Early

By Phil Miller

There may be a time when she wants to

Open the door to solitude

And close it quietly behind her

So that only she can hear her heart beating.

She will want to feel the comfort of a hug

From a familiar armchair as she wriggles

Childlike into its well-worn woollen

Structure, like slipping into the arms of her

Fathers oversized cardigan.

And facing the frosty wall of glass that

knows the January storm will keep its

Promise, she will want to be still.

And there she will wait with saint-like

Patience, listening intently for the

Euphonious calls of her beloved birds,

Whose flights she will never see.

Copyright Phil Miller.

 

Don't forget our Ken Westell Prize for 2020

 Don't forget our Ken Westell Prize for 2020 went to  Phil Miller:

The story was posted earlier,  read it at:

https://rlwg2020.blogspot.com/2020/03/the-ken-westel-prize-winner.html

Just Click on the link, If you like the story there were subsequent chapters in the following month's May to August 2020.  Enjoy...

 Pongo Lil. 

by Phil Miller

Pongo Lil lived over the hill and Christ! did she stink

Mentioning a bath was a dangerous path,

She’d be gone before you could blink.

T’was  too much for one village to bare

So they hatched a cunning plan,

To trap her, by Olde Goatsmere pub

With the promise of a caramel flan.

The day soon came and did she run but

Too fast were the sprightly young lads.

Who felled her quick with a bramble stick

And tore off her old oily rags.

Not a sound did she make when

Dragged to the lake, naked and raw was she.

They picked her up and threw her in

And they danced around with glee.

Pongo Lil drowned that night,

And her body was never found.

The lake was dredged and the dogs brought in

To search the sodden ground.

A year went by and all was well

Till one night when bathing Jack,

New mum Nell thought she could smell

Rotten fish wafting in from out back.

She left her babe wrapped up in a towel

To follow the stench with her nose.

Which took her to the lake by the hill

Where she froze from her head to her toes.

A light shone bright from the murky deep,

As sleek, deathly arms broke through.

Nell gave out a guttural scream

As her worst nightmare came true.

Her babe held high to the silvery sky

It’s body lifeless and grey.

Down went Lil, to her watery grave

The curse remains to this day.

Goatsmere Village is a haunted place

The folk’s fate was savagely sealed

The night they danced around with glee

When Pongo Lil was killed.

 

Copyright Phil Miller

 

 

CHASING THE DRAGON

By Phil Miller

Be still, don’t move, can you see him there?

Clinging to reeds, waiting for the moment

To swim for the weeds, his mate awaits

In warty blouse, so cute she thinks is

This Great Crested Newt, whose dance

Entrance with grace and flair

His magnificent tail filling the air

With pheromones, to start a love affair.

 

© Phil Miller.

Cold pasty

By Phillip Miller

Stuart was a rather large fellow. He had lost most of his teeth and his hair looked like it was in a permanent state of shock. He resembled that crazy one from “The Hair Bear Bunch”; it looked like some demon was continuously messing his hair up, throughout the day, just for a laugh.

He lived in a five bedroomed council house in one of the smelliest and most notorious roads in East London. It was a perfect breeding ground for an apprenticeship in gang warfare or how to become an expert rodentologist; rats everywhere; not surprising, considering the garden backed onto the biggest waste disposal depot in Newham.

His wife was very large; larger than him. They had nine children. I asked him one day if he was going to have any more children.

“No.”

“Have you had the chop?”

“No.”

“Is she too old now?”

“No.”

“That’s what happens I suppose.”

“What?”

“You know. You both get on in years and that sort of thing falls by the wayside, ay? The passion goes.”

His eyes started to roll. They were red raw like he hadn’t slept in a week.

He said, “to be honest, I got home last night from work and three of my kids opened the door, giggling. The missus shouted down the stairs ‘who is it?’ I looked up and got the shock of my life.

“Was she with another man?”

“No, she was in her birthday suit which, I can assure you, is not a pretty sight.”

He grinned from ear to ear, exposing the one front tooth he had left in his head, before pulling from his pocket, and munching on, a cold pasty that he had started the night before.

We arrived at the building site to start our contract and made our way to the canteen to wait for instructions. When the fried breakfasts turned up the food was literally swimming in oil. Bacon still had hairs on it, sausages burnt, eggs broke and toast and beans cold. Tea was nice and hot though; every cloud, ay. All four of us started to talk about the day ahead and after about 10 minutes Stuart’s eyes rolled again, but this time his head dropped and the side of his face slammed into his breakfast. I shouted for help and went to get up but felt a tug on my arm.

“Sit down, he’s ok,” said my boss, who happened to be Stuart’s oldest friend.

“He’s gonna die. That won’t look good on his death certificate- death by drowning in a plate of fat.”

“It's all right. He’ll wake up in a minute. Another cuppa anyone?”

Stuart came too 10 minutes later, and began wiping the leftover egg, bean sauce and fat from his face.

He added another four sugars to his cold coffee ( so eight sugars in total ) and lit a cigarette.

He could see I was slightly alarmed.

My boss said, “you been selling your pills again, up the West End?”

“Yeah! Fiver each,” said Stuart, grinning, eyes almost shut.

I said, “what pills?”

“I’m narcoleptic. I need the pills to keep me awake. They are amphetamine, better than blues. You want some. Do you a deal, matey boy.”

I told him I don’t do drugs.

“Your loss. Never mind. Back up the West End tonight.”

“Why don’t you just take the pills?”

“Nine kids and a wife to feed, that’s why. They all need shoes, clothes and stuff for school.”

“Have the chop mate.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“We are Catholic.”

“Try doing it standing up then.”

“I can’t do it standing up or laying down and I certainly don’t want her dunking up and down on my totem pole. She’ll do me an injury.”

“How did you manage nine kids then?”

“Normally happens when we go on holiday to my mate’s caravan in Clacton.”

“What do you mean?”

“She bends over in front of the oven, I’ve had a few too many, and in it pops. Quick as apple crumble really.”

“I think you better give up caravanning mate.”

“I think I better give up apple crumble.”

We all roared with laughter.

Two months later I found out that Stuart had died. He had been doing some electrical work on the side. Everybody thought that the tiredness killed him. It didn’t. He was colour blind.

Copyright Phillip Miller

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Up and at ‘em

Up and at ‘em

By Phil Miller

After finally completing the run of my life- 2001 London Marathon- I realised I should have put more time and effort into training for the event after a tall Sikh athlete sped past me at the 22-mile mark wearing a T-shirt that read,“ SPEED CHICKEN,” on the back; he was in his late eighties.

My wife decided it would be a good idea to organise a surprise party for me.

It was something I could have done without, considering my inner thighs were chaffed beyond repair and my nipples had bled due to the friction against my vest; the hazards associated with running over 26 miles, at a snail’s pace. It didn’t matter too much; most people thought I had been pouring blackcurrant juice over myself.  The photo handed to me when I crossed the line, distinctly showed that I was so exhausted, my eyes were fixed in a crossed position, and stayed that way till I arrived home, in the burbs of Essex, in the back of the brother-in-law’s, clapped out 1980’s 2.0 litre Granada, that farted a great plume of black smoke every time it broke from the traffic lights.

An old double bedspread had been stretched across the UPVC bay window with the words, “WELLCOME HOME, YOU DONE US PROUD!” painted in big black letters.

The neighbours must have thought I was returning from a theatre of war; I think they were right.

The music was playing loudly and there was much laughter and merriment going on. I crept in, ignored everybody, and made my way slowly upstairs to bed, where I promptly collapsed, in a heap. The sores between my legs were excruciatingly painful, and all I wanted to do was sleep. No sooner had I closed my eyes, my daughters had decided to run in and jump all over me, like a couple of puppy dogs. I told them, through gritted teeth and rolling eyes that I would make my way downstairs and say hi to everyone. Five minutes later, I was standing at the top of the stairs. I took one step down but the fatigue and burning pain in my calf muscles were unbearable, so I had to walk down backwards, on my hands and knees. Somebody stepped over me on the way to the loo, “what’s the matter? lost your marbles, ha! ha!”; I didn’t reply but thought to myself, I must have done, to run around the streets of London, while everyone else was stuffing sausages and beer down their necks, dancing and prancing and having a good time.  

After a few minutes I reached the bottom step and stood upright on the laminate flooring. I walked forwards, hands stretched out to the walls for support, and made my way to the living room. I looked like a cross between Douglas Bader and Frankenstein’s monster.  The guests were admiring the sharp lines of the new kitchen units, the sparkling tiled walls and new pristine appliances. The kettle drew a great deal of attention; weird.

After about 10 minutes, a lot of sniggering and the occasional pat on the back, I fell onto the sofa to begin my life as a human sloth.

It was nice that people made the effort but really, all they wanted, was an excuse for a knee’s up. All I wanted was to have a kip; for about 72 hours.

There was a knock on the door. I heard somebody acknowledge my dear old friend, Timothy. I sat, waiting for him to come into the living room and offer up a plate of praise. He didn’t come in to see me. After 15 minutes, I went painfully in search of him and found him hiding behind a very large wine guzzling woman in the garden. When I say hiding, I mean, if he turned sideways he would have vanished. He was emaciated. His eyes were sunken and they had large black bags around them. His cheekbones were ready to breakthrough.

“Bloody! Hell, Tim, you’ve done some weight.”

“Hello, Jack. Well done on running the marathon.”

“What’s happened, mate? You look ill!”

“I haven’t slept for three days.”

“What?”

“I’ve been taking E’s, Charlie, LSD and Ketamine, I’m screwed.”

“Jesus! You ain’t got any paracetamol, have you, my head is splitting?”

Tim just stood there. Not a smirk, grin, or false laugh.

I said, “Where’s Tracy?”

“We split up 6 months ago.”

“Oh! No! Sorry, mate. Do you want a drink?”

“No, just water, I’m so dry.”

“Where you been living?”

“Back at mum’s.”

“Oh! Dear.  Come to think of it, you look a bit like Ronnie Corbett, sorry.”

Tim swallowed his glass of water and apologised for his early exit.

I didn’t see him again until one winters night in 2004. It was three am and I was slumped on the floor of a bus shelter. I had half a litre of whiskey in one hand and a fag in the other. I was crying; I was pissed; I hadn’t smoked for fifteen years and my normal tipple was a bottle of merlot over the weekend. It was Seven Kings High road. Tim was walking on the other side of the street, to catch the night bus.  He had been on a date; some online thing.  He couldn’t believe it when he saw the state I was in.

“Fucking hell Jack, you ok?”

“Curs am kay.”

“What?”

“Ahsed, ham urkay,”

“Where ya been?

“Getchin pished.”

“Who you with?”

“Live mehee aloon.”

Tim lifted me to my feet. He had put on a lot of weight.

“Is the missus picking you up? Shall I get you a cab? Do you want to stay at mine?”

“Shee don luff me, annimor.”

“What?”

“Spanitch arshers.”

“I’ll get you a cab home.”

“Not hurm now. Dumped me.”

“Oh! shit. Come on, stay at mine.”

Tim supported me as I staggered left and right and backwards and forwards. It took us 2 hours to walk 2 miles to his place in Romford.

When I woke up in the morning, we had a good old heart to heart.

I said to Tim, “What did you get from your divorce?”

He said, “I was so distraught, all I asked for was my mastic gun and tape measure. She said, do you want the curtains?” I said, “stuff the curtains, keep them. She did. I didn’t know they were worth two thousand pounds. I also didn’t know that she had racked up a credit card bill for over £25,000, and I was liable for half the debt.”

“Bloody! Hell Tim.”

He said, “What are you gonna ask for from your missus?”

I said, “A Stanley knife and my decorating table.”

“Ay! Why’s that?”

“We can go into business then matey.”

We both laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

Up and at ‘em, that’s what my granddad used to say.

Copyright Phil Miller

Alone

Alone

By Phillip Miller

Tick tock, tick tock and the sound of passing cars

Is all I hear, sitting quietly, staring at the stars.

So many fill the sky at night, shimmering like precious stone.

I wish I were a star tonight, so I wouldn’t be alone.

Or, maybe a blade of grass, surrounded by others, standing.

A busy airport then, where planes are always landing.

How about a cherry? I’d go well with a dry martini.

I know! A sarong, yes, that hugs a tight bikini.

Ah! a pair of socks, no good, one without the other.

All right, a canal with locks, or a twin with his brother.

Forget wars, woes, and suffering of man,

Nothing destroys him quicker than ever loneliness can.

© Phill Miller

Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 12b

Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 12b

By Phil Miller

Admiral Stark and Major Singha had re-joined the rest of the war cabinet. “Update please. Any reaction from Moscow, Iran or Beijing?” he asked, focusing in on a region of the Pacific Ocean, just off Japan, “None, Sir! Local Chinese media are reporting the blast as some kind of chemical factory explosion,” replied a senior officer.

Major Singha tapped his headpiece to receive an incoming call. “Sir! We have scoped a call from agent Donyevsky’s phone. Different SIM but  IMEI verified and VR confirmed the caller ID as special ops agent Cody Wright”. Major Singha stood up abruptly, knocking his coffee to the floor in the process, “get that number up on the board and get it traced. I want a drone and G-force on them, double quick. No way they could have gotten Donyevsky’s phone; they would have to kill him first. If we are quick, there may still be time.”

Moby had been hunting the Russian Archangel-M2 for three months and had stealthily tracked it into the murky depths of the Pacific Ring Of Fire, just above the lines of the Kamchatka and Kuril Trench. The crew were at battle stations and although it was the pride of the Russian naval fleet, it was still no match for the ultra hi-tech, hi-spec allied master of destruction that was, MOBY.  She had  been fitted with the most advanced weapons and sonar system known to man, the only negative being that it was noisier than the Russian diesel electric 040AX which made it easier to locate in a theatre of war.  

Both nuclear vessels were manned by highly focused professionals, but Captain Terence Morgan was confident they had the edge.

He had carried out many tours around the oceans and seas of the world and, to the Captain, the crew were his family, the sea his home and MOBY, his pride and joy.

He was lost in thoughts of nostalgia and retirement; this was his last tour. He thought of all the people he had served and who had served under him, all the families he had known and all the weddings and funerals he had attended and the medals he had received and awarded. He had achieved much, considering his humble beginnings; orphaned and rescued from a Romanian orphanage, aged just 11 months; adopted by a wealthy and childless American Industrialist.

He began to get dressed. An immaculate uniform lay neatly on his bed. It was time to address the men. He was a tad displeased at the crease in his shirt but pulled it on anyway. As the call came through from the bridge he checked himself one last time in the mirror. He smiled to himself but couldn’t help noticing a small red vein pulsating under his left eye. It felt itchy, so he scratched it slightly, which caused it to pulsate more frequently, the irritation working its way into his right eye. He began to twitch and his vision blurred. He blinked to clear them, but the movement of his eyelids felt like molten metal. His eyes started to weep blood as he staggered back, falling to the floor, the strength leaving his body as he lay, staring up at the ceiling. His body felt like it was being eaten alive by an army of fire ants, his hands tearing and clawing at his eyes, face and neck. The shock sent him into cardiac arrest. It was just the beginning of the end for the Captain as his body burst into hundreds of rashes which expanded and burst, releasing jets of black blood around the room. Five minutes later he was dead.

The Allied Command Centre was a hive of activity as operations swung into action. The order was given for Carrier Strike Group Sword 1, headed by the multi-billion pound 120,000 tonne aircraft carrier, HMS Regina Ignis, to attack

Trojan 3 had been loaded onto an Israeli F-35I, in full escort with 116^th squadron, as satellites confirmed the mobilisation of the Islamic Republic of Iran Army (Artesh).

Admiral Stark was being briefed minute by minute.

“Sir.”

“Yes!”

“Sir, Moby is dead in the water, sir!”

“What?”

“Sir, Russian forces are reporting that they have destroyed an allied submarine along the Kamchatka line. We are awaiting visual, sir.”

John Stark was incredulous. “That’s impossible. What the hell happened?  I want eyes on screen 1,” he loosened his tie and popped the top button of his shirt. Time seemed to stand still for all personnel as they visually confirmed a mass of floating debris.

“Sir,” the President is on line, sir!”

The Admiral had been joined by other high-ranking members of the joint chiefs of staff. All were speechless, staring at each other, or at their laptops. Most watching the events unfolding on the large screens around the Command Centre, when comms dropped completely. The entire system seemed to have collapsed, again.

“Forget the President!” screamed John Stark. “Jesus! What’s going on? Wait! Matrix must still be alive. It must be her,” he grabbed at a desk phone- completely dead; mobile phone- power but no signal.

“Someone get me a bloody working phone, now,” he yelled at the top of his voice.

All personnel checked their communications devices; all dead. Panic started to set in. They were blind to the world. Voices rose in frustration, confusion and anger. After 10 minutes a unanimous sigh of relief emanated almost instantaneously from all present, along with cheering, laughter and clapping when their giant TV screens and monitors flickered back to life. Stunned silence followed.

The Russian president and Chinese Prime Minister stood, side by side, on all visual displays. They spoke in their own languages with subtitles, in English, provided along the bottom of the screens.

“We, the Joint Eastern Communist Party have taken control of all Western Intelligence Networks Data centres (WIND’s). All national infrastructure networks within The United Kingdom and America are under our control. Electrical grids, metro and underground, hospitals and clinics are out of action. Your trading floors cannot trade and your planes cannot fly. Thank you for ghosting our prestigious Russian Super Data Centre. We could not have achieved this without your help. Please observe the following link.” A small box appeared in the corner of the transmission which showed the small patch quilted island that could only be England. An unmanned aircraft zoomed in to a small section of land in Essex and two people holding each other tight.

Admiral Stark and Major Singha, along with the entire staff at Command Centre were frozen to the spot, waiting, watching, gripped with fear and trepidation.

The narrative continued, “We have control of HADES. Please observe that he is almost at complete contagion phase. We have the ability to stop it. We have the ability to activate it. We shall demonstrate”.

The drone moved in closer. “I think they have us, Cody. No more running,” he said, resignedly.

He pulled away from Cody, holding her at arm’s length. What felt like a bolt of lightning shot through his body, his muscles tensed in reflex. Cody jumped back as he began to scratch at his head, vigorously, then tore off his clothing and fell to the floor. Red and black patches appeared all over his body. They began to expand and join up, giving the impression they were about to burst, when suddenly, they reduced in size and formed into small rashes, before turning a light pinkish colour, blending in with the pigment of his skin. Cody felt compelled to help, but moved further away.

WIND’s transmission continued. If you don’t want to be responsible for the death of approximately 70 million people, then we request your immediate surrender.”

There was a pause in the transmission, before what seemed like a screensaver, filled every viewing platform. There was a sharp intake of breath as several small identical silver objects appeared within a mass of black.  The Russian president gave the order. Yassarevitch obeyed. It was over in the blink of an eye; all Western SSAD’s exploded instantly. Many at the Allied Command Centre gasped in horror, some collapsed to their knees. Major Navin Singha clutched at his chest, a deathly pale grey washed down his face. Admiral John Stark, visibly shaken, retired to his office, locking his door behind him. He opened a desk drawer and loaded his Beretta 92SB.

Cody ran. She ran for her life, as Craig lay motionless in the dirt. A huge bio-lab relocation vehicle pulled up alongside him and four men jumped out, kitted with full biological protective suits and breathing apparatus. A robotic stretcher, guided by one of the soldiers, moved swiftly over the ground as a hydraulic boom winch positioned itself for the lift. Cody watched from the safety of the woods as Craig’s body was dropped onto the stretcher and into an isolation chamber at the rear of the lorry. She held her hand over her mouth to muffle her scream, the tears flowing uncontrollably.

In a moment, he was gone. She fell to her knees and sobbed. She was alone. After a few minutes, she wiped her nose on her sleeve and blinked back the tears.  She had no one to turn to and almost jumped out of her skin when the phone vibrated in her pocket. KC had left a message:

“MAKE YOUR WAY TO GOATSMOOR LANE, BRENTWOOD.

STOP BY THE OLD WHITE TREE STUMP. I WILL COME AND GET YOU.

IT’S NOT OVER, KC.”

Cody relaxed slightly. Although the future looked very bleak, KC’s presence gave her hope. She moved further into the woods. The sun was almost directly above her, so she knew which direction to take through the mass of dense woodland and scrub; just a few miles more.

Her stomach began to rumble. The cramps were getting worse. She felt a twinge in her gut and unzipped her HV suit. She felt a slight burning sensation and looked down at her stomach. A small gastropod like lens extruded from her umbilicus, surrounded by a black rash which appeared, bubbled up and then vanished.

Copyright Phillip Miller

Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 12a

Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 12a

By Phil Miller

The lower ranks of the Okhrana, the military wing of the New Russian Imperialists, were dragged from their beds, grabbed as they left local bars and restaurants, or torn from their families.  Some were shot where they stood, along with their kin, or knifed to death the old fashioned way, with a bayonet, then shot, just for good measure.  The higher echelons of the unlucky political revolutionaries, however, were taken to the old dungeons located below the new Government Building in the old town of Aksay, Rostov Oblast, where further interrogation would be needed to filter out any more disciples of democracy, well away from the Capital; away from the Kremlin.

The R.D.D.C was full. The president of Russia was in conference with the leader of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of China. The wait had been long and often humiliating, for both countries, but now the Bear and the Dragon were fully prepared. This was going to be a different kind of war; a war without attrition; a war they must win.

Colonel Yassarevitch sat and waited for the order. He thought about his top secret-service agent’s that had fallen, and those yet to fall, in the line of duty. They would all be remembered and honoured. Their family names would go down in the history books of the Motherland for a millennium. It was time for a new world order.

The huge advancement of S.W.A.R.M through the Asia Pacific meant that, effectively, China was trapped. Any launch towards the West would be suicide. There was room for only one superpower on this beautiful blue planet. The United States of America was, and always will be, that superpower, thought Admiral John Stark, as he sat, along with his joint chiefs of staff, his fingers tapping gently to Whistling Dixy; he didn’t much like music but this old song popped into his head. He received a call via WEBCON; all systems go! All eyes were on him.

“Gentlemen! Okhrana has been lost. You know what to do. We are at strike phase. I want Trojans one and two activated immediately. Be ready to initiate Trojan three. We have lost Flamingo for the moment, but we are in pursuit. Let us hope we find him before our enemy does. The annexation of Estonia and Latvia are underway with reports of mercenary activity along the Polish and Lithuanian borders. The Chinese are primed to attack Taiwan. ICBM’s are imminent. The Iranian threat will diminish within the next thirty minutes. The President of the United States of America is to address congress and the world. We are at war gentlemen, so, to your stations. Major Singha! Come with me please”, said the Admiral as he swiftly moved towards Control Observation Room 1.

The bomb proof unit was almost insignificant at a mere ten square metres. A small photo of a regular-sized family unit sat on the desk with two large star-spangled banners hung from poles that were fixed to the wall, directly behind. The Admiral sat down and offered a seat to Major Singha, who promptly accepted.    

“Our networks and all communication systems are back online, up and running, along with S.S.A.D’s. All systems have now been switched and are good to go. We are back on track Navin,” he said as he placed his hand's palms down on his desk. A small spectrogram flipped up in front of him, with the heads of each allied country in conference. Countdown had begun; in thirty minutes, the world would be set on fire.

The Major looked bewildered. He knew that this day would come but he was hoping that Russia would implode first, with the help of Flamingo. At least then, they would have a chance. Fighting on two fronts had proved to be the downfall of many an empire. Alas, that was not to be. He looked sternly at John Stark. “Sir! If they find him before we do, then….” he swallowed hard, blinking at the thought.

“I know!” said the Admiral, “I think we both need a stiff drink. Do the honours, my friend.”    

Journalists around the globe waited with bated breath as the most powerful man in the world prepared himself. He stood, surrounded by American Secret Service agents, within The White House pre-briefing room. He never once dreamed that his ascension to office two years earlier would culminate with a call to arms, and declaration of war.

“Mr President, Sir! We are ready,” said a smartly dressed woman, iPad-Pro in hand, headset on.

As he took a deep breath, he read the twitter feed on the screen above the entry to the media room. Huge explosions had been reported at both Parchin and Beijing, with satellite pictures offering a glimpse of mushrooming white, grey-green clouds of gas in both arenas that were expanding exponentially. The President looked over at his vice president and nodded solemnly as he made his way to the teleprompter and the world’s press, who seemed to be salivating at the prospect of carnage and destruction.

“People of America, Our friends. To all those who cherish democracy and freedom. To those who love their country and their families and who believe in justice and the rule of law. To those who cherish our way of life. To those who want to protect our way of life. We face a tyranny from the East unlike any seen before. Prepare yourselves. Our forces have been attacked in the Pacific. We are at war.”

Kayse Matrix was sweating profusely. She was still extremely vexed after her fortress was breached by G-force and still found it hard to believe that Donyevsky could kill his own men in such a cold, calculated manner. She never knew when or how she would be able to repay him but she would think of something. The night was drawing in at The Old Bunker in Goats lane woods; her final refuge. KC was still unsure whether or not she could trust him, but they needed him, especially now the viral attack on the command centre had finally been thwarted, which meant two things; she had lost control of Craig Burnett, and the countdown had begun. The world needed to see the real threat; she could show them. Come on Craig! Where the hell are you?

She set up her mobile satcom and waited for a signal but needed a sugar fix, so made her way back up the wooden stairs of the concealed entrance. There was not much else in her backpack but half a dozen bars of fruit and nut, a litre of Tango and a large bag of Jelly Babies; should keep me going for about an hour, “Ok! Back to work”, she said to herself, the sweat from the exertion of five minutes physical activity obvious through her bright green XXXXL Nirvana T-shirt. 

There was no way she could hack into the United States DoD again. She could, however, still cause a few problems. She reached for her laptop and plugged in an external hard drive. Something had been niggling away at the back of her mind for days: the calculations for the Pico cells; her virus.

 She almost threw up on the spot, when her re-analysis of the data proved her theory.

Craig and Cody had made their way by foot to an industrial concrete mixing depot. The site was fully lit with warnings of guard dogs and 24-hour security; nothing they couldn’t handle.  He took out the Huawei phone they had retrieved from the dead body of Peter Donyevsky and dialled KC’s number, but no answer. He sat, staring at the phone, before trying again. Still no answer. He threw the phone to Cody.

“Keep trying. We have to get through to her. She is our only hope. I don’t know what else to do.” He sat down next to Cody who was protecting her broken thumb.

“Let me see that again.”

“I think it’s broke. I need to get a splint.”

“Let me see”, he grunted forcefully, “I think it’s just dislocated,” he held her hand gently.

“No, it’s broken. I can feel it,” she winced as Craig moved it very carefully.

“I’m going to re-set.”

“You try and I will bloody kill…..aaargh!” she screamed in agony as he pulled it back into place. Craig picked up the phone and dialled again. This time it connected.

“KC, I’m with Cody. I can’t believe you’re alive. Donyevsky told me you ……..”

KC spat out a mouthful of chocolate and bluey-0range goo onto a small metal plate. “Craig! Thank God! Where are you? Is he there with you? It’s Ok! I told him everything. He’s cool, he’s going to...”

Craig cut in abruptly, “he’s dead.”

There was a long pause before KC replied in a measured tone “Craig, listen to me, HADES is using you like a parasite.”

“What do you mean?” replied Craig, sharply.

“Are you still, itching? I mean has it gotten much worse?"

“Yeah! driving me nuts. I’ve started to come out in some kind of rash as well. Not sure I’m going mad or not, but I swear it’s almost like it is alive, moving around.”

“Listen Craig, you and Cody need to find a place. We don’t have long, put Cody on, quickly,” he turned to look at her, concern etched on his face and handed over the phone.

“I found an anomaly within the Synthgen data.  I think the picocells have the ability to mutate, learn and develop independently.  You have to find a deep hole somewhere.  Do you understand?”

KC raised her voice, which was unusual for her, “Listen. You need to bury him, Cody. You have to end it. I’m sorry,” the line went dead.

“Come on Cody, we need to get out of here,” he tugged at her arm.

“Wait, I need to…. think a minute,” her head was spinning.

“What did she say?” 

She put her arms around Craig and held him tight for a few minutes. It felt good, it felt real.

Copyright Phillip Miller

Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 11b

Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 11b

By Phil Miller

Chapter 11 continued.

“We don’t have time for this crap. Come on. Don’t worry, we will not be going back to Command Centre.” said the Russian double agent, as he offered Craig a hand.

Craig looked up in confusion. “What? What’s going on?”

“Your friend KC has a plan.  We need to get back to her, double quick.”

Craig felt a strength surge through his body when he heard KC was ok. He took Peter Donyevsky’s hand and heaved himself up. They stood hand in hand, Craig still unsure of the clinical Russian.

“We can do good my friend, East and West. We can do good in the world, with you as the beacon Craig. Come, I will explain more on the way.”

“I can’t go without Cody,” Craig stood fixed to the spot.

“We don’t have time for this, come on,” Peter grabbed Craig’s arm.

“No, just 5 minutes more.” He screamed out for Cody again. But, there was no answer.

“Look Craig, we go back now. I will call for one of my search teams on the way. If they cannot find her then nobody can, ok!”

Craig studied the cold, calculated killer before him. There was something genuine in his voice.

“Ok! Let's go.”

They turned for the chopper. They had only taken two paces when Donyevsky fell to the floor with a  long crossbow bolt lodged in his neck. The crimson blood pouring like a silken sheet over the chocolate coloured mud. Craig sunk to his knees, waiting for the final blow. He looked down at the most dangerous killing machine he had ever known and knew that there was no point in running. He stood up defiantly.

Mika walked slowly, calmly, confidently towards him, the crossbow hanging down at her side.

She stopped by Peter Donyevsky, twitching in the dirt.

“This is for Pepe, my poor little brother,” she sighed, as she fired one more bolt through his chest then dropped the weapon to the ground. She pulled a small handgun from her belt and pointed to the one hundred foot hole in the ground.

“Move, over there.”

“I don’t care what happens. Just shoot me.”

“That would be far too easy, keep walking.”

They were at the edge of the piling hole. Mika smiled at him. “Get on the floor.”

Craig was resigned to his fate. He had always felt his life would end wickedly. Maybe the dark clouds would leave him now. He sat on the floor. “lay down you dog,” Mika was on him in an instant. She drew a cable tie from her belt and zipped his hands together. “Time for a bit of fun and then some pictures for your friends and mine, I think,” she whispered as she slid out her favourite weapon of choice. She grabbed Craig by the hair, to reveal more of his throat and flicked the razor sharp garrotte around his neck. “If you can keep your head while all those about you,” she laughed loudly as she went for the kill but something distracted her. Some kind of reflective light in the distance. She tried to make out what it was but it was too late. The bullet entered her left eye, killing her instantly and forcing her body backwards into the darkness of the hollowed out ground.

Craig looked up, but all he could see was some slithers of dancing light. Then she appeared.

“Cody! Thank god. I thought you were dead, where did you get the gun?”

“I found it by the cabin, in the mud. Who is she?”

“I don’t know. Get me out of these.”

Cody helped Craig up and they walked slowly past the body of Peter Donyevsky.

“Hang on, check if he has a phone Cody.”

She found a Huawei phone in the inside pocket of his coat and handed it to Craig, who held her damaged hand for a moment. “We need to get that fixed Cody. We need to get out of here. I don’t suppose you can fly a chopper, can you?” Cody stared at him, “I thought not.  We need to move his body. Then run.”

They steadily dragged Donyevsky to the edge of what looked like hell’s hole and, with a gentle nudge, sent him down into the abyss.

Copyright Phil Miller

Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 11a

Flamingo Podnyalsya Ch 11a

By Phil Miller

Chapter 11

Mika established an end to end secure link to Moscow via a Russian communications satellite. It had been a long time coming for Colonel Yassarevitch, since his superiors had ordered the shut down of the Russian embassies in Dublin and London; time was running out. 

The Colonel sat alongside other high ranking officials of the Russian military elite, within the impregnable fortress that was the newly built, high tech, Russian Defence Data Centre.  The huge war room was filled to capacity. The Russian defence system (EKS) and China’s CRC were at their highest levels. The colonel excused himself and retired to a restroom; he wished he could smoke one of his favourite Cohiba Esplendido cigar’s, washed down with a nice large Beluga Noble or Cherry Varenya, like the old days, but that would have to wait, until it was over.

After a short, thirty-second loss of connection, Mika was back. Yassarevitch tapped his earpiece, “At last! Where have you been?”

“It doesn’t matter. I lost you for a moment, but we are all good now.”

“You have him then?”

“Soon!”

“We are going to take Okhrana down but we must be sure we are in position?”

“I need one, maybe two hours more, that is all.”

“No games Mika.  Just do your job. We are at the point of no return. Our comrades in China are ready and waiting.”

Mika disconnected the call and watched the live news footage on rewind again of a possible terrorist attack on the streets of East London. The footage was perfectly clear and so was the man holding the gun. She knew Peter Donyevsky.  She knew he had turned, that he had killed her brother Pepe and Micheal Kaspersky, the man who had given her purpose. She focused on his targets, scanning into the motorbike. The registration was clear. She froze the image, copied and cropped it, then uploaded it to the Russian Secret Service database. 10 minutes later she had the information she needed. Local ANPR had caught them heading East.

Mika dressed in her combat clothing and prepared her weapons. She was meticulous to a fault; always be prepared, trust no-one, strike first. The time had come. 

Cody had ridden like a bat out of hell until she reached Standford-le-hope.  It was almost 7:30pm, when the weather had turned against them. Visibility was down to around thirty yards, causing her to slow down to what seemed a snail’s pace, as the torrential rain made riding almost impossible. The fuel gauge was on empty. An old roadwork’s port-a-cabin gave them the shelter they needed. They were clear; for the moment. The A13 had been undergoing major works which proved a blessing in disguise as it was partially blocked off by concrete blocks and plastic cones. The Kawasaki stalled in the deep excavator tracks that had been churned up by a monster digger, during the day. Craig slid off, into the cold wet mud. He lay there shivering, eyes half open. Cody leant over him then grabbed his ankles and, holding one leg under each of her arms, she dragged him towards the workmen’s hut, the adrenalin nulling the pain in her hand and nose.  Craig came back to life just as they neared the entrance. Cody tried the door, which was unlocked, and reached in for a light switch; good, electricity. The unit was around fifteen by twelve feet. Half a dozen Hi-Viz polyester rain suits hung on hooks along the prefab walls along with safety helmets. Two tables in the middle of the hut gave it a cramped feel. A hot water heater sat alongside a Baby Belling and microwave and benches sat fixed to each wall.

Cody checked the door before sitting down. Craig lay on a bench, staring at the ceiling. Both were exhausted. Cody walked over and sat down next to Craig, lifting his head onto her lap, wiping clumps of blackened mud from his hair. Craig looked up at her, his eyes were bloodshot and his body and head ached. He had a compulsion to scratch at his feet so kicked off his muddied trainers.

“I didn’t ask for this,” whispered Craig.

“None of us did,” said Cody, delicately removing some mud from his face.

“I should hate you for what you did, or rather, what you didn’t do,” still shivering.

“We couldn’t tell you, it may have jeopardized everything. You and everyone you knew would be in danger,” the pain was intensifying in her broken thumb.

“So what changed? Why save me now, and what the fuck happened to Tom?”

“He obeys orders. He’s a soldier. It’s what he is supposed to do.”

“And you! What happened back there?”

“I already made my decision when I saw the data.”

“What data?”

“We knew you would lead us to her Craig,” her voice was calm.

“What data Cody?” he asked again, “I know about Flamingo. I know about the Okhrana and I know about the plan for radical change in Russia. What else is there?” his anger rising. He started to scratch his feet against each other. It felt good, but he just wanted to tear at his flesh; If he could, he would cut his foot off, such was the irritation.

Cody didn’t answer him immediately but instead started to remove her sodden clothes. She stood in her underwear before quickly grabbing at the workmen’s waterproof clothing.

“Well! Talk!” shouted Craig, making Cody jump, knocking her hand against the side of the table.

She screamed, “alright, all right,” before throwing the protective clothing to the floor, and sat on the table staring out of the only window in the cabin, flashing lights from the motorway causing shadows to dance across her tanned body, “In the early 70’s the greatest scientific mind in the world discovered a way of using DNA to build a human clone. That man was the geneticist, Micheal Pitulko. You were that clone. But you know that already, thanks to your friend Kayse Matrix, right?” She looked over at him.

“Yes, I know that already,” his feet were getting worse.

“They also managed to create a virus. Not just any virus. This virus was built to adapt to the human body, grow with it, learn from it, building a symbiotic relationship with it. They then fused this with a mutant form of the bacterium that causes Necrotizing Fascitis. Intelligent triggers were built into the first picocells, which duplicated as you grew, but lay dormant.  You are a human biological bomb Craig. You have the capacity, if triggered, to annihilate every living thing on this planet. You are deadlier than SARS, COVID and EBOLA combined tenfold. If they activate you then god help us. Your touch alone will infect. A single expelled breath from your lungs has the capacity to kill millions. If you cough, then trillions of particles ride the airwaves looking for living organisms. Flesh blisters and bursts. Lungs are destroyed in minutes, then the liver, the heart and finally the brain. You are eaten alive from the inside out. You were supposed to be activated in Russia, during the uprising and rebellion of the Okhrana, should the coup d’etat fail. The Kremlin had been looking for Ruberov for a long time and when they found him, well! I don’t need to tell you what happened to him, do I?"

Craig sat unblinking, the words smacking him hard in the face. He had accepted the fact he was a clone, but to be a living biological weapon turned the colours of his world grey.

He felt a pain in his head and his feet were driving him insane. He noticed a foot grate by the door and trudged over to it, scraping the soles of his feet roughly over the old iron spikes, turning away from Cody as he tried to blink back the tears that were welling up inside him.

He felt sick, and he felt tired and hopeless. He felt isolated and alone but above all, he felt angry; angry with Cody, with Tom and Inspector Moreau; angry with everyone. He started punching the walls of the cabin, releasing the tsunami of emotions within, before falling to the floor in despair: a broken man.

He was distraught and flinched as he felt the warmth of her hands as she slid them under his soaked shirt. He wiped his eyes and turned slightly. Cody pressed herself gently against him and kissed his head. Craig started to sob as Cody cupped and kissed his face. They sat staring at each other for a tender moment before she helped him to remove his clothing and then her underwear. Her tanned, moist body glistened in the subdued light. Craig shook his head. He was just about to talk when Cody hushed his lips and placed his hands on her breasts. His fingers slowly and softly ran the lines of her sleek body. The urge to hold her, be with her, enter her, felt right. Cody took control. She lay him on his back, straddled him and gently eased him inside her, moving slowly back and forth before Craig rolled her over. They lay entwined as one. There was a tenderness between them. They lay side by side, gasping for breath until, finally exhausted.  They slept.

Craig woke up to find Cody had gone. He checked his watch; fifty-seven minutes, where is she?

He stood up quickly and dressed in one of the orange PVC suits, slipping on his old trainers. He looked out of the port-a-cabin window but saw nothing but the occasional red and white lights of a speeding vehicle. He felt scared. For the first time in his life, he felt real fear. He jumped down onto the muddied floor and called out for Cody, the silence deafening. He could sense something was wrong and stepped back towards the cabin, feeling for the safety of the door. The whooshing sound of helicopter blades could be heard in the distance. Craig panned around to fix its location. Somehow, he knew they were coming for him. He screamed, “Cody! Cody!”

The chopper honed in on the small prefabricated hut and landed no more than twenty metres from it. Peter Donyevsky jumped out, cursing quietly at the state of the ground that he now stood ankle deep in.

“Craig,” he shouted, “I know you are in there. It is ok! KC has told me everything. I’m on your side Craig. We have to go. I can get you to a safe place. You have to trust me.”

He started to walk towards the light of the workmen’s cabin. It was eerily quiet since the blades of the helicopter had ceased. The door was ajar. Peter Donyevsky drew his PP2 and gently pushed it open. He looked inside but could see no-one. “Craig, I can help get you out of here and away from Moreau and Singha and everyone else.” He stepped up onto the floor but was forced off-balance as Craig pulled at his grounded ankle from beneath the unit. Donyevsky fell backwards into the mud, his gun flung from his grip. Craig scrambled out and made a run for it, towards the giant one hundred metre stack of iron piling grids where it was slightly lit; just enough to shine light onto the deep foundation holes dug for the new bridge. Donyevsky was fitter, stronger than the young officer.

The mud sucked at Craig’s ankles, his thighs were burning and his legs felt cramped. He collapsed onto his knees, puffing and panting, like an animal waiting to be slain. Peter Donyevsky knelt down beside him.

“You really are a pain in the arse, you know that!”

“Just fucking kill me, please!”

“I would love to, what with all the trouble you have put me through, shithead!”

“Do it then, the world will be a safer place, believe me,” panted Craig, before spitting into the mud.

Copyright Phillip Miller