“Chills is nasty,” explained one of the other medics when Jeremiah asked. “Pounding migraine, blocked sinuses, usually a cough- the usual physical stuff. But then there’s the cold. For a mild case, patients experience fits of intermittent shivering; up to two hours at a time. Do you know how taxing that is for the body? But in bad cases, patients think they’re experiencing all the worst parts of hypothermia.”
“Think?”
“Patients with Chills usually run a pretty high fever, which we think is what leads to the hallucinations. I had a guy once rip his toe off because he was convinced it was coming off from frostbite. People will do anything to try and get warm; that’s why they’ve got to be monitored. They’re a hazard to themselves and others.”
--
Avery Ward arched an eyebrow as her gaze raked over the three of them.
“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” None of them smiled, and she waved over an underling. “Fetch a medic to come see to them, especially… Mr Bauble here.” She smirked at Jeremiah and he glowered back. “Did you get the file?”
Gliridae reached into his saxophone case and wordlessly tossed it onto the desk. Normally immaculate, his clothes were scuffed and his bushy facial hair was smeared with dirt. Dark bags hung under his eyes, and he sat awkwardly in his chair, trying not to put weight on the buttock that had been shot.
Bill was listing dangerously to one side, skin sallow and clothes crusted with blood. He looked exhausted beyond words, and when the medic entered he shut his eyes and allowed himself to be tended to without so much as a grumble.
Avery Ward inspected the file and, seeming to find the unbroken tape to her satisfaction, locked it away in a drawer in her desk. From the same keychain, she selected another key and made her way to a filing cabinet, from which she drew three large stacks of cash.
“As promised: 500 clips each. Now we can put this miserable business behind us.” She paused, and once again her eyes raked over them. “I would have expected more jubilation from you. What is it? Is 500 clips no longer good enough?” When they didn’t reply, she sighed and sat brusquely back down in her chair. “Come on, have it out: how did you get the file back, start with that?”
Sensing the others’ reluctance, Jeremiah leaned forward.
“Well it was with the Props, like we thought. And getting it out was… a messy business, but we anticipated that too. But…” he hesitated, wondering if he should say. But why not? He owed Julie Matthes nothing, and she’d probably killed Wellington. “We were accosted by the Mattheses on the way back. They didn’t know we had the file, but they’d heard we were working for you, and they wanted us… basically, they wanted us to turn on you. Said that they’re going to be out causing havoc tonight, and wanted our help.”
Avery frowned, and nodded, jotting down a few quick notes.
“And did you agree?”
Before Jeremiah could respond, Bill suddenly started to, brushing the medic off with a small gesture that was enough to send the woman staggering.
“I need you to arrest Mr Vandemeer.” Jeremiah and Gliridae both turned to him in confusion at the non-sequitur, but Avery Ward’s expression remained unchanged. “Surely you must have enough information on him to lock him up for the next fifty years. I know you know what he does. I know you know where he hides. They’re stretched thin at the moment, trying to follow the Mattheses on top of everything else- now is the time to go in and get him.”
The Silver considered him, twirling her pen. She didn’t frown so much as exude an air of irritation at being addressed in this way.
“Well, yes; we could. However, the Silvers are going to be busy tonight.” She gave Jeremiah a sly smile, and he clenched his hands underneath the desk. “We have it on good authority that the Mattheses are going to be… wreaking havoc. Now, perhaps if the three of you could derail their plans, we’d be able to turn our attention elsewhere.” She leant back in her seat. “But since Jeremiah never plans on working with us again…”
Bill swivelled, once again flinging the medic off him.
“Jeremiah, please. You and I both know Mr Vandemeer will never let me pay off my debt. My only chance at a good life- a life with Mirabeth- a life where I don’t have to watch my damn back every damn minute of every damn day- is if that man is behind bars. Jeremiah.”
Jeremiah hesitated, worrying his lower lip.
“Are we just trading one enemy for another? Mr Vandemeer will be locked up, but Julie Matthes will be after us instead. Is that better?” he asked his friend.
“The Mattheses kill those who get on their bad side,” murmured Avery Ward. “While the Props will imprison, mutilate or torture you, and then kill you anyway. Personally, I would rather the devil I don’t know in this case. And besides, we can see to Judy Matthes later on. We have enough information on them both for several lifetimes in Lockup.”
Jeremiah looked between her and Bill; Bill stared back imploringly. The ex-Silver sighed and shut his eyes, weighing his options.
He had the money. He could make good on what he’d said before, walk away… never help the Silvers again. Bury himself in his work, finish his medical training, and wash his hands of the whole matter. It was the smart choice. No more stress; no more threats; no more violence. His own practice: Dr Brahms will see you now.
He opened his eyes again and looked into Bill’s, and knew he couldn’t do that. He’d always had tunnel vision when it came to his friends; even when it came at others’ expense. Even when it came at his own.
He sighed and turned back to Avery Ward.
“And if we distract the Mattheses, you’ll take care of the Props?” he asked. She nodded. “Then we’ll do it- I mean, Bill and I will do it. I can’t speak for Gliridae.” They all looked to the tiny musician.
Gliridae seemed to consider for a long moment, before shrugging.
“I wouldn’t mind those guys being put away. Julie Matthes at least seems like she could be reasoned with, but I’d rather the Props weren’t out looking for me or anyone I like. They already shot me once,” he grinned at this, though the joke was at his own expense. “I’d like to avoid it happening again. I’ll help if yeh want me to.”
Bill smiled, hesitated, and then dragged Gliridae into a crushing hug. Muffled noises of protests emerged from deep within the enormous man’s arms, and Jeremiah was fairly certain he heard several joints crunch. Finally, he let go, and Gliridae re-emerged looking equal parts shocked and outraged. It seemed to suddenly occur to Bill what he had done, because he cleared his throat and looked away.
“I appreciate that. Mightily. Um. Thanks, Gliridae.”
Avery Ward rolled her eyes.
“Charming. I assume you have all the information you need to handle the Mattheses?” They nodded. “In that case, don’t bother coming back here afterwards. I’d rather not see you again.”
“There is one thing, actually,” cut in Bill. “My partner, Mirabeth- I’m worried the Props are going to come looking for me, and that they’re going to find her. Is there any way you can send someone to watch over her, just until Mr Vandemeer and the rest have been caught?”
The Silver pursed her lips, and Jeremiah wondered if she was getting sick of being asked for favours by wildings. After a tense moment, she leaned back in her chair.
“Fine. We’ll have her brought to the station overnight. She won’t be locked up, don’t worry: we’ll put her in the waiting room. All this this should be done by morning. Is that good enough for you?”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Bill nodded.
“Some more ammunition would also be appreciated,” added Jeremiah as they rose to leave. She sighed, but called in a lower-level Silver to provide them with the necessary bullets. Conversation apparently over, they were then led back to the medical bay by the by-now very disgruntled medic, who finished tending to Bill’s wounds and checked over Jeremiah’s work on himself and Gliridae. While she was focussed on the enormous man, Jeremiah glanced to his smaller friend.
“What’s your issue with the sanationis tablets?”
Gliridae grimaced, pulling the bottle out of his pocket and turning it over.
“There was a wilding, around forty years ago- leporine. Had long ears and rabbit teeth, and was albino too. Well, he was sent to lockup and they found that he had these crazy healing abilities- some extra part of his mutation.” The musician paused, looking to Jeremiah. “I’m sure you can guess how they figured that out.”
Jeremiah could.
“He vanished after that,” Gliridae continued. “Just disappeared into the system. But a few years down the line, these little tablets hit the market. They help speed up healing through using two coenzymes that help with protein synthesis. A medical miracle, hey?” He offered Jeremiah the bottle. On the label, above the word Sanationis, was a logo of a white rabbit peering out of a magician’s hat.
“How do you know about this?” asked Jeremiah. Gliridae slipped the bottle back into his pocket.
“I think he was my uncle. It’s hard to say- my grandma wouldn’t talk about it. I don’t even know his name.”
Jeremiah opened his mouth to say- what? Ideally something comforting, but his mind went blank. How do you respond to that?- but was interrupted by the door swinging open.
“Captain Ward says that you should sleep here, since you’re leaving again tonight,” said the Silver at the door. He paused eyes landing on Jeremiah’s wings. “Are you-“
“No,” Jeremiah all but snarled, and the man fled. The es-Silver sagged backwards, running a hand down his face. He was exhausted.
One look at Bill and Gliridae told him they were too, and in tacit agreement they began to shed their outer layers. The medic left soon after, and- too exhausted to talk much further- the group collapsed into the medical room cots.
It had been two years since he left the Silvers, but at this point Jeremiah was sure the dreams would never end. As his eyes fluttered shut, he could already smell the smoke from the fire, feel the fear of the day creeping at the edge of the consciousness.
I don’t want he thought, and then sleep overwhelmed him.
--
In stories, bad events always took place in the dark of night, under a sheet of pouring rain. In reality, the worst day of Jeremiah’s life began on a warm Thursday in late spring.
The first sign Jeremiah had that something was wrong was the voices. He was writing notes in his office with the window open, enjoying the gentle breeze which cut through an otherwise humid day. He’d wrapped up a fairly high-profile case the day before, and was putting together the report that would like be presented in his case for promotion. There was yelling in the courtyard, but there often was- the trainers liked to bring the new recruits out there, to train for others’ entertainment. Sighing, Jeremiah closed the window and tried to focus.
A few minutes later, the voices had intensified so that they could be heard even through the window- or was it down the hall? Climbing to his feet, Jeremiah opened his office door and staggered back as the acrid tang of smoke hit the back of his throat. The penny dropped and he raced from his office, following the voices out into the courtyard. Other Silvers milled, uncertain- had the fire services been notified? Were they coming? Where was the bell ringer?
Finally, it seemed the bell ringer awoke, and the clanging reverberated through the compound. Run it sounded, runnnnnnnnn.
Jeremiah stared back at the building he’d just exited, coworkers streaming out. But there were more than just Silvers in that building. Hesitating for only a moment, he found his keys and dashed back in, through a door that led towards the inmates.
Inside this wing, it was chaos: smoke clouded the air, and the heat made Jeremiah’s skin prickle, sweat immediately beading along his brow. He made his way down the corridor, unlocking the doors he could to let the occupants out. Some fled immediately; others tugged at his arms and his clothes, trying to thank him.
“Get out,” he told them. “You can thank me later.”
One of the hands which grabbed at him turned out to be Reece Orven.
“What are you doing, man?” he yelled over the bell ringer and the rumble in the background. “You’ve got to get out, right now! Wait for the fire services they can help.”
“There are people in there, Reece. People. Chained in place, about to die.”
“You’re going to die with them,” was Reece’s reply, and he disappeared into the haze.
The smoke thickened, and the heat grew to be nearly unbearable. The locks were too hot to touch, so Jeremiah resorted to drawing his handgun and shooting his way in. He reached the end of the corridor and turned right, making his way indiscriminately through the maze that was Lockup. His only goal was to get as many people out their cells as possible- he could only hope they found their own way into the courtyard. There was a rumble in the distance, and the ground beneath him shuddered: somewhere a wall had collapsed. Jeremiah bit his lip and pressed on- if the building came down around him, so be it.
A dozen doors later and he was out of ammo; he’d used most of it in the raid yesterday, hadn’t gotten around to refilling it. Cursing his own short sightedness, he turned to make his way back outside when he realised what section of the building he was in.
Realised the Bill was chained up three doors down.
Flipping his gun around in his hand, he used the handle to begin beating the doorknob- to no avail. Inside, he could hear Bill yelling and cursing as he fought to free himself from his chains. Casting the handgun aside, Jeremiah began to throw himself at the door. Again and again, until his shoulder was screaming, and then he changed angles and redoubled his efforts with the opposite shoulder.
“Jeremiah!” Like a spectre from the smoke, Doc Claude appeared. “It’s all collapsing- you need to get out.”
“Bill’s in there!” Jeremiah yelled back desperately. Doc Claude stopped, then motioned for Jeremiah to step back; pulling out his own gun, he shot straight through the lock, and the door swung open.
“Get out, I’ll get Bill.”
“I’m not-“
Doc Claude rounded on him.
“You don’t have the keys and you don’t have the strength- not for Bill’s chains. Get out Jeremiah, and leave this to me.
In the days and weeks which would follow, Jeremiah would replay this moment every time he closed his eyes. He would imagine shaking his head, insisting that the doctor allow him to help. Insisting that the doctor give him the keys and be the one to leave instead. Insisting on any alternative course of action.
Instead, Jeremiah’s Silver training kicked in.
“Yes, sir. I’ll see you outside.”
He began to fight his way back towards the exit. Even dropping to his knees, the smoke was choking and the heat unbearable. Struggling to breathe, Jeremiah realised the world was swimming.
Then there was a rumble, and a crash, and everything went black.
--
Jeremiah came to a week later to four bits of news. The first was that he’d received his promotion, not just to captain but to Special Ops. The second was that he’d been approved for a set of bionic wings, in honour of his heroism. The third was that Big Bad Bill Bauble had been granted early release, for saving the life of a Silver.
And the final was that Doc Claude was dead.
“You look terrible,” said Bill, when he came to visit later that week. “And I’m sure you’ll look even worse when that bandage comes off your face.”
Jeremiah huffed, but the laugh died on his lips. There was a long silence.
“I wish you’d saved the doctor, instead,” he said finally. Bill rocked back on his heels, pink burns still visible on patches of his skin too.
“I carried you both out. Can’t ask me to do more than that.”
“He shouldn’t have been there,” muttered Jeremiah. “It’s my fault he was there.”
“And it’s my fault you were there,” snapped Bill. “Ain’t no use in pointing fingers- what’s done is done. It's a damn shame, though, 'cause men like Doc Claude are rare. You’re not going to find another one anytime soon, especially not one willing to work for the Silvers. But it's done.”
Jeremiah nodded, forcing back the tears. He’d allowed himself to cry at home, in the dead hours of the night, with nothing but the dark for company; not in this makeshift medbay, where the nurses or the other patients might see.
Somehow, he wouldn't have minded if it was just Bill.
“I just wish I’d had a chance to say goodbye,” he said finally, staring at the bedsheets, the walls, anything but meeting Bill’s gaze. “He had so much to teach me- so much to do- and I feel like, if he’d known he was going to die, he could have made sure to tell it to me. At least the salient points. And he could have told me what he wanted me to do for him now that he can’t do it himself.”
There was a long silence, and he finally forced himself to make eye contact.
'Big Bad Bill' Bauble was once again giving him a very strange look: half curious and half sad. Eventually, the enormous man shuffled
“I’ve lost a lot of people in my time,” he said, voice quiet. “Most of them unexpected. More often than not, I don’t get to say goodbye. But most times, you know what they’re going to say. If not in your head, then in your heart and your gut. Think about it; I’m sure you can guess what his ‘salient points’ would be.”
They didn't talk much after that; a few minutes later, Bill left.
That night, Jeremiah found himself unable to sleep, staring at the ceiling and thinking about Doc Claude. Unable to fight the tears, the least he could do was cry silently.
Bill was right: he knew what the doctor would say to him if he could, had known it for months in everything but his head. But he’d been ignoring that fact: it would change everything, and he liked things unchanged. He'd liked his life.
Now, he couldn’t push these thoughts back any longer. Like waking up and discovering that your clothes were made from skin, Jeremiah had an awareness now that he couldn’t turn off and he couldn’t ignore. Things that had used to seem routine, comfortable, were now jarring to him. Like the stiff cloth of his uniform, his whole life seemed to chafe. Everything would have to change.
Jereimah was able to receive his wings while convalescing from the fire: the metal jointing went straight into his back between his shoulder blades, cutting away what would have been scar tissue anyway. It took four months to be released, and another three to receive the all-clear from the medical team. That day, he handed in his resignation and made his way down to the Boiler Room. In the centre table sat a familiar figure.
“First round is on me,” said Bill. “But only because your face is a mess.”