Nolan's Ark Read online

“Oh my God,” Viking Chick said, walking down the aisle in slow motion. Her mouth was hanging open but she was kind of smiling. “I was scared shitless but that was incredible.”

  “Smoked ’em out,” Nolan said, leaping over the cabin door. He stretched his limbs, which cracked in unison.

  “What do we do now?” Axel asked, following Viking Chick to the front.

  “You do nothing,” Nolan said, turning to face the small group. “The smoke bomb was the easy bit but this thing isn’t over.”

  Axel shook his head.

  “They’ve got Secret Service guys on that bus Nolan,” he said. “With guns and shit. We don’t have guns.”

  Nolan pointed towards the wreck in the Shell station.

  “Don’t worry kid,” he said. “We’ve got them on the back foot. Look, they haven’t even tried to come outside yet and Kong’s filling up with more smoke than you can imagine right now. They can’t see shit, they can hardly breathe and they’re still not rushing outside – you know why? Black’s orders. Because she doesn’t want to risk losing the MBT to us. Without that, she’s screwed. Without Kong she’s just an old woman walking through a madhouse without bars.”

  Nolan smiled.

  “But they will come out.”

  He hit the door release and walked away. Axel’s skinny arm shot out and grabbed Nolan’s wrist.

  “But they’ve got guns Nolan. Guns.”

  “Don’t worry,” Nolan said, gently removing Axel’s hand from his wrist. “I’ll bring some back.”

  He jumped off the step and marched across the deserted street.

  All the windows had been opened in Kong. They were desperate in there, doing everything they could to save their asses. If they could release the smoke from the inside without getting out they had a chance of keeping their fortress on wheels.

  But Nolan knew that wasn’t the end of it. They’d have to come out and check the engine to assess the damage. There was no guarantee that Kong would just roll out of Dodge after a meaty smash like that.

  He didn’t have to wait long.

  When the doors hissed open a giant cloud of smoke gushed from the doorway. Kong had just puked a king-sized fog over Hollywood.

  Jezebeth Black’s personal security team, who were all Secret Service, stormed out of the bus, coughing and choking into the back of their hands.

  The smoke chased the SS outside, drifting towards Santa Monica Boulevard like an evil presence. The Shell station quickly became a blurry haze in its wake, offering little in the way of visibility.

  Nolan crept through the fog. He was all over the SS as they hurried outside. They couldn’t see him, couldn’t hear him over the sound of their choking. Nolan sent the first one down with a stiff right to the jaw. He ran into the next man and did the same. Nolan knew exactly where to hit a man in order to turn his lights out with one shot. The chin – the chin was key to bouncing the brain inside the head. With just the right amount of force and precision the knockout was guaranteed every single time. It was even better when they didn’t see the punch coming.

  “He’s in here!” an SS voice yelled. “He’s in the station.”

  Nolan was in full flow. He knocked out one, two, three, four of the SS. But when more ran outside Nolan was forced to take a backwards step. Men in black suits, armed with pistols, charged blindly into the smoke. Some of them shot wildly, hoping to win the lottery.

  “Kill that bastard!”

  Nolan maintained a low posture, knees bent as he dodged gunfire.

  Somebody grabbed him on the shoulder.

  “You lousy bastard,” an infuriated voice spat.

  Nolan spun around. He grabbed the wrist attached to the hand and with his other hand, snapped the three middle fingers back as far as they went. There was a loud crack. Small joint manipulation – that’s what they called it back in his fighting days. Illegal in sports, highly effective in life or death situations.

  The SS man screamed. Nolan head-butted him in the face, sending him down stiff like a falling tree.

  Nolan was like a violent ballet dancer, pirouetting his way through the smoke. He felt light on his feet, limitless, while Black’s SS goons were still dazed and confused after the crash.

  He was a few meters from Kong’s door when a huge fat man with a lead pipe jumped off the step. It was Chris Black, Jezebeth’s only son. This guy wasn’t SS. He was dressed in a bright blue suit with a white shirt, collar hanging open. Dirty brown hair spilling down his face. Chris Black was a regular media bad boy, connected with all kinds of illegal activity. It had been suggested on more than one occasion that Jezebeth’s baby boy had ties to the mob in New York.

  “Son of a bitch!” he said. “I’m going to kill you.”

  Chris swung the lead pipe as if he was trying to decapitate Nolan with a single blow. Nolan recognized the pipe as a prop from Goliath.

  Chris’s burst of aggression forced Nolan backwards across the gas station. As he retreated into the blackish-gray fog, Nolan heard a flurry of movement at his back. Some of the SS were back on their feet and buzzing around Nolan like flies. Fortunately they were unarmed, their pistols buried underneath all the smoke.

  “Get him!” somebody yelled.

  Nolan was in trouble. He couldn’t deal with a pack of SS and a lead pipe swinging gangster at the same time.

  “Hey! Over here.”

  Nolan looked back towards the road. Emerging through the mist he saw Eagle Boy and Typhoon, pumping their arms and legs in unison as they dashed across the street towards the gas station. Eagle Boy’s out of control wings flapped at his back. Typhoon’s ninja mask was back over his face.

  “What the hell is that?” an SS voice asked.

  “Are they dressed up as the Retaliators?”

  “That is The Retaliators. That’s Eagle Boy and Typhoon. Well, well, well – looks like everyone’s dressing up tonight.”

  The SS, leaving Chris Black to deal with Nolan, went to meet the Retaliators head on.

  “Wait till I tell my son I kicked the shit out of Eagle Boy,” somebody said on their way over.

  Nolan turned back to the front. Chris Black was marching through the thinning smoke towards Nolan, tapping the lead pipe off his hand.

  “You’re dead.”

  Black attacked Nolan in a fit of anger. He gripped the pipe with both hands and swung wildly. There was a deep whooshing noise with each swing. Some of those whooshes got a little too close for Nolan’s liking. Black was overweight but he was powerful and as long as his engine lasted he was a serious threat.

  Nolan bounced on his feet like a prime Muhammad Ali. He used smart side-to-side footwork to stay out of range of Black’s strikes, allowing the big man to exhaust himself by swinging and missing over and over again.

  “Stay away from my mom!” Chris hollered. “You think I’m scared of that stupid dumb ass outfit you’re wearing huh? HUH? HUH?”

  As the two men circled one another, Nolan caught sight of Typhoon and Eagle Boy in the distance. They were both flat on their backs getting their asses kicked.

  WHOOSH!

  The lead pipe sliced through the air, landing inches from Nolan’s face.

  “Shit,” he said.

  He encircled Chris Black again, moving left and right. After Chris missed a few more times, Nolan went for broke. He launched off his right foot, leaping in mid-air, aiming a flying left knee at the big man’s double chin. The shot missed the target but landed on Chris’s neck. Chris staggered backwards and Nolan finished him off with a crisp one-two combination to the head.

  Chris hit the ground, his lights switched off.

  Nolan heard a high-pitched yelp of pain at his back. He spun around and marched through the fog.

  There were four SS guys on their feet and they were easily getting the better of the Retaliators. Two of them were pounding on an exhausted Eagle Boy, using him as a horizontal punch bag. Eagle Boy was trying to throw punches from the ground but Nolan could tell those shots had all the sting of a soft breeze. Same with Typhoon. He was taking a beating from another pair of suits.

  “Who’s your daddy now Typhoon?” one of them said. “Say it. Who’s your daddy? Who’s your daddy you Retaliator bitch?”

  Nolan knelt down beside one of the SS guys lying unconscious. He rummaged through the man’s jacket, searching for the holster. When he found it he pulled out a Heckler and Koch VP9. Nolan checked the pistol’s magazine. It was full.

  He straightened up when he heard a screeching banshee-like wail in the distance. It was Cowboy Samurai. He was in the midst of a belated charge from Goliath, running across the street with a katana over his head.

  “Leave my friends alone!”

  Cowboy Samurai stopped dead when he saw the SS getting to their feet. They walked towards him, all of them. They were done pounding on Eagle Boy and Typhoon, at least for the moment. Now it was Cowboy Samurai’s turn and after that, Nolan thought, there was only a heavily pregnant Viking Chick and Axel left.

  “Oh Jesus,” Cowboy Samurai said. He dropped the sword and held his hands up. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  “Cowboy Samurai!” one of the SS said, panting with exhaustion. “Why you’re my favorite Retaliator of all. I always wondered how your character was going to die. Now I know.”

  Nolan cleared his throat and walked out of the smoke.

  “Hey.”

  The four SS men turned around. Their faces didn’t have time to register the shock before Nolan fired into the smoke, splitting their skulls open. One-two-three-four. They dropped like puppets whose strings had been cut in mid-performance.

  Cowboy Samurai clamped a hand over his mouth. With a muted squeal, he pushed himself up onto his feet and hurried over to his two wounded friends. He dropped to his knees and wailed. r />
  “Oh my God! They’re dead.”

  Nolan shook his head as he walked over.

  “Save it for the Oscars,” he said. “They’re moving aren’t they? Now do me a favor will you? Get your buddies up onto their feet and take them back to Goliath. And this time stay there will you? I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Cowboy Samurai nodded. Then he began rousing his fallen friends.

  Nolan turned around and walked over to Kong, the H&K pistol hanging low at his side. The smoke was thinning. Visibility around the station was returning to normal.

  He stepped onto the bus. It was eerily quiet inside.

  The driver was unconscious or dead at the wheel. His body was slumped at a painful angle, arms and legs pointing in the wrong direction. His pale lips were frozen in a crooked smile.

  Nolan crept quietly down the aisle, wafting the last of the smoke away. He checked the downstairs bathroom first. Empty. With the pistol pointing into the emptiness, Nolan walked further inside Kong, stepping into the lounge area at the back.

  A noise.

  Something tore through the fading smoke, shrieking hysterically.

  Jezebeth Black had a kitchen knife raised above her head. Blood streamed from a cut over her eye and this, intermingled with a layer of sweat-smudged makeup and a demonic facial expression, made her look like one of the better-dressed zombie extras on Goliath.

  “BASTARD!”

  The attack was clumsy but survival instinct took over and Nolan, whose code didn’t include hitting women, snapped a crisp front kick to the belly. The kick landed flush and Jezebeth Black flew down the aisle like Superwoman in reverse.

  She crashed into the back wall and fell to the floor. Jezebeth remained flat on her back, groaning like a wounded bear.

  Nolan began walking towards her but he stopped when he heard a light stampeding noise at his back. He spun around, ready to empty the rest of the H&K’s magazine into Chris Black.

  There was a blur of movement on the stairs. Arms and legs pumped back and forth. The celebrities were fleeing the sinking ship, running down to the lower deck and leaping through the door as if they were jumping out of a plane thirty thousand feet in the air. Some held their hands up as if surrendering to enemy forces. Others covered their noses and mouths with handkerchiefs or shirtsleeves to avoid the smoke. A few coughed uncontrollably.

  In a few seconds they were all gone.

  Nolan turned back to Jezebeth Black. He went over and placed the sole of his boot on her belly. She wriggled in protest, spitting and cursing at Nolan like a caged devil.

  “Motherfucker!” she hissed. “Get off me. Do you know who I am? I’m Jezebeth Black, the next President of the United States.”

  Nolan lowered the bandana, revealing his face. “Remember me?”

  Her eyes widened.

  “You!”

  He crouched down beside her. “Yes. Me.”

  Nolan placed the pistol under her chin.

  “Where’s Rage?”

  “How the fuck should I know?”

  Nolan gave the H&K a gentle shove, forcing Black’s head to tilt back. Now she was staring at the ceiling.

  “Think. Where’s Rage?”

  Black groaned with frustration. “He’s doing what I’m doing for God’s sake. He’s trying to win the election. He’s out campaigning, which means he’s on the move just like I was before you sabotaged my vehicle.”

  Nolan stared at her. “You know he was never going to let you win that election don’t you?”

  “Go to hell. It was a fair contest.”

  “No it wasn’t,” Nolan said.

  He spat in his fingers. Then he rubbed the saliva in and reached his hand towards Black’s face. She flinched but there was nowhere for her to go. Nolan began wiping the red lipstick off her mouth, smudging it so much that she resembled a sad, drunken clown.

  She whimpered under Nolan’s touch.

  “What are you going to do to me?” she asked.

  Nolan backed off down the aisle, raising the rag-like bandana over his face. When he reached the driver’s cabin he removed the key from Kong’s ignition. He slipped the keys into his pocket, reminding himself to grab some guns on his way back. Might need them later.

  “I said what are you going to do to me?” Black sobbed. “Tell me! Please!”

  Nolan stood there, looking at her with pitiless eyes. “Nothing,” he said. “I’m not going to do anything to you.”

  He pointed to the window.

  “The question you want to ask yourself Jezebeth is this – what are they going to do to you?”

  Chapter 10

  The hanging lingered in Kasey’s mind.

  It lingered even more than the massacre at Melrose, a massacre she’d barely survived and where Lars and Charlie had died. At Melrose however, all the worst details had been lost in the frenzy of the crowd. On Sunset Strip, it had been more intimate. There’d only been one man hanging and as he’d slowly died there was nowhere else to look.

  She was sitting in the booth at the back of Jaws. Hands on her face, elbows parked on the table. Everything had gone back to normal on Jaws – if you could call it that. The hedonists were back on the move, disappearing into bedrooms to lose themselves in copious amounts of drugs, alcohol and sex. Kasey didn’t blame them anymore. Pleasure seeking was a perfectly feasible way of blocking out reality. The other members of her family were masters at that.

  The stench of Jack Daniels, which Kasey thought smelled like nail-polish remover, wafted across the aisle.

  Blaze was sprawled on the couch opposite Kasey’s booth. He was drinking straight from the bottle, guzzling whiskey down like it was cold lemonade on a warm summer’s afternoon. The top two buttons on his shirt were loose and there was a shine on his pinkish-white skin. He held his bloody, bandaged hand in midair as he drank, wincing slightly as he moved it back and forth, assessing the damage from different angles.

  Every now and then he’d fix Kasey with a hard stare.

  Kasey averted her eyes but she could feel him watching her.

  She almost cried out with relief when someone else came walking down the aisle towards the rear of the apartment. When Kasey realized it was Shirley Fontaine, the actress, she sat bolt upright, no longer trying to slide down the back of the seat and disappear.

  Holy shit, she thought. Shirley Fontaine.

  Shirley walked past Blaze and slid into the booth, sitting opposite Kasey. She wore a blue and white Goliath t-shirt and baggy gray sweatpants. Merchandise, probably stolen from a prop wardrobe. The t-shirt had a picture of all three MBTs – Goliath, Jaws and Kong – storming through the desert being chased by a giant horde of hungry zombies.

  She’s changed clothes, Kasey thought. Which meant she’d taken her clothes off at some point – like everyone else on the bus.

  “Look at you,” Shirley said, pulling out a pack of Marlboro and a box of matches from the pocket of her sweatpants. She lit up fast like it was a race. Kasey watched the older woman with interest as she inhaled on the cancer stick. Shirley Fontaine was no bland, disposable beauty from the Hollywood machine. Her face had personality. The round blue eyes were tough and alert. Kasey recalled that one movie reviewer had described Fontaine’s face as the face of an urban Athena, streetwise and strong. That about summed it up, Kasey thought.

  Best of all, Shirley was one of the few people on board Jaws who didn’t have cocaine eyes – the bloodshot, dilated pupils that Kasey saw every time her mother walked into the living room at home after having gone for a ‘nap’ in the bedroom. Shirley didn’t even look drunk. Even if she had been screwing all night on Jaws, she wasn’t out of it. That at least was something.

  Blaze spread his legs like a voyeur, basking in a private peep show. His lips toyed with the rim of the bottle.

  “Ain’t you pretty,” Shirley said, the cigarette dangling loose in between her lips. “And scared shitless by the looks of it. Right?”

  Kasey took her elbows off the table.

  “Aren’t you?”

  Shirley laughed and coughed at the same time. “You think I’d be in those bedrooms down there with those creeps if I wasn’t scared? Everything’s got a price baby girl. A seat on this fucked up bus is just like a seat on every other bus in the world. It costs something. ”

  Kasey nodded. “Tell me about it.”

  Shirley dropped her matches on the table next to the Marlboro pack.