and better armed, and Ms. Fate swore constantly under her breath as she fought to keep up with everything else. I guided her through back routes and hidden paths, forced this way and that by blocked-off exits, but always edging closer to our goal. Walker might have his traps and his barricades, and his spies on every street-corner; but I was born in the Nightside, and no-one knows its streets better than I.
We were heading through Chow Down, where we put the seriously extreme ethnic restaurants (cuisine red in tooth and claw), when Ms. Fate glanced in her rear-view mirror and made a clucking noise of disappointment.
“Take a look behind, John; we seem to have acquired unwanted suitors. Really uncouth types.”
I turned around in my seat and looked behind me. Screech gave every indication of being fast asleep, his mouth hanging slightly open. I looked past him, through the rear window, and winced. Walker had put Hell’s Neanderthals on our tail. Now, that was just mean. There were twenty of the massive, hairy creatures, riding souped-up, stripped-down, chopper motorcycles. Great muscular specimens of another kind of human, brought to the Nightside from the ancient past via some travelling Timeslip, and put to work by anyone who needed brawn untroubled by much brain. Hell’s Neanderthals were always ready to do security, body-guarding, or menace for hire, for anyone with hard cash to offer.
They wore long, flapping coats made from the tanned skins of enemies they’d defeated. And eaten. They wore Nazi helmets, lots of trashy jewellery, and a curious mixture of all the major religious symbols. They also wore lengths of steel chain wrapped around their bulky torsos, to use as flails in close combat. Their leaders had swords sheathed on their backs, and I knew from experience that they would be brutal jagged butcher’s blades. Hell’s Neanderthals don’t do subtlety.
They moved up fast behind us, their outriders lashing out with steel-tipped boots at anyone who got too close. I could hear the pack-leaders hooting and howling at each other in their prehuman language, and something in those brutal, primitive sounds made all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I must have made some kind of noise myself, because Screech’s eyes snapped open. He turned languorously to look out the rear window and pulled a face.
“And I thought humans were ugly ... Nature can be very cruel to some people. Any chance we can outrun these evolutionary disasters?”
“Not in this traffic,” said Ms. Fate. “It’s so tightly packed I can’t build up any speed, while those motor-bikes are weaving through the vehicles behind us. It’s times like this I wish I’d invested in that air-to-surface missile system I saw in Motors of Mass Destruction magazine. Find me an open road, John, and those creepy bastards can eat my radioactive dust, but as it is ... Prepare for boarding, chaps. And do try to keep them from chipping the paint-work ...”
“Give me a rundown on the car’s defences,” I said. “What have you got that’s new and nasty?”
“Not a lot, I’m afraid. The machine-guns, of course, but only at the front ... The grenade launchers and the nerve-gas dispensers really need refilling; you know how expensive they are to maintain ... And a few other bits and bobs, but that’s basically it. I’m a street fighter, John; I don’t really do that whole death from afar thing. I’ve always prided myself on being an old-fashioned hands-on sort of girl, dispensing personal beatings to bad guys.”
“Isn’t there anything you can do?” I said.
“Oh sure! I’ll put on some Evanescence; that should put us in the right mood.”
As the music blasted from the in-car speakers, I remembered why I only ever called on Ms. Fate for transport when there was no-one else available.
A motorcycle’s roar contended fiercely with the music as a Hell’s Neanderthal pulled up alongside. He matched his bike’s speed to the car’s and
We were heading through Chow Down, where we put the seriously extreme ethnic restaurants (cuisine red in tooth and claw), when Ms. Fate glanced in her rear-view mirror and made a clucking noise of disappointment.
“Take a look behind, John; we seem to have acquired unwanted suitors. Really uncouth types.”
I turned around in my seat and looked behind me. Screech gave every indication of being fast asleep, his mouth hanging slightly open. I looked past him, through the rear window, and winced. Walker had put Hell’s Neanderthals on our tail. Now, that was just mean. There were twenty of the massive, hairy creatures, riding souped-up, stripped-down, chopper motorcycles. Great muscular specimens of another kind of human, brought to the Nightside from the ancient past via some travelling Timeslip, and put to work by anyone who needed brawn untroubled by much brain. Hell’s Neanderthals were always ready to do security, body-guarding, or menace for hire, for anyone with hard cash to offer.
They wore long, flapping coats made from the tanned skins of enemies they’d defeated. And eaten. They wore Nazi helmets, lots of trashy jewellery, and a curious mixture of all the major religious symbols. They also wore lengths of steel chain wrapped around their bulky torsos, to use as flails in close combat. Their leaders had swords sheathed on their backs, and I knew from experience that they would be brutal jagged butcher’s blades. Hell’s Neanderthals don’t do subtlety.
They moved up fast behind us, their outriders lashing out with steel-tipped boots at anyone who got too close. I could hear the pack-leaders hooting and howling at each other in their prehuman language, and something in those brutal, primitive sounds made all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I must have made some kind of noise myself, because Screech’s eyes snapped open. He turned languorously to look out the rear window and pulled a face.
“And I thought humans were ugly ... Nature can be very cruel to some people. Any chance we can outrun these evolutionary disasters?”
“Not in this traffic,” said Ms. Fate. “It’s so tightly packed I can’t build up any speed, while those motor-bikes are weaving through the vehicles behind us. It’s times like this I wish I’d invested in that air-to-surface missile system I saw in Motors of Mass Destruction magazine. Find me an open road, John, and those creepy bastards can eat my radioactive dust, but as it is ... Prepare for boarding, chaps. And do try to keep them from chipping the paint-work ...”
“Give me a rundown on the car’s defences,” I said. “What have you got that’s new and nasty?”
“Not a lot, I’m afraid. The machine-guns, of course, but only at the front ... The grenade launchers and the nerve-gas dispensers really need refilling; you know how expensive they are to maintain ... And a few other bits and bobs, but that’s basically it. I’m a street fighter, John; I don’t really do that whole death from afar thing. I’ve always prided myself on being an old-fashioned hands-on sort of girl, dispensing personal beatings to bad guys.”
“Isn’t there anything you can do?” I said.
“Oh sure! I’ll put on some Evanescence; that should put us in the right mood.”
As the music blasted from the in-car speakers, I remembered why I only ever called on Ms. Fate for transport when there was no-one else available.
A motorcycle’s roar contended fiercely with the music as a Hell’s Neanderthal pulled up alongside. He matched his bike’s speed to the car’s and
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