking up speed fast. Nolan put his foot to the floor, bringing Goliath alongside its little brother vehicle. He looked to his right. Clouds of smoke gushed out of Kong’s open windows. The MBT was a thick fog on the inside, rendering it a time bomb on wheels.

  Nolan tapped the brakes, pulling Goliath out of harm’s way.

  About ten seconds later, Kong took a sudden right, careering off Santa Monica Boulevard and bouncing over the grounds of a Shell gas station. The blue MBT missed the first row of pumps by inches but seconds later crashed into the station building, which brought the smoky joyride to a sudden and violent halt. The station window shattered under the impact, sending fragments of glass spraying in all directions.

  Nolan slammed the brakes, bringing Goliath to a stop in the middle of the road. He sat there for a minute, staring over at Kong on the other side of the street. He felt pity for the vehicle itself, which spat grayish-black smoke from its battered hood.

  “I think we were safer taking our chances on the streets,” Cowboy Samurai said, fanning his sweaty face with his Stetson.