That’s what everyone had seen. What everyone, including the two gnomes sent to drop the hit on Rolf Jørgensson, had watched unfold in front of them. The gnomes, the pilot, Agent Barnes, and the security types each had their eyewitness story to tell.
“G-Raff”, ex-thug, ex-government asset, and extremely pissed off gnome, looked up through the magic induced translucent ceiling at the bottom of pilot’s shoes. The uniformed man was standing in a pool of blood, the tread pattern defined by the red imprint.
Fuzzy Monkey’s face was a deathly visage, as it lay on the hangar floor above him, encircled by blood and smashed flat. The room Rolf stood in was shallow in height and had a blue-violet hue to it. Sigils glowed on the walls. The room’s transparent ceiling was the concrete floor of the hangar in the “real” world. Rolf looked over at Dr. Forester, standing near the planes hatchway, and gave her a “thumbs up”. He wasn’t sure if she could see him, even though she had cast the room. Her eyes were still rolled over white. She made subtle suggestions and directed the actions above, making sure each person remembered it the way she’d made it play out.
The two assassin gnomes had been real. Rolf hoped they believed their eyes and thought he was dead.
“That lady made that mess look real,” Rolf said to the real, and unstained, Fuzzy Monkey still looped over his shoulder. “That’ s a lot of blood to think outta’ thin air, homie. She gotz her some issues.”
He wasn’t sure how she would explain the empty kitchen/body bag when they landed back in DC, but he’d be long gone by then. He smiled. There was a gym bag in the glowing Fey room. He needed to inventory it.
He unzipped the gym bag and a long, low whistle escaped his lips. The Doc had gotten his go-bag out of storage. When he’d stood to exit the plane, he’d dropped into the already cast pocket room as she projected his clone. The shift had made him queasy, she moved the pocket room out from under the airplane, keeping pace with his projected self.
Rolf heard the jet engines whine through his “floor-ceiling”. The plane pulled away.
Dr. Forester, and the jet, were gone in a few minutes.
Rolf exhaled hard and pulled each item out. On top was his 2/3rd issue-size M9 bayonet. He pulled it half out of its belt/hip scabbard and admired it. The Fed gunsmith has spent a lot of time to give Rolf a decent hand-to-hand weapon. Just as durable as its full sized military issued brother, but the tang narrowed and the handle resized to fit his hand. Rolf rolled it to the side and rubbed the custom inlay down the uniquely filled fuller that ran the length of the blade. One side had been fitted with a shaped silver rod, the other with a piece of Ironwood. Both pinned and shaped to the blade contours, bulging only slightly. While the adornments would be useless in normal combat, and weren’t really eye pleasing, Rolf had had them added to the knife after the bullshit in Denver.
He strapped on the blade, reached into the bag, and pulled his preferred field weapon. The Para-Ordnance .45 ACP Warthog double stack, with rail. It was older and far from stock. The gun was functionally and aesthetically based on the model 1911, but with a smaller frame. The Fed gunsmith had done him some solids with “gnome specific” mods. First, a Velcro wrist strap integrated into the right sides grip, along with a reworked trigger, and guard, to allow Rolf to pull it with minimum deflection. The gunsmith had added the rail by electro-discharge machining in the back-half of the rail slot, then TIG welding the rail extender onto the stainless body, making it look almost factory. It was a shorter rail, but long enough for his other favorite modification, an under barrel mini-Havoc flare launcher spec’d for .410 shotgun shells. The mod allowed him to park one home defense round under the normal barrel and slide.
Those rounds had come in handy. He didn’t use a standard slug or pellet shot. His shells were filled with a stack of fifteen coin-shaped silver plates with lead backings, each about a dime’s thickness. The range sucked, but the damage they did to the beings he’d faced over the last two years was significant. He dug around in the bag and withdrew an entire box of his special shells, taking one out and inserting by swiveling open the rear loading chamber. Shell in place, he twisted the launcher and it made a pleasing snapping sound as it locked itself back into its firing position.
He rummaged more and found a cheap GPS handheld, small roll of aluminum foil, a dozen glow sticks, and a cheap “pay-as-you-go” cell phone.
“We’re gonna miss ya, Doc,” he said, speaking for himself and Fuzzy, as he finished inventorying the bag. Food, clothes, light body armor and first-aid. He transferred it all to Fuzzy Monkey. The last thing he pulled out was the thing that made him whole.
No self-respecting gnome would be caught outside without wearing their trademark Phrygian style hat. Pointy with a slight droop. His old clan wore blue, like the Chi-town punks wore red. The Feds had tossed his old blood-stained hat. That wouldn’t do. Dr. Forester had given him his current lid after he returned from his second mission. Black ballistic material with purple thread.
It was all good.
Rolf pulled on his hat and turned to leave, reaching for the chain around his neck and pulling out the prize he had earned after doing every shit thing they asked for the last twenty-four months. He walked to the West facing wall of the warded pocket room, his exemption coin in hand. The reward for his service was truly the key to unlock the next door. His future. A gnome alone and free to pursue his new life. Well, alone except for his very cool Fuzzy Monkey backpack. He tapped the warded wall with the coin, the impact point flashed. The blue-violet light faded as the room rose back into the human plane while its magic discharged. The reassuring weight of Fuzzy Monkey felt good on his back.
******
Rhythmic clacking tried to lull Rolf into a much-needed nap. This was the second train in the last 18 hours. Stale grease, rusting metal, and mildew provided a tapestry of smells that permeated the tool bin he was using as a travel cabin.
He’d only caught a few minutes of shuteye since leaving the airport almost two days before. He’d walked the five miles South to the tracks outside St. Louis, avoiding any known gnome tunnel exits. No poppin’ until he was far enough away from any late arriving wannabe hang-arounds that might show up to check out the spot he got whacked.
It had started raining as he walked, the farm fields smelled fresh and earthy. He’d been raised in East LA and fresh smells were still a new thing for him. The rural scents had reminded him of his journeys through the underground tunnels in the Fey realm.
When he found train tracks, he’d sat up in a tree for twelve hours waiting for a westbound train. Getting on, and off, a moving train was easy enough. He and his homies had been hopping the subway, and West coast freights, for years. His timing had improved with all the weight training and precision line of sight pops he’d done over the last two years.
After he’d boarded the open freight car, he’d set about moving forward to the train’s locomotive, where the conductor’s manifests resided. His hope had been the train, or at least one of its cars, was bound for, or near, his goal. That had been a long shot. A quick read of the car switch printouts showed the freight train was mostly hauling cotton and empty cars, and it would be going through the northern Madison terminal in Venice, IL, then further West.
As the freight train slowed to take a pass-through side track along the edge of the massive rail-yard, Rolf hopped off. It was 04:30 local. He’d made a beeline for the main terminal building, where the track controls and switching were directed. Inside, he hid in vents. The process was automated, but human monitoring was still a backup. The workers spent their time drinking coffee and playing on their smart phones.
Rolf moved behind the big board, looked over reports, computer screens and logs until he’d found his next ride. It was a long freight train pulling cars full of machine parts, raw steel, and commercial goods. His felt a pit in his stomach when he read the origin. It was coming all the way from the LA port authority. It arrived at 13:00, stopped to drop an engine and a tanker, then move on. The commotion and track hopping gave him time to find the numbered box car he was looking for, the one that would pass closest to his destination. That had been four hours ago
“Shuteye is for mofos without a target on dey back, right homie?” He mumbled as he fist bumped Fuzzy Monkey’s strap hand. “Dat’s right.”
He was tired. The biggest reason he couldn’t relax, or get any sleep, stared at him from the tiny LCD screen in his hand. The cheap GPS handheld indicated an arrow fast approaching a row of asterisks. Each asterisk’s coordinates had been placed in the device by Dr. Forester. Between the asterisks was the intersect point where the train tracks crossed the first highlighted Ley line. Ten miles to go before his enemies would know where he was.
But he had a plan. More of a theory. An untested theory. He wasn’t completely sure if his reasoning was sound, but the Doc had agreed it seemed plausible.
A Ley line had two functional properties. One of them was metaphysical, being a conduit, accumulator, and feed for all things magic and ethereal. The other property was grounded in science. Geographic magnetic lines of force detectable by instrumentation. Rolf was counting on exploiting the second property.
He put down the cheap GPS unit and reached into Fuzzy Monkey, pulling out a chemical glowstick, snapping it and shaking it to give off a low glow. Next came the aluminum foil. He set about lining the inside of the tool bin, bending and creasing each piece of foil with its mating piece until the entire inside was one continuous foil covered surface. His last step was to tape down the frayed wire he had run from the box car’s metal frame to the tool bin’s interior. He was inside a Faraday cage.
His theory was that the heavily grounded metal tracks, laying across the Ley lines, suppressed and “pushed down” the fields in that spot. He would be inside a Faraday cage that was connected the car’s metal frame. That frame rode on metal wheels on long metal tracks, all connected to Earth on either side of the Ley line. His crossing might not be detected riding over that confused portion. It all sounded feasible. In moments, he would know if his theory was correct.
“Sweet,” Rolf said as he starred at the GPS screen, relishing the reassuring message “Signal lost. Searching for satellites”. The tool bin shielding was working for radio waves. He hoped it did the same for the magic tracer spell tied to the Ley line.
He waited. His heart pounded, his breath and perspiration made the tool bin’s air humid and oppressive. Fifteen minutes passed. The thumping and clacking was wearing on him, not knowing if one of the random sounds might be some thug popping in, cocking his piece and getting ready to spray Rolf’s hiding place with a firestorm of bullets.
“Whadaya think?” He asked, crooking an eye toward his inanimate traveling companion. No response.
“Dat says it all, homie. Fuck it.” He’d waited long enough. He took a calming breath, carefully unfolding the creases and separating the foil joints that ran along the lid’s edge. If it worked, he’d need to use that box at least three more times. He jacked a round into the chamber, then lifted the tool bin lid, lining up his .45 auto Warthog with the lid’s edge. He swept the barrel back and forth as he surveyed the inside of the box car. Nothing but cargo. He poked his hand out, holding the GPS. He watched the screen update. He was past the intersecting lines.
He breathed easier and threw the lid wide open, enjoying the cooler air.
“Now dat be the shit, right there, G-Raff in da house!” he yelled as he pumped his hands above his head twice, throwing a Westie sign at Fuzzy. The inanimate simian remained unimpressed.
Rolf was feeling good. He was also tired, hungry, and thirsty. He stared at Fuzzy Monkey and the government issue rations tucked inside. He reached in for one and read it.
“Spam alfredo? Dat’ better not be my last meal, yo,”
He climbed out and sat, hanging Fuzzy on a nearby hook, his back to the tool bin, chewing in silence. He’d eaten MRE’s before. It had everything a body needed to survive and not much more. He swallowed the unheated food, his mind drifting back to the well-appointed dining area back at the Fed HQ. The staff and conscripts ate well when they weren’t on mission.
“Damn, I’m gonna miss dat’ cheesecake and Friday fish fry,” Rolf mumbled as he dug out the last morsels from the plastic packaging with his spork.
He wiped off his hands with a moist towelette, drank from one of the water bottles and repacked Fuzzy Monkey. He donned his “traveling suit”, which consisted of his ammo-strapped bandoleer, light body armor and load out of preferred weapons. Four full magazines of .45 auto, four silver coin .410 rounds, M9 knife and two flash bangs.
Rolf knew it was better to be prepared than caught cold like a bitch.
He flipped on the GPS and zoomed out. The next Ley line waypoint was over 200 miles south of his current position. Tapping the screen, he placed a beacon alert and put the GPS into low-power mode. Rolf returned it to Fuzzy Monkey and then rubbed his bristly jawline.
“Hmmm, shoulda’ packed a razor,” he said. Gnome beards grew notoriously fast, especially on the women-folk. He thumbed his M9 knife handle, contemplating a field shave. “Naw, I’ll wait. Tallee need ta stretch a bit. Time to look around.”
He held his hands forward, toward the ceiling, instinctively relaxing his connection to the Earthen plane. As he did, he felt the familiar pull of the Fey realm. Gnomes were tied to both, and neither, of the realms at the same time. He channeled the chaotic energy down his arms. He spread his fingers and hands, opening a point to point breech. Pop. A fourteen-inch diameter tunnel appeared.
He lowered his head to get a good angle and saw bright blue sky on the other end, trees and rail signals flashed by. Rolf leapt into the tunnel, landing on his belly. There was a momentary disorientation as the gravity shifted to the Fey realm. While the tunnel was vertical on Earth, the bottom of the tunnel was level ground in the Fey realm. He looked to the opposite end and a large oak tree stood framed by the round exit of the tunnel, almost frozen while he traversed the tunnel in null-time. He crab-walked to the end and hopped out into the 45-mph wind whipping across his face. The tunnel popped out of existence behind him and he stood atop the boxcar.
Rolf breathed in the mixture of fresh air and diesel fumes. The train travelled on a straight piece of track and Rolf could see the ten cars ahead, where the two engines pulled the train. He looked back and counted sixteen cars behind. That made twenty-seven freight, tanker, and boxcars total. Not the longest train he’d seen, but still a sight to behold standing atop it as it snaked along the steel rails.
Rolf jogged forward, along the roof of the boxcars and tankers, leaping between them with ease. Gnomes had a penchant for moving quickly, both horizontally and vertically. Rolf smiled into the wind, the last twenty-four months in the gym had only improved his leg strength and stamina.
When he was mid-car, he would pop a tunnel into each car to look around. Most were dark, but each got a peek to confirm they were filled to the brim with cargo, empty or toting raw materials. He left the tankers alone.
As he approached the engines, avoiding the side mirrors, Rolf planned his route to get a look inside without allowing himself to be observed. He popped a tunnel into the back of the engineering control platform. Light would pass through the tunnel, either way, but not sound or smells. The engineer had his hand on the throttle and sitting motionless except to sway with the rhythm of the rails. Rolf pulled his field glasses and read the manifest on the control console. Destinations, arrival times, switch markers, and total tonnage for the two engines, along with the axle weights for the twenty-six cars.
Rolf raised an eyebrow and refocused the eye piece. The manifest definitively read twenty-six cars. Rolf closed the tunnel and turned to the rear of the train. He pointed with his index finger and started counting off the cars. When he reached twenty-six, he saw there was one more.
“Dawg, just ride this mutha ta where ya need ta be gettin’. Focus,” he said, striding purposefully to the rear. ”Ain’t no thang. Just some paper got messed. No biggie. Not your prob.”
Curiosity may kill a cat but it will irritate the living shit out of a gnome.
While returning to the car with the tool bin, and his furry friend filled with goodies, he counted each car he stepped on. Still ten. Popping into his car, he dug out the GPS and clipped it to his bandolier.
“Ain’t this some shit. Lookin’ like I got time. Prob’ly nuttin’ to it. Just a quick look-see and get yo’ ass back here,” he said, reassuring himself. Popping back to the roof, he headed to the rear of the train, but moved more cautiously as he surveyed each car. He stood ready as he popped a tunnel into each car in succession, Nothing caught his eye.
When he reached the last car, he was feeling pretty good. A clerical error or maybe somebody moving some shit on the sly. He wasn’t sure how the whole rail industry worked, but he concluded that sort of thing was bound to happen.
Standing on car twenty-seven, Rolf swung his hands forward and went through his usual gyrations. Nothing happened. He took a breath and cleared his mind. He felt his way through each step. The pull, the sizzle, the channeling, he spread his fingertips, sparks of energy went forth, an opening appeared, but ended on the roof, not through it. A giant pit formed in his stomach.
Fey wards.
“Why da’ hell a boxcar gotta be warded?” he mumbled. He drew his knife and walked the length of the roof, looking around for any signs of a threat. He went to each side and looked down. The boxcar appeared to be normal, even the locked and wired latches, holding the sliding door closed. The topside maintenance hatch was locked down, the handle not budging.
The GPS beeped.
“Damnit,” he said aloud, eying the warded car, “look like I come back and figure you out on the flipside.”
Rolf turned and brought his hands up. Popping into his hideout would be faster. He stopped.
“Slow your roll, dawg,” he thought. Fey wards meant some serious shit was in play. He’d already tried to pop into the car, basically knocking on the door for anyone monitoring the inside. Any weaver powerful enough to throw a blocking ward was damn sure skilled enough to track his narrow-ass. “Fuck it.”
He jogged and leapt forward to his rolling hideout, only opening a tunnel when he was on his car. He dropped into it next to the bin and the GPS beeped again.
“Hurry up, dumbass,” he said, tossing Fuzzy Monkey into the bin, reaching up, and grabbing the edge to vault inside.
As he crested the top edge, the sound of tearing foil screamed in his ears.
“Hells no! Oh, shit. No, no, no, no,” he said with remorse, but the evidence of his clumsiness reflected into his Nordic blue eyes. His bandolier had caught the foil and created a vertical tear from the bin’s edge to its interior floor. Rolf carefully extracted himself from his equipment, focusing on minimizing further damage.
He was thankful for the last twenty-four months of training and operations. Instead of over-reacting and going into an adrenalin fueled, profanity laced, meltdown, he focused.
“Adapt. Improvise. Re-acquire,” he said as he took four steadying breaths.
Rolf closed the lid to the tool bin, snapped a glow stick, and pulled the med kit. He withdrew the tape and carefully pulled the torn pieces of foil back into alignment. Where there was enough slack, he would fold over and roll an edge. Where not, he simply put a piece of tape across the two pieces to minimize the open area.
Leaned back, GPS in one hand, auto pistol in the other. He watched as the triangle that represented him approached the line. The screen remained steady and active. Rolf flexed his hand and calmed his mind.
The screen went from graphic to text. Rolf felt a flood of relief and went to read it more closely. His momentary wave was gone. Instead of a “Signal lost. Searching for satellites “, it read “System needs minimum of three satellites. Searching. 1 of 3 found”
“Ain’t dat da’ shit,” Rolf said quietly, reaching down to quietly pull on his tac gear. He laid his spare ammo on top of the rest of his gear into Fuzzy Monkey and left it unzipped, in case he had to move quickly. He waited.
The hair on his arms stood up. He instinctively looked to where his body told him a tunnel had been opened. It was close. Probably more forward on the train. The feeling went away quickly.
He felt another rush as a second tunnel popped open somewhere ahead of him. Closer. Really close and above. And it closed as well. Then one behind. And another. Each closed quickly. The last one, further back on the train, held open for almost thirty seconds.
“That takes balls and skillz,” Rolf thought as he adjusted his vest, dropping the GPS into Monkey’s flap pocket and drawing his knife. “Hold a tube open dat long, dey coulda’ dropped homies and dey entire families onto this thang.”
Rolf carefully, and quietly, pulled the slide on his .45 Warthog and chambered a round. He slid the blade of his knife where the tool box lid met the side and tweaked it open. He looked through the slit and saw…nobody. The car looked the same. He smiled. They had missed his car. That gave him a tactical advantage. If they were searching car by car, they’d find him, but he’d be ready.
Rolf pushed the lid up and hopped out of the tool bin, moving along the wall of the freight car, weapon held forward. Elbows bent, eyes not staring at anything, but open to everything. He was counting on some motion or a sound to alert him to a target.
His arm hair stood up again. A round beam of sunlight appeared near his old tool bin hiding place. Two bodies tumbled out and the tunnel popped out of existence. Rolf blinked to clear his eyes and re-adjust his vision to the dark.
He saw them moving away from him toward his hideout. He brought his weapon up, as his sight cleared. Then he really saw them.
He felt a wave of disgust. Not gnomes.
“Gremlins,” Rolf thought, a pit of disgust forming in his gut.
Oily violet skin, shaved heads covered with tattoos. He was in the presence of the pinnacle of disgusting Fey thugs. Worse than Chi-town gnomes or Westies out to kill him. These assholes were true scum.
Gnomes had fought to leave the Fey realm on their own terms. Gremlins had been dumped out onto to Earth by an enraged Queen and told never to return. The private hunters wouldn’t chase them, since any reward was based on damage they did and proving which ones did it was next to impossible. So that left them in the Agency’s purview. Strictly a Fed matter. An Interstate transportation nightmare, since the little slime-balls tended to focus on disabling trains, ships, planes and trucks, allowing them to run off with all the loot they could carry. The Nazis had hired them during WWII, dropping them from airplanes onto British soil and behind allied lines. They mostly stayed overseas, from what Rolf had been told.
Old prejudices, and the bedtimes stories his Bestemor (Granny) Hanne told him during his childhood, filled his minds-eye. Gnomes hated gremlins, and gremlins hated gnomes. Gremlins broke, stole and killed things that farmers and city folk would blame on gnomes. Gremlins stole gnome babies and ate them. Gremlins worked for Hitler during the war. True? Not true? Didn’t matter, because there they stood.
“Why the hell are they here? And how?” Rolf thought. Gremlins slunk. Gremlins crept. Gremlins didn’t “pop”. But these two had just popped into his car.
They were facing away from him. Thin, looking malnourished. Naked except for tattered loin cloths, purplish skin with grease smears. Rolf could see the shapes and symbols in the tattoos on their bald scalps. The larger one had more tats. They hadn’t turned towards him but the larger one repeatedly sniffed the air and fidgeted, flicking it oddly shaped claws in and out. Rolf leaned back to stay deep in the shadows. He carefully holstered the Warthog. Gunshots might draw more of them..
Or, worse, whatever thugs were working with them. Gremlins couldn’t pop. No tunnels. They had been able to long ago, but they pissed off that old Fey Queen and she cursed them before stranding them in the human realm.
His head spun. He drew and held his knife pommel up, with the blade pointing out the bottom of his grip, sharp edge facing away from his wrist. He could slash across, defend his arm and flick the knife from that position, as well as stab downward if needed. He was giving up a lunging stab for a more defensive posture.
“Suchen Sie nach Nahrung, während ich dieses Feld suche,” the bigger of the two said.
German. He thought. Old country. Bastards.
“Ja gnädige Frau,” the smaller one replied.
They separated, with the smaller one moving into the boxcar interior and the larger one grabbing the tool bin lip. Fuzzy Monkey was still in the bin. He sprang forward, running hard and leaping into the air as quickly and quietly as his training allowed. He gripped the knife in his right hand and placed the palm of his left hand over the pommel tip, aiming to drive it into the creature from behind. The large gremlin started to turn toward him and push back from the box.
It was female.
Rolf twisted in air, leading with his shoulder instead of the knife. He slammed into the frau gremlin, jamming her body into the side of the tool bin under his weight. He immediately struck her in the back of the head with the knife pummel. She let out a gasp of air as her knees buckled. She landed badly and there was a cracking sound when she crumpled to the ground.
A scream came from behind him, accompanied by scrabbling feet running toward him.
“Für meine gnädige!” the smaller one yelled.
Rolf turned to it and was shocked to see it was female as well. Not nearly as scraggly or long in the face as the larger one. The smaller gremlin leapt at him, arms outstretched, clawing at the air with long nails pointed at him. He flipped the knife to his left hand, turned, planted his right foot behind him and leaned back. As the gremlin’s arc was coming to an end, he pivoted his hips and drove the heel of his free hand into the sternum of the smaller female, letting his legs absorb the shock. He used her energy to propel her over his shoulder. She slammed into the side of the tool bin.
Thump. Whoof. “Ack!” was all she uttered as she lay trying to catch her breath, wheezing and rocking.
Rolf leapt on her, forearm on her throat, legs intertwined with hers and went to cover her mouth to prevent more screaming. He stopped just shy as he saw her sharpened teeth. Left with no other option, he brought the knife up and touched it to her throat, ready to drive it in and silence her.
“Shela, jye gnomen. Vin sayet gremile!” she said in a strangled tone, the pressure on her throat resisting her breathing.
Rolf froze. She wasn’t speaking German. Norwegian? No. He understood her. It was Gnimen. The old gnome tongue. What had she said? “Stop. I Gnomon. Am not Gremlin.”
He let off her throat slightly. It had been a couple of years since he had spoken Norwegian, much less Gnimen. Longer still since he’d spoken it fluently.
“Gnomon? What do you mean you’re a gnomon?” He asked in their native tongue. Or at least he tried to ask. His thug prose and rhythm had a hard time with talking in such a properly structured language.
“I gnomon. Don’t hurt! Don’t eat me! You killed my gnädige Frau, I do as you say,” she replied in a thick accent. “Now you Zuhälter-Meister .”
“Don’t move,” Rolf ordered. He looked at his hand. His palm was now a purplish hue and he could see her pale white skin showing through where he had held her throat. He twisted and held her arm behind her back, pulling her to her feet.
Rolf pressed her into the side of the bin. He put his knee in her back, swung his hands and popped the shortest tunnel he’d ever conjured. He pushed her through and into the bin.
Holding her against the inner bin wall, he reached into Fuzzy Monkey and pulled out a small towel. He rubbed at her skin and the purple oily sheen came off.
“Sit down, and don’t you even blink,” Rolf said, trying to lend a threatening tone to the melodic Gnomish tongue. He reached into Fuzzy and withdrew his med kit, fishing out some alcohol wipes. Tearing them open, he proceeded to wipe down the girl’s face.
Blue eyes, bulbous nose, full lips. High, rounded, but sunken, cheeks and the classic gnome ears. She was definitely a gnome, albeit it a skinny, bald, tattooed, and malnourished one.
“What did you say I am?” Rolf said, stepping back from her.
“My Zuhälter-Meister. Pimp-master. I yours now,”
Rolf’s stomach churned. Pimp? She couldn’t be more than about thirty years-old. That meant another ten years before she was legal.
“I’m Rolf Jørgensson. G-Raff to my clan. What’s your name?”
“Siebzehn. Seventeen,” she replied.
“No,” he shook his head. “Your Gnomon name. The one your parents called you.”
The young girl thought for a moment, her brow furrowed.
“Hanna,” she said quietly, as if the name would sting her tongue.
“Hanna, that’s a pretty name. Strong name. Hanna, how old are you?” Rolf asked.
“I’m 43. I look young. Gremlin oils keep small. Not grow, so I can squeeze places on jobs. It happens to all of the gnomon the Zuhälter-Meisters take.”
“All? How many?” Rolf said as he continued to work on removing the coloring covering her. He looked away when he reached her chest area and realized her breasts were bare.
“There is another in my harem. The other Zuhälter-Meisters that came have their own.”
Rolf wasn’t sure how Gremlin groups worked. He knew they were tribal and mercenary. What he did know was how a pimp runs his girls and that made it worse. Commodities to be exchanged for money.
“So, gremlins can’t pop?” He asked, reaching into Fuzzy Monkey and giving her a t-shirt. Tupac would understand.
“Nien. Gnomon frau do for them,” Hanna said as she pulled the shirt over her head and covered her skinny body. Rolf was big for a gnome and she was small. It looked like a dress.
“Is this something new?” Rolf asked. “Grabbing female younglings?”
“There are few of us,” Hanna replied, relaxing as she realized Rolf was not going to harm her. “I taken from the old country. Very young. I been with harem since I sold to the current Zuhälter-Meister. Burrow in factory outside of Rostock.”
“I thought they was all stuck across the ocean,” Rolf said, nodding his head as he pulled out an energy bar from Fuzzy Monkey. “Living in old Germany. Food? Hungry?”
“Yes, hungry,” she said, taking the bar, biting through with her sharpened teeth, chewing it wrapper and all. “We were across ocean. You Gnomon make coming here difficult. But got big job. Big payday. We come in groups, through Gnomon tunnel. Fey tunnel. Big risk. Big reward.”
“These Zuhälter-Meister…they work together like this often?”
“Never,” Hanna replied, her mouth full of peanuts and nougat. “No like each other. No share. Not enough work. But this big job. Big payday. Bring all their harem’s. Gnädige Frau say we’re here to help escape prisoner.”
Rolf was about to ask “what prisoner” when he remembered the last boxcar. The warded one. “How many of you does it take to crash a…,” he asked, realizing he didn’t know the right word, spreading his arms wide, “This. A train?”
“Veir. Four,” Hanna answered non-chalantly. “Less usually. We know how to break things.”
“Why dey bring all the extra…?” Rolf asked himself in English, then looked at Fuzzy. Fuzzy stared back. The look said it all. What little hair he had on the back of his neck stood up. “Mutha Fu…dey the main course.”
“What you say? What wrong?” Hanna asked, picking up Rolf’s concern through the language barrier. “With so many, this go smooth. We set train break when get signal. Pilot dead by now. Gremlin Gnädige Frau be gathering in the last Zugwagen. The top door to open. She say get inside. Protect us during crash. Then we go.”
A high-pitched whistle broke through the sound of the rumbling wheels and creaking boxcar.
“They gather now. Will separate last Zugwagen. Crash is soon,” Hanna said, standing up. She looked like she wanted to run, but she stood her ground. “What we do?”
“Damn. Dis shit is whack. When’s a Tallee gonna catch a break?” Rolf asked. When Fuzzy Monkey offered no reply, he pulled out and turned on the GPS. The next Ley line would be crossed in twenty minutes. “Decision time, homie. Hero or bitch? Which one are you? Fuck it. Better to die standin’ up, go out as an O.G.”
He tucked the GPS into Fuzzy Monkey’s outer pocket as he grabbed Hanna’s arm. She didn’t resist.
“Dey was watchin’ the ports, lookin’ for sumthin’ sumthin’. Dey missed the real stash. Weren’t no thang. Was a who, not no what. Dumbasses. And now a Tallee gets in da shit again,” Rolf said before breaking back into Gnimen, “You’re not going back with them. You’re coming with me. We need to help those other girls get away from the prisoner.”
“Why? Who is prisoner?”
Rolf let his shoulders sag as he picked up Fuzzy Monkey, feeling its faux fur flow between his fingers. “It’s a vampire. And all your friends are just a meal to hold it over until it gets to its destination.”
*****
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