History, Politics And Current Affairs

Part 1

The drive South into the Welsh Borders was picturesque but boring. Thankfully, Ms. Jones stayed busy with her phone. Mike handled the bulky crew-cab van with silent precision, stayed within the posted limits. Big Geoff slid out the lap-top on its arm, studied our destination's indifferent plans. Standing in its own expansive but private grounds, there was no 'street view' of Mount View Hall, just Google Earth's inadequate satellite image. Geoff had pulled up fuzzy scans of old, now digitally archived planning documents from two re-works of the site, was obviously displeased with their quality.

My head was still spinning from last night's excess of information.

Seven worlds in parallel ! Us, Solutrea, Wyrm Land, a 'Big Mars', a vile volcanic wasteland, an un-discussed 'other' and a 'weird' one, from whence my 'Skinny Man' and other abhumans apparently hailed !

Tesseract Portals via plaited pentagrams etc, appropriately electrified ! Sacrifices, chanting, wands and thuribles not required, just copper pipe, duct tape and a car battery !

But, 'don't build your own'. Portals bit. Their fauna bit. The destination's geology bit. And, yes, WIRS had a detection system.

I shivered. WIRS had tagged me via CCTV facial recognition at Kirkby Station, seen I'd travelled early. I'd made no comment but, given the reasonable assumption that Ms. Jones said and did nothing without purpose, it warned me to 'play nice'.

They'd not asked me to install extra security or a key-logger on my modest ChromeBook lap-top. What was the point ? I might have GCHQ monitoring my on-line activity. They would find me whether I used an on-line cafe, a library PC or public WiFi...

There was another, chilling aspect. While I was battling my 'Skinny Man', Ms. Jones had quietly killed his two mates, then stood to watch me. Perhaps it was more secure to let me die than swear me to silence ? Perhaps there was the risk my violent abhuman encounter would derange my wits unto aberrant ? Perhaps so little was known about such attacks that my distress, even death was a fair price for the data ? Perhaps she'd planned to wait for me to fall, then blow away my assailant before he could 'play with his food' ?

And, yes, I would be very, very grateful for my rescue from a fate worse than death. Having my 'life force' slurped ? Yuck !

Well, Ms. Jones got more than expected, her lethal psychic vampire taken down by my nimble wits and my small screw-driver...

What was all that green, cloudy stuff that streamed from the dying 'Skinny Man' ? Why did their bodies just vanish ? Why didn't their clothes ? I'd seen the big guy I now knew as Geoff carefully glove-up and evidence-bag those three sets. I had to wonder what their fibre, weave and DNA traces might reveal...

Part 2

Mount View Hall's grand carriage gate was over-grown with feral rose and creeper stems, now thankfully leafless and dormant. The ornamental iron leaves were chained shut. Of course, Geoff's key failed to work the rusty lock. I expected we'd dismount and use the narrow but open foot-gate alongside, guarded only by garish 'Private Property' and 'Unsafe Site' signs. Ms. Jones had other ideas, made a scissors gesture. Geoff opened the back of our van, returned with metre-long bolt cutters. In his big, strong hands, its vorpal blades went snicker-snick, the chain yielded as if brass. Took him rather longer to force the gates open, scalping the drive-way's immediate shrubbery.

Mike touched a control. Air hissed, the van slowly rose, its suspension pumped to 'Off Road'. He waited for Geoff to clamber aboard, then engaged another control. Now 4-drive, the van crept into the shrubbery. Bushes and saplings went down before us. The driveway curved through a screen of splendid trees, emerged onto variegated scrubland that must have been a splendid lawn and gardens. Several hundred metres brought us to the dry, over-grown, sadly ruined fountain that marked the once-elegant turning circle. Beyond, wide stairs rose to the hall's still imposing classical portico and grand entrance doors.

No expert on architecture, even I could see the central block was much older and more ornate than the lower wings to either side. Those tried to compensate with a brave end-tower apiece, but didn't quite pull it off. And, the entire building was now in a sorry state. A lot of windows were broken, creepers trailed. Bushes grew from the gutters. I was very surprised when Geoff's second key easily opened the front doors' security hasp's padlock. Though that was sheltered by the portico, I'd expected another struggle or a hunt for a side door.

Time to kit-up. With the van's tail open, we all got high-vis waistcoats and site helmets. Mike and Geoff added 'utility' belts with holsters. I didn't recognise the make, but their guns were hefty automatics, the safety checks swift but thorough.

Ms. Jones noticed my wary expression, said, "Tim, earliest I can get you weapons training is next Summer. Start with Asp and zap-stick, move on to fire-arm handling."

"No problem, Ma'm," I allowed. "Um, do you use silver bullets and such ?"

"Standard 9mm lead does the job." She thought for a moment. "We do have a pump-action, tactical stock Mossberg Mariner in the back. Usually takes door-knocker rounds, but there's bird-shot for spring-heel 'demons'."

"Ma'm..."

"You'll need this big torch." Before I could reply, she also handed me a yellow, shoe-box sized instrument with a shoulder strap. The neat, rather retro top panel had several guarded switches plus a cross of small indicator lights or LEDs. "Portable detector array. Range varies with portal size. Yellow, possible or false-positive. Amber, probable. Red is 'Danger Close'. You may estimate bearings from the orthogonal arms' differential response. Set often needs a while to stabilise, so turn it on."

Happily, one guarded switch was labelled '0/1'. I clicked it over. An LED beside it blinked amber for about ten seconds, turned green. The second switch offered 'Battery Test'. While pressed, its LED went straight to green.

"Now, stand by the stairs while I make a call." Ms. Jones woke her phone, composed then sent a very brief text. About thirty seconds later, her phone pinged with a reply. She glanced at the message, reached into the back of the van. Her fingers danced on a lock-box key-pad. She pressed a recessed button.

'Meep !' My eyes fell to the detector, where two adjacent cross arms had lit, one with red, the other amber. They embraced the van's quadrant. "Oh, neat !"

"They also serve who carry the sensor box and free-up a gun-slinger's draw," Ms. Jones allowed. "Shall we begin ?"

Part 3

By turns bankrupt mansion, dubious boarding school, 'reform school', private asylum, 'secure' hospital, care home and hospice ? Dreadful place, ghastly history ? I half-expected some cross between a seedy 'Hogwarts' and an abandoned Transylvanian vamp-haunt. I wasn't far wrong.

The entrance hall, with its grand marble stairs, was mostly intact. Above us, a once-smart mezzanine led to a balcony over the front door, beneath the portico. Its intact, sheltered glazing let watery November daylight filter through. Beyond that, we were working in deep shadows, by torch-light.

Based on the partial plans, Geoff led us left, along a 'spinal' corridor. The repeatedly reworked interior was a mess. Many of the original brick interior walls were reduced to pillars. Several generations of lath and plaster partitions had been replaced by plaster board. Vandalism and damp had reduced all such to skeletons, stubs and scars. Still, we looked everywhere, searching for anomalies or ritual activity. Anything substantive was now a palimpsest of fading, spray-painted tags. There was drug-taking debris a-plenty, among enough empty bottles and cans to fill a big commercial skip. There were many signs of small 'camp' fires, even some in the old hearths. Our sweep cleared the width, drew blank. We reached the end tower. Geoff and Mike ventured up the stairs to the next floor, returned.

Behind those stairs, there was cellar access. We swept through those vaulted brick bays, checking for surprises. Beyond mouldy puddles, a surfeit of cobwebs and some grim rooms that must have been 'isolation' cells, we found nothing of interest.

We back-tracked to the entrance hall, continued along the 'spine'. This side was much the same, although the graffiti seemed more cogent. After sweeping the innocuous cellarage, we went up the tower stairs to the next floor, then along the centre-line. Modern damage seemed less extensive, but multiple redevelopments had taken their toll. We zig-zagged around the grand stairs and their lesser continuation, kept going. All clear. At the far tower, we went up to the next floor. Rinse and repeat...

By the time we'd explored the wings, their two, once-smart turret suites and all the leaky, draughty attic rooms, I was heartily sick of Mount View Hall. But we'd barely begun. We climbed the central stairs to the upper floors of the central block, checked them out. We found the narrow access stairs to the roof's 'Widow Walk', checked around. We descended to the highest spine-linked level, checked the central block's back rooms. All clear. So, descend a floor, check its back rooms. Rinse and repeat...

Eventually, after exploring the ground floor's impressive dining room, its side bays and now-shuttered access to a once magnificent patio, we found ourselves back in the grand entrance hall.

"Take five, Guys," Ms. Jones stated, before checking her phone then looking around at the scarred walls. "Okay, let's find the kitchens..."

Part 4

There were service stairs hidden behind the 'cloakroom' beneath the grand stairs. Thankfully, they were stone, as the stale damp would have rotted wood. The cellarage was mostly intact. Thick walls, some appearing much older than the main building, had proved immune to easy alteration. The walls were mostly tiled white. The floors were entirely tiled in red. It was dark, it was damp, it was spooky. Our footsteps echoed unnervingly. Our torches barely dispelled the deepest shadows. We moved with care, slowly cleared a warren of side rooms. At the front of the building, we found secure 'foot-men' doors beneath both sides of the portico. Such allowed staff to quickly attend riders and carriages without crossing 'posh' space. Near the back, we located twin serving stairs up to the dining room, then made our way to the cross-corridor serving the kitchens. At each end, there was a wide 'tradesman' delivery door, still secure.

We went left. The high, wide back room had some natural light thanks to a clerestory. Brackets, pulleys and rotted cords suggested the glazing was more for ventilation than its North-facing light. I looked around at the layered scars from multiple generations of catering facilities. With care, I could even make out where the original ranges and ovens must have been.

Facing this kitchen, there were smaller rooms, which once held some of the big kitchens' supporting facilities. Most were now brutally shelved, all were empty. That end cleared, we went along the cross-corridor to the second kitchen. This had clearly begun as a mirror image of the first, then become a dining room. It held a battered assortment of 'institutional' tables and chairs. That they were still here reflected badly on their popularity.

We checked the facing rooms, again mostly shelved, started back towards the entrance hall's stairs. We'd gone about a dozen steps when I stopped, looked back. I was 'Tail End Charlie', so the others had gone a little ahead before they turned.

"What is it, Tim ?" Ms. Jones asked. "Did you hear something ?"

"No, Ma'm." My torch beam lit the blank wall opposite our corridor. I took a few steps nearer, played the beam across its tiles from side to side. I put several near-subliminal anomalies together. "Ma'm, would you mind if we took another look in the kitchens ?"

"Why not..."

Part 5

They trailed me to the turn, where I was examining those tiles from several angles. "Ma'm, would you say this area has been repaired ?"

"Mike ? You're the architecture guy..."

He shone his tactical torch closer, produced a UV pen-torch and checked with that. "Original glazed tiles, same bevels as the rest. Not that it means much, there were surely several crates put aside as spares. But, yes, their glaze shows less age-crazing. And, yes, they are fitted a bit squarer than those to either side. Neither easy to spot..."

"Some-one rammed a serving trolley into the wall, Ma'm ?" Geoff wondered.

"Easily done," Ms. Jones allowed. "Tim, what are you doing ?"

"Counting tiles, Ma'm." I'd gone left, was stood in the kitchen's wide doorway. I leaned right, looked back along the cross-corridor. I leaned the other way, looked along the kitchen's inside wall. Then, as facts trump impressions, I carefully counted the conveniently standard tiles on the floor of each. Thoughtfully, I paced to the second kitchen, now a dining room, repeated my counts. My numbers matched, which was wrong, wrong, wrong. "Ma'm, the kitchens' dividing wall, which faces the corridor, is really, really thick."

"Chimneys ?"

"No, Ma'm, those come out into the room. Or they did."

"How thick ?"

"Near enough the same width as the service corridor, Ma'm." I pointed to the floor. "Kitchen door to party wall is the same count as kitchen door to wall of corridor."

"Hmm." Ms. Jones clearly believed in the mantra, 'Trust but Verify'. She repeated my survey. "Interesting. Guys ?"

"No record of a back entrance, Ma'm," Geoff said. "The rising ground supports the original patio."

"Curious..." She looked to and fro, came to a decision. "Geoff, tap on the walls."

"Ma'm." Geoff produced a small pry-bar from his belt pouches, began tapping a transect. Within seconds, it was apparent that there was something different about those several feet of wall facing the access corridor.

"Geoff, sondage."

Geoff changed his grip, stabbed the bar through the tiles, through a layer of plaster, thudded into wood. Inserting the curved tip diagonally, he prized away a plate-sized section of tiles and their backing plaster to show dark-varnished timber.

"No horse-hair in the mix ?" Mike wondered. "This plaster is not 'period', Ma'm. Too coarse to be modern, so probably mid-century."

"Clear it."

Mike drew a matching pry-bar, joined Geoff's attack. A few minutes reduced the concealing plaster and tiles to rubble, revealed an old, old, planked door, set flush. It had a keyhole, an inset ring handle. By its look, it surely opened into the wall's thickness. Mike poked the keyhole clear with his high-end multi-tool, shone a tiny pencil-torch inside.

"Can you wrangle it ?" Ms. Jones' fingers drifted towards her half-seen holster.

"I think so, Ma'm..." Mike rang the changes on his multi-tool, added something like an over-grown dental pick, twisted the combination, then again. "A simple double turn ! There ! Done !"

Geoff pushed the door, which didn't move. He pushed harder. He tried the handle. It hinged but didn't turn, so was just a handle, not a latch. "Stuck, Ma'm ?"

"I'd say so. Ease it."

Geoff took a step back, unleashed a truly huge kick. The door flew open, plaster scraps showering from its edges. It slammed against a door stop, shed more scraps. A few feet within, damp stone steps descended into darkness. Mike twisted his tactical torch to a narrow beam, found scant detail. Geoff added his torch beam and I mine, but we learned little more. Geoff dug in a pouch, pulled out several 'glow sticks'. He flexed one to crack the activating capsule, shook the stick unto bright, flung it down the stairs. It bounced to the limit of our torch beams, rolled a little further. His second passed it, skidded along a short corridor, came to a halt against another plank-door.

Part 6

"Have a care," Ms. Jones allowed. Geoff and Mike nodded, edged down those old, damp steps. There had been a grab-rope, but that was long since rotted to scraps, its wall loops rusted to lace. Safely at the foot, they turned their torches on the door ahead.

"Locked and double-barred, Ma'm," Mike reported. "But it's a basic, flanged rim-lock, should just prise off."

"Do so."

Geoff applied his small pry-bar, heaved. The lock's strong nail-spikes failed reluctantly. He re-positioned his bar, heaved again. The lock clattered to the floor. Mike used his pry-bar to coax the two hard-wood beams from their brackets' binding rust. A convenient handle let Geoff open the door against its rusty hinges.

Mike was better placed to shine his tactical torch through the widening gap. "Couple of steps down, then opens out. Looks like an ice-house..."

They edged down the steps, swung their torch beams.

"F**k," Geoff gasped, backed up the steps.

"I got this, Big Guy." Mike's voice was tight. We glimpsed half a dozen light pulses from a phone's camera, then Mike, too, retreated up the steps. He closed the door, slammed both hard-wood beams into their brackets. "We go."

The pair clattered up the damp steps rather faster than I'd dare. Geoff's tanned face had gone very pale. Mike's was scarcely better.

"Guys ?"

Mike took several slow breaths, showed Ms. Jones his quick photo-survey. Her eyes went wide, her face set hard. She whispered, "Bad. Very bad..."

"Ma'm ?" I puzzled. "Another ritual floor ? Another Wyrm ?"

"No," she allowed. "Much worse. I-- The third pic's not too bad."

Mike duly swiped it to the front, tilted his phone for me to see. I needed a few moments to comprehend the shapes, then whispered, "A dungeon ? With torture stuff ? Were they real bodies ?"

"Yes." Mike nodded slowly. "And I reckon most were children or teens. I-- I didn't image the smaller bones piled to the sides..."

"Oh, dear," Ms. Jones murmured. "Didn't one old report say a lot of young absconders were never found ?"

Mike nodded very slowly. "This needs a 'war-crimes' team, Ma'm."

"Agreed." She shuddered. "And we need fresh air. Lock this door, then let's get out of here !"

Back at the van, the Hall's grand entrance doors' modern security hasp again padlocked, Ms. Jones stepped away from us and woke her phone. The voice at the other end segued from calm professional to shocked swearing. Ms. Jones texted a number to Mike, who forwarded copies of his pictures.

Then, we sat in the van and sipped bottled water. Ms. Jones rummaged in her door pocket, found a bar of chunky chocolate. She split it four ways, gave me an extra piece, murmuring, "Good for shock."

"Ma'm," I managed. I sucked those pieces, rinsed them down with a mouthful of water.

Ms. Jones' phone chimed. She glanced at the text, shook her head. "West Mercia police will need a full week to muster a forensic anthropology team with support. We've secured the premises, we're done here. Mike--"

The detector array box on the seat between us meeped musically, and showed two ambers.

Part 7

"Diagonal West !" I called as we spilled from the van. Beyond that turning circle, the former ornamental gardens' decade-thick scrub was too deep to rush. Big Geoff waded ahead, literally 'Broke Trail'. We followed in single file, with me as 'Tail End Charlie'. We'd just struggled past the West wing's tower when the detector box bleeped a second time. I called, "One amber, ahead !"

After two hundred more metres, about two-thirds of the way to the perimeter's screening trees and their fringing undergrowth, Ms. Jones called a halt. "Breather, Guys. Anything of interest ?"

Geoff used his hand-span's height advantage, swept the scene with wary eyes. "Nothing obvious, Ma'm."

"Slightly left, Ma'm ?" I pointed. "Could that big ever-green clump have been a yew hedge ?"

"Geoff ?"

"Worth a look, Ma'm. It's solid enough."

It was better than that. As we got closer, we could see it had been a splendid hedge, with an overlap to block sight-lines. Then my detector box bleeped twice, flashed red. " 'Danger Close', Ma'm !"

"Weapons free," Ms. Jones authorised, proficiently drawing hers.

Their guns ready, Geoff and Mike edged through the overgrown gap, peered around the corner. After a few moments, they relaxed visibly, retreated slowly. Geoff quietly reported, "Four Tinks, Ma'm."

"Mostly harmless," Ms. Jones whispered, before making her gun safe, returning it to the holster. Turning to me, she said, "Tim, take a quiet look."

"Ma'm..." I sidled between Mike and Geoff, peered around the corner into a tiny, private grave-yard. A few mossy, lichenous head-stones still stood from the scrub, though slanted by ground settlement.

Above them, though...

My first impression was a quartet of brightly coloured budgies, feral parakeets, but pulling moves to shame a hummingbird. They were chasing tiny flies, nimbly snatching them from the chill air like dolphins with sardines. Then I realised the four Tinks lacked feathers. They were not birds. They had compound eyes, four hand-span iridescent wings, thin arms and legs. One noticed my arrival, slowed to a hover. Now I could see body divisions. These were insectoids, exoskeletal. A second noticed me, came to a hover. The third and fourth did, too, but further off.

"Offer your hand," Ms. Jones whispered from behind my right shoulder, her phone out and aimed.

Nervously, I lifted my left hand, palm down. The four Tinks jiggled in mid-air, then the nearest came closer in a series of short zig-zags. It hovered about six inches from my hand, seemed to be watching my face. As I would with a wary cat, I gave it a long, slow eye-blink, then a second.

'See, I trust you enough to lower my guard...'

Whatever, it ghosted in, alighted on my index finger. Its tiny, clawed feet gripped as for a twig. After a few moments, it lifted its tiny hands --With opposable thumbs !!-- and began to wipe its eyes and complex mouth-parts. I barely dared breathe. The second curved in, alighted on my pinky finger. The other two drifted nearer. I lifted my right hand, again palm-down. Seconds later, they, too, had alighted, begun grooming themselves.

I stood thus for several minutes. Without warning, all four suddenly looked towards the Hall, took off. They did a tight circle then, in close line a-stern, dived towards one of the mossy headstones. Pale blue flame lit an inset, nigh-invisible, plaited bronze 'Star of David'. Folding their wings to pass that palm-sized portal, they vanished from our world. My detector box gave a long bleep, flashed red to confirm they'd gone.

I heaved a full, belated lungful of the chill air, turned slowly. Ms. Jones, Geoff and Mike were lowering their phones. All three looked very pleased.

"Well done, Tim," Ms. Jones stated. "As you've probably realised, Tinks are responsible for many twee 'fairy tales'."

"Ma'm..." I'd supposed that. Then I shook myself. "But-- But they're insects ! How could any-one mistake them for little girls with wings ?"

Ms. Jones shrugged, countered, "How could sailors mistake manatees for mermaids ?"

Yeah, right. I shook myself again, made an obscure connection. "Could the Cottingley girls have seen Tinks, then faked up their own ?"

"You are well read," she allowed. "Yes, that's certainly possible. And it's not easy to photograph Tinks. Good stills are uncommon, useful movies rarer than Yeti. Our phones' combined footage will allow 3D analysis. It-- It's poor recompense for finding atrocity in the ice-house, but we take what silver linings we can..."

As we trudged back towards the van, I thought to ask, "Ma'm, you said 'Mostly Harmless' ?"

"I did." She nodded. "Over the centuries, several 'independent investigators' have trapped and studied Tinks. We're fairly sure they're omnivores. They seem bright as parrots or crows, exhibit tool use. Probably live in extended family groups. We don't know how they communicate but, each time, a flock of them found and mobbed the captor, rescued their kin."

"Hitchcock's 'The Birds' scenario, Ma'm ?"

"They had tiny, flaked-stone blades..." Ms. Jones hesitated, added, "Death by a thousand cuts."

Part 8

When we turned the West tower's corner, we saw a police car in the local 'Battenberg' hi-vis livery parked beside our van. Two young, uniformed officers were stood nearby, looking about. They soon noticed us, waited for us to slog back along our outward trail.

"Ms. Jones, HMRC, Section D ?" the female officer asked.

"That's me," Ms. Jones confirmed, showing her ID badge.

"Ma'm, I'm Constable Johnson, my colleague is PCSO Winterson. We've been assigned to patrol these premises pending arrival of a support team later today."

"Access to the scene of crime is locked, as is the Hall's entrance. Geoff, the hasp key ?" He handed it over, received a receipt. Ms. Jones continued, "Mike worked the old lock on the stairs' door with his multi-tool."

"Thank you, Ma'm." The officer hesitated, asked, "Ma'm, word is you've found something very bad..."

"Yes." Ms. Jones nodded very slowly. "Perhaps another 'Fred West'."

The two young officers paled in unison. A dozen known victims, possibly twenty or thirty more, made that name a by-word for unspeakable serial atrocity.

"We were looking for evidence of a clever, decadal tax fraud, found an ossuary and worse." Ms. Jones shook her head. "That trumps our concerns."

"Understood, Ma'm," the officer whispered, then looked back up our trail. "Should we extend our patrols to where you've just been ?"

"We thought there'd been interference with the private grave-yard. Seems not. Your call."

"Thank you, Ma'm."

"Okay, Guys," Ms. Jones said to us. "Let's head out. I know it's early, but I have several difficult reports to write..."

As she turned towards the van, pulling off her hi-vis, her open jacket gaped. The two officers glimpsed her holstered gun. Their eyes went wide. I was still 'Tail End Charlie'. Unseen by the other three, I caught the officers' attention, patted my slung detector box, put a finger to my lips. They were still staring after us as we drove away.

Part 9

Mike carefully retraced our route to last night's motel. There was time for a late lunch in the adjacent cafe, but none of us had much appetite. Instead, after grabbing a bland sandwich each, we headed for our allotted rooms. I took a long, long, so-luxurious shower, then unpacked my Chrome Book and college course work, got busy. Focusing on that complex assignment kept my wits from imploding.

About half an hour along, there came a knock at my door. Geoff called, "Tim ?"

I opened the door, the two men edged in. Mike studied my expression, asked, "Care for a beer ?"

"I--" I sighed, shook my head. "I'm sorry, I've course work."

Geoff peered at my open Chrome Book and notes, asked, "College stuff ?"

I nodded. "I usually do some on Friday night, but I was too tired. Besides, my head was spinning."

"You did well," Mike allowed. "WIRS earned mucho kudos. Lancashire Police and the NCA owe us a big, big favour. Your desk-fan 'Pulling a Ghostie' for the entry team is the stuff of legend..."

"You don't seem pleased..." Geoff's rumble carried undertones like an approaching storm.

I shook my head. "My neighbours will complain about herbal's street price hike, but that's their problem. No, I got lucky. And the same happened today..."

"There's luck," Geoff allowed, "and there's 'Situational Awareness'."

Their tiny exchange of nods told of far more. Mike said, "Geoff and I were some-where redacted. Between building IEDs and calling for Jihad, the locals had a lucrative side-line looting antiquities. We found what seemed a deal gone bad. Three damaged SUVs. AK brass and bloody bodies everywhere. Several faces we'd been hunting..."

"Saved Mike's long-gun ammo," Geoff allowed. "My air-strike."

"Then something big and bad came out of the catacomb they'd opened." Mike shuddered.

"It began stalking us," Geoff remembered. "A shadow here, a flicker there..."

"Took us a while to flank, to get a good look--"

"Think 'Giant Tink'. Tall as an ostrich. Raptor. Very, very fast. Two hafted stone knives."

"Ms. Jones didn't mention that 'Joanne Lavender' had a long 'Working Relationship' with The Regiment," Mike said. "She took recon teams through the 'World Gate'."

"Until the riled Imperials fortified their side..."

"So we knew there were more things in Heaven and Earth, that some of the monsters in Lavender's 'Solutrean Fables' had a basis in fact." Mike shrugged. "We reckon the locals wasted time screaming."

"We pulled a feint, caught it in cross-fire."

"Took a lot of damage before it went down."

"I hacked off its head." Geoff's expression was distant. "Blue blood everywhere..."

"We collected intel. Drained the SUVs' fuel, set a big fire to the bodies. Bugged out."

"Our Rupert had seen some things in his time, but that head and those knives..."

"Went into The Regiment's 'Private Museum'," Mike stated. "When our tour was up, we were approached by WIRS."

"Wow..." I took a slow breath. "Wow..."

"Still time for a beer ?" Mike offered.

I shook my head. "May I take a rain-check ?"

"Fair enough, Tim." Geoff nodded.

"Unless you hear otherwise, set your alarm for eight again," Mike said. "I don't know what we're doing tomorrow. There's several more 'interesting' cases in the area but, after today..."

They shared eloquent looks, let themselves out.

-- End of #03

Thanks for posting the whole thing. I'd missed the last parts on the other site.
The WIRS stories are great and I hope you find an acceptable ending for #9
DuncanBrandson