Traine wandered the streets of Fanningsbrug. A layer of water floated on the pavement and drive road. The clogged sinks were unable to dispose of the rainwater to the sewer system. Since the city’s shipping port had been abandoned, the major selling point of Fanningsbrug vanished. The real estate built to encompass the long investment in Fanningsbrug harbor became a magnet for opportunists. And now the husk of the once lived in homes cast a looming shadow. Abandoned by its governance, abandoned by its people.
He suddenly halted, in front of a red bricked house. He peered in the dust layered window. Traine smiled lightly, remembering his grandparents. He climbed wide front steps towards the door and found a faux golden key, hidden under a flower pot. ‘Creak’, “I’m home,” he casually stated. And racked his brown cotton-lined jacket upon a dark brown leather coat. “Nice seeing you, grandpa,” he slapped the coat, “next time we visit you can give it to me.”
He passed a vintage natural dark wooden shoe closet and ran his fingers on the top, decorated with a gold three pitched chandelier. “It's been long, too long.” He strolled towards the living room, “you know. I have a son. We’re like two peas in a pot, or Sara says so haha,” he laughed out loud. And rapidly pulled the slipcover of the Thomas Loyd three seater.
Traine sat down. “I remember Nana screaming about my jean buttons. It scared the living shit out of me whenever I moved my butt on the couch. Oh and when Gower asked for attention, burrowing those paws of his on my thigh. I have to confess those paws may have slightly scratched your leather. Forgive Gower and me, please. On the other hand Guss has some blame.”
He rewinded time as a film, running after Guss who robbed him of his red metallic fighter plane. After a few drops, the small flat head screws rambled in the metal shell. Which sharply increased whenever Guss started hopping around tauntingly. Traine got up and followed the figment of Guss running upstairs on the carpeted steps. The jumbling screws echoed like a church bell’s ‘ding dong’ in his mind, harder and louder.
Guss stood above the stairs signaling Traine to follow, he circled the plane around. After the third cycle the red plane twirled in a spinning crash, the bolts and screws and broken metal parts tumbled off the stairs. The silvery propeller fell at Train’s feet, he picked it in a pinching manner between his index and thumb, inspecting it closely. The propeller faded like subatomic particles imploded each individual atom to its last.
The broken parts, screws and bolts of the plane scattered on the stairway faded like its propeller shortly after. Where are you going? Guss. He climbed the stairs, the creaking of the wooden steps startled Guss, he ran to the right towards their old room. Traine hesitated, “Argh! Migraines, fucking migraines,” with hands on head, presuring his skull. Relieved the pain to a more manageable sharpness,“I have to stop using it, it's increasing bit by bit.” Paralink, a self named ability, connects those of the past to answer the seeking present.
He entered their childhood room “Show me,” he growled. “SHOW ME!”
Faint outlines of toys and even his old friend teddy sprawled on the brown rug, their beds and even, on and inside their toy storing furniture. Guss crawled under the bed, Traine followed. Traine found in place of Guss an old dark-green, postcard stickered violin case. “Guss, is this what you wanted me to find?” Traine felt a mental nod, and the room turned back to the dust, half empty state.
Traine threw the violin case on Guss’s old bed. The made bed was red, his favorite color. And flipped the two scratched up bronzed clasps. Inside. Traine expected a violin, what he did not expect was a coverless, ordinary book.
He flipped through the pages, blank pages, getting agitated. “At least something has to be written,” and kept flipping till the last page. “Guss! You may be the oldest one bu…” The head pain again increased sharply. “No, no, no” he crazed. “No, no…” and turned back to himself. “You are right Guss. This is important, you have never been wrong before.”
He hurled downstairs, towards the coat rack, and switched his own coat for the vintage dark brown leather coat. “Another time, another coat. You always bought new ones anyways.” At the door, he again felt the mental nod and turned towards the living room. Two waving elders with a boy, Guss grinning and said their goodbyes. Traine felt a creeping need to cry but kept from doing so. And rapidly turned towards the door, almost running, and jumped off the stoops.
Fuck! It never has been this intense. He thought as gazed at the house. I hope to meet your brother Guss. It felt nice being that guy. The only thing I can do for Keen is to be as nice as your folks. He waved one last goodby.
Dusk settled in, street lamps lit, flickering in interval once or thrice each five seconds. The empty street felt as a serenity to Traine. Only ruined by the squealing tires and sirens in the background. As Traine trotted on the walkway towards the eagle premier, he heard not far from him, a sole subsonic round fired.
This was not unusual to him, depending on the application, subsonic rounds are more accurate at closer ranges. He learned that from Sara when they were younger. And now both Mickey and he carry with subsonic, since most kills are scratch and bite close.
He entered the car, and turned the key, Mick loves this car. He will replace it anyways. “Vroom!” He throttled the car and noticed the gas closing in empty, I better keep it controlled. Traine shifted and drove off towards Bridgeport, they better not be first.
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The eagle premier entered 7th street slowly driving as if in search of something, I can’t see the car I imagine Mickey would drive in. It was dark and shops helped the streetlights with the visibility. He drove further on the two-lane street which narrowed, squeezed between row huge apartment complexes. A maintenance crew blocked his traffic side. The gasmasked group carried high-powered tools, and oxygen tanks climbing down the lidless manhole.
Another gas explosion? Traine wondered. He gave priority towards the incoming traffic like the good behaving citizen he pretends to be. Whilst passing the manhole incident, he scanned around for familiar faces and also for number 1097. “No, that's 879,” he complained.
A distance further, the shaded faces turned unrecognizable in the cloudy light and the tally of apartments turned back two digits. “Fuck, I have past it. 1097! How difficult can it be, you idiot!.” he self-ridiculed.
And u-turned the opposite direction, and gazed upon the again better lighted walkway. A store pulled his attention, the yellow parchment paper like, wide sign, read out 1097. “That Camwell with his trickery, I’ll beat him up later” Traine said at no one in particular. “Wait!” and smashed his wheel. Fucking phones! I told Mickey to throw it away. Traine zoned out.
Then suddenly made a choice, and parked the car in a free spot. This eagle premier… Mickey would recognize it, that 80s geek, he surely will, right?. And stepped out of the car towards 1097.
He peered in the window, dark. An old western type of store, some trinkets close to the window gunslingers and those undying cactuses, this one seems a bit too yellow greenish. Camwell may be cunt, but he is always right. And knocked on the small windowed door.
“Knock” “Knock” “Knock”
“Who's that!” a grumpy voice asked harshly.
This shit again? He exhaled a deep sigh out.
“Who’s that!” It asked again just as harshly.
“Wyatt Earp…” he answered displeased.
“Oh it's you good sir,” said a short woman of waist length height. She Opened the door, his immediate thought. Wrinkled. Like older than the seven seas. Wearing a green hex patterned shirtwaist house dress. She politely gestured a bow, and guided Traine inside.
“Don’t mind the fickle things, I had to make this store uninteresting, as much as possible for humans. Even then, ughhh those stupid tourist.” She flinched, halted and faced Traine. “Oops! Pardon my language, lord.” and bowed.
“Nomatter continue,” he slid it past
“Our mutual friend Camwell suggested it as a cover up. I hated life then, the only time worth mentioning was 49 and I still have some leftovers.”
“It was bloody indeed,” said Train. Again, with that cold hard face of his.
They entered the storage room a white board came into view. A detailed plan, held by western themed magnets from the store. Another kill or wait kills, no, many kills.
“If I may ask. I was told you would be accompanied with a shifter” she stated carefully. “And Camwell also told you about your human pet. Is she anywhere around” she brazenly asked. “I like them, girls, young and soft.”
That fucking Camwell or was it Mickey, sissifying Keen’s description.
“Go back to the job, I can’t waste time in shithole”
“Alright sir.” she bowed again.
“And quit with the sir, use lord-king instead” Traine demanded, and that’s for my son, ugly bitch!
“Lord-king. We received intel about a group of bloodsuckers acting as savages, leaving dried empty meat sacks out in the open. The Nosfaru want this problem gone. It’s almost uncontainable. Their influence already took a nosedive thirteen years ago, they can’t have that again.”
The woman held a point stick and tapped the whiteboard, changing its content to pictures ordered on hierarchy. “This one, Gorg Velmon, is their leader. Around 300 years, no older record. It said he spews fire, but no one left alive to tell, here.” She passed the scroll.
“Be careful, that’s the original and only document.” she warned.
“Be careful lord-king.” Traine corrected. “I warn you one last time,” and choked the old hag, lifting her up by the throat. “Do! Not! Disrespect your lord-king.” Traine paused grinning inwardly. “Correction lord-king-emperor.” She hastily nodded.
Traine dropped her on the floor, she fell like a bag of bones. The old hag swiftly knelt and pleaded silently, waiting for forgiveness.
“Get up hag!” Traine ordered.
“Yes, lord-king-emperor.”
“Fetch the documents, all in order.”
“As you command my lord-king-emperor.” In a blink of an eye, a neat, sorted stack of papers appeared on the table. “Now as punishment.” fuck you Mickey or Camwell! Both of you probably. “You stand in this specific corner” Traine pointed at the most left corner. “For exactly five days. During these five you cannot move, not even a tiny bit. Is that clear?”
“Yes my lord-king-emperor.”
Traine grabbed the stack of papers and held it against his side. Without a bat of an eye left the store. He walked a few feet and comfortably leaned against a support pillar. He pulled out a cigarette pack, only one left. Put it in his mouth and feinted a motion of lighter with his thumb and middle finger. ‘Snap’ he magically lit the cigarette. I promised Sara. Not that smoking is bad for my health, it’s just that Keen… I should be responsible father for Keen.