The Knife Sharpener (31)

31.

Another heavy murky shape rammed into a guard outside. A spurt of dark liquid against the window. Wailing and gnashing and whip crack steel. Set to the pulsing computerized drone of a guitar echoing in Smith St.

Bohner was already rushing to lock the door, putting on his helmet. The other motoboys in the café took off to the back of the café. Disappearing into the kitchen.

            Helmut rose to stand beside Nichola. Both backed away. She held the knife up in front of her. An unsteady weapon in shivering hands. Shadows played against the windows on the path. Like the Indonesian marionettes Nichola had seen at university, jangling through the battle near the end of the story.

            Bohner reached the door. Slammed in the bolts. A hand fell against the door. Was pulled back.

‘Sorry, lads,’ said Bohner. Turned to face Helmut and Nichola. ‘Go. Out the back.’

            Something cracked into the window. Then again. A splinter grew. An enormous howl filled the evening. Buffeting the glass. Pounding footsteps on asphalt.

            Helmut grabbed Nichola by the arm and pulled her into a staggering run. Chance appeared at the top of the stairs, supported by two motoboys. Face drawn into frustrated lines. His biker’s jacket slung over his shoulders.

            ‘The fuck is this?’ he asked. ‘Who the fuck playin that shit sore racket outsi –’

            Glass shattered and a wind jackal fell into the café face first. It writhed on the ground. Struggled to find its feet. All the while, it roared and buzzed. The wiring spurting out of it sparked. Lit the dim room with baby lightning strikes.

            Nichola had never seen a wind jackal. She considered them unfortunate. The crude, unfortunate result of desperation. The hunting of them was inhuman. Basically murder. A cruel sport for a particularly cruel class of people. The biannual Culling a grotesque display of bloodlust. A Ministry sanctioned purge of violence to placate the populace. The wind jackals were strawmen. Perfect scapegoats preset to be loathed by Melbournians already conditioned to distrust and disparage the north.

            The wind jackals had were a source of continual discomforting contention between Nichola and her father. The Delinquency may have marked the end of his days as a Biff – the final moral quandary he could no longer manifest away. But his role in driving it to its chaotic, explosive end was no less significant for his attempts to try and correct it after the fact. Perhaps, find a moral redemption for the terror he instilled there. In their way, the wind jackals – their horrendous curse and terrible fate – were her father’s children as much as she was.

            But she had still never seen one. Was unprepared for the bodily horror of the former human. The wind jackal rose from the ground sluggishly. Nichola could see the amplifier in place of the its chest. Throbbing bass as though a heart vibrated there. It slouched over from the weight of it. Blank slate wide screen TV eyes were set in its head. Below lank, unwashed black hair. A tongue that flapped in two directions from its mouth. Seeming to taste the air. Long steel tendrils flowed from its fingers. The wind jackal breathed a low consistent hum. It sought them out. Swayed as it stood.

            One of the motoboys holding Chance didn’t hesitate. He rushed the wind jackal. Grabbed a heavy stool and made to swing at its head. The wind jackal made no effort to move. Instead, it screamed. A blast of sound that blew out its gaping mouth and grated chest. The motoboy staggered. Grabbed at his ears as he dropped the stool. The volume was terrific, Nichola and Helmut shied from it. Chance lost his footing, only held up by Bohner who quickened to the side of his boss. And another wind jackal stormed in through the window and dove into the motoboy from the side. Fists raised and fell. Chest bashed back and forth. The first wind jackal dove into the scrum. Distorted horrible sounds mingled with the motoboy’s helpless yelps.

            ‘Go,’ said Bohner. He and the other motoboy pulled Chance into movement. Nichola tried to shake her head free of the ringing in her ears and followed. Helmut close behind. The leftover motoboys made to try and recue their downed comrade. Smashing into the wind jackals on the ground with tables and chairs. To no avail. The two wind jackals seemed to impervious to them. Slashing and hammering.

One of the other front windows shattered. Static flicked the air. Electronic pulses. And more wind jackals blew in. Bellowing into the motoboys that were attacking members of their pack. The wooden legs of tables and chairs cracked. Steel licked and slapped into skin. Sparks flittered into the air.

            They reached the kitchen with the collision of bodies, wires, and pitch shifted growls sounding behind them. Bohner, still holding onto Chance, led them to an open steel door at the rear of the kitchen. Outside there was a little cobblestone alley, where few motoboys waited.

            A pot clattered into the wall next to Helmut. Nichola looked behind her and saw a female wind jackal in the kitchen. It crouched low to the ground. Resting its hands on a stove to support the additional weight of its amplifier. A thin, piercing whistle shot out around its tongue. Two more wind jackals appeared on the other side of the pass. They tried to clamber through the narrow space.

            Bohner pushed Chance out into the alley where he was gathered by a few motoboys. ‘Get on now to the stash,’ he said. The motoboys nodded and took off, carrying Chance between their arms.

            The wind jackal launched from its haunches in the direction of Nichola. She lashed out with the knife and sliced it along the arm. As if slamming into a shield, the wind jackal darted and spilled off her into a nearby oven. Denting the door. Loosed a long, pained howl that sought a higher and higher pitch as it exploded out. From the wind jackal’s cut black, airy dust floated upwards. Dissipating as soon as Nichola got sight of it.

            She retreated out the door. Ahead of Helmut and Bohner who both followed. The final motoboy went to leave, closing the door. A wind jackal’s grey hand grabbed him by the shoulder. The metallic split cords of its fingers wrapping into his shirt. He was dragged back into the kitchen. Cackles and giggles in short tremolo bursts. A thrown flying pan and more yelling.

            Bohner slammed the door shut. Music still played somewhere on Smith St. A reverbing anxious synth. Inside the café they could hear the wind jackals still howling and hissing.

            ‘What now?’ asked Nichola.

            ‘We gotta stash of bikes and shit just down the way,’ said Bohner, pointing to a street that ran along the side of the café up towards Smith St.

            ‘Can’t go back there,’ said Helmut.

            ‘I think most of em are in the café, but. They think we’re making that noise,’ said Bohner. The blare of guitars rung out still. ‘Should be right. They don’t see much if we quiet.’

            The door suddenly slammed. Slightly bowed. Helmut nodded.

            The three of them walked down the alley. Commotion in the café. Ethereal, sizzling music outside. The knife looked like it had an oil slick running off it. It was particularly grey and muted. Nichola held it tightly.

            They reached the corner of the building. Bohner peaked around.

            ‘Looks aright. No sign of Chance. Must’ve got through.’

            Bohner led them up the small road in the direction of Smith St. They ducked below any windows looking into the cafe. The wind jackals still crawled around in there. Throwing the corpses of motoboys around. Finishing the job. Nichola had heard that wind jackals were virtually blind. She didn’t take the risk though. None of them did. Helmut’s hand was on her shoulder. Nichola thought she could feel his beating heart through his palms. The grip was solid. A presence.

            ‘This way,’ said Bohner and led them out onto the street.

            A single surviving lamp gave dim cloudy light to the area. Music continued to wail. No one was there. The racket of furniture and kitchenware being thrown around behind them. Punctuated by laser shouts.

            They moved away from the café. Beginning to hurry. A whispered caustic pop cut into the air and Bohner’s helmet exploded in a gush of blood, brain, and fibreglass. He stood for a moment. Shocked. Then fell.

            A lean woman stepped out of a shadow near an abandoned pub. She held a pistol pointed at Helmut and Nichola. From its mouth, smoke strung out in the still night.

            She smiled and her lips were almost fluorescent dark red in the lamplight.

            ‘Let’s get you two ready for your photoshoot, shall we?’