Artemis' Finest - Chapter two

Artemis’ Finest
January 28th, 2057, 1844 hours
London, England

London was owned and operated by the Great Britain Party. They did a pretty good job keeping the city and nearby waterways safe from the Orcs and Gargoyles, and even had a rather effective police force for the insides of the concrete walls that surrounded the city.

The Party also owned most of the south-east part of England and a small section of France, including Calais. The Great Britain Party was well-liked by many of the bordering colonies, as they were co-operative and reliable. Most colonies got on well with each other, mainly because it seemed foolish to fight other people when their planet had successfully been invaded by millions of aliens.

There were some, like the Chinese Fallout Survivors, and the Western Cult that tried to fight fruitless wars against everything else when food and fertile land was scarce. Quite a lot of colonies that used those kinds of tactics, like the German National Socialists, ended up destroyed simply out of incompetence.

The trio that made up Artemis’ Finest used London as a base of operations. They had some friends in the ex-Air Force that flew C-17 transport planes, and for a large fee, could fly them around the world with all their equipment.

Artemis’ Finest owned a warehouse close to the airport. The three of them wheeled The Tractor to the garage, parking it in the large open space on the ground floor before locking all the weapons in the hidden basement under the warehouse.

In Norway, The three men had deposited the dragon in the trailer of The Tractor with the heavy duty winch, driven it back down the mountain, making sure the dragon wouldn’t smell by keeping the bastard refrigerated.

They showed the Swedish that they had killed it, collected their bounty and sold the pieces to different Norwegian and Swedish colonies. The great thing about being in those two nations was that the closest Portal was in Munich, Germany, so the only real trouble was from Gargoyles.

Gargoyles aren’t the creepy stone statues that hang out on old mansions. It just seemed like a fitting name. The best way to explain them is by picturing a black pterodactyl with the face of a bat. Just with strangely soft fur, and strength capable of lifting somebody into the air in its talons and carrying them off to feed it’s skin-shredding chicks.

A bullet is capable of taking one out, the main problem being the sheer numbers the gargoyles fly around in. They attack as one, like a seamless team. Militaries around the world called them the ‘aerial tidal waves’.

In Riyadh, the capital of Saudi Arabia, rumours had it that the gargoyles blocked out the sun as they flew from the portal in a massive wave, hovering over the city until they found a victim, swooping in for a kill. Their anti-air tanks were ripped apart by those claws before they could get a shot off.

It came seventh on the most massacred city list.

And yes. There is that list.

If you’re wondering, first on the list was Rio De Janeiro, Brazil.

The trio didn’t have any real problems with the gargoyles, however, which was good. And Michael did not have a broken back. Which, as Graham added later sarcastically, was an added bonus.

The three of them were off to celebrate soon after getting back to home turf. Their favourite club, the Wing-Tailed. This was one of the best in London. They made the best Marguerite’s, and the best Toblerone’s, and Michael reckoned some of the best looking women he had seen. Or at least the best in England.

Funny, they were similar to celebrities, those three when they turned up in an expensive Maybach (Michael assured everybody they paid for it…) wearing suits or tuxedos, they were all guaranteed a woman. Of course, Graham, being married and the team’s moral compass, never cheated on his wife.

Still, the three of them rocked up at the Wing-Tailed in the usual manner, the valet taking their car and the bouncer letting them in immediately, with a slight smile and a ‘welcome back’.

That night was pretty much a blur. Graham stayed a little sober, drove to his apartment in the city after a few hours. James and Michael got drunk and found themselves in women’s bedrooms in the afternoon, the following day.

Graham Reith was thirty-eight years old. He had brown eyes and short black hair that spiked up easily. For instance, when he woke up, his bed hair made his head look like a spiked club.

His family lived in Brighton, south of London, where his wife, daughter and son were. He was already planning to go see them before they got a new job. Of the trio, he wasn’t the tallest, or the shortest, at six foot, and was of decent build.

Graham was meant to go fight in the UN-Chinese conflict as an engineer, when the UN was pushing the Chinese back across Canada, into Alaska, and west towards the Strait between Russia and Alaska.

When the Nuclear Wars started, other countries stopped sending soldiers to Alaska, and he and his family were thankful for him not being part of the nuclear fallout that fell upon China. The war killed close to two billion, with a massive black and orange gash in the population, as well as the amount of radiation polluting China, parts of Canada and Alaska.

Graham had a shower and got dressed. He was eating a late lunch when the phone on the bench rang. He got up and trudged over to it, hoping it would be his wife. It wasn’t.

“Hi Graham,” Michael said sweetly.

“Oh, you’re still alive. What do you want?” Graham asked, pretending to be annoyed. He was glad Michael couldn’t see him smiling; Graham knew what was coming next.

“I need a lift.”

“That’s not my problem,” Graham told him. Already, Graham knew he would have to go find him and get him. But he wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

“Pleeeease come pick me up?”

“Get a taxi.”

“I tried. They thought I was insane for not having any clothes on.” Graham raised his eyebrows.

“What happened to your clothes?”

“Um, the girl. She was… fetish-y,” Michael said. Graham sighed.

“Fine. Where are you?”

A few minutes later, Graham was driving in the Maybach through the city. He had found some clothes in his wardrobe that would fit the slightly shorter, broader Michael. He was driving for an hour when he came to the small house, which was less than two hundred metres from the city walls.

Michael was being an idiot, as usual. He was standing outside the house; the only thing that he was wearing was a pair of ripped underwear that was barely hiding his gentleman’s area. He smiled at cars that passed by, as the driver’s honked and shouted angrily at him.

Michael was holding his wallet and phone in his hand. When he saw the black German car turn into the street, he grinned broadly and waved. Graham sighed. He half-thought about ignoring Michael completely, embarrassed at this spectacle.

He pulled up outside the house and Michael opened the rear door and stepped in. Michael was an Australian who had thankfully lost the stupid accent. He was shorter than the other two, at twenty-six, but was bulky. He had eye-length dirty-blonde hair, and blue eyes. His skin was tanned from the Australian beaches.

Michael had been a conscript in Australia, but never passed boot-camp because of what he called ‘behavioural issues’. In other words, he was a dick. However, when his hometown of Brisbane was invaded by Orcs, he left training and went to defend it. He survived for a while with an unorganised group of defenders before the country was almost completely overrun. From there, he fled to Britain.

“You, sir,” Michael said, sitting down. “Are a true gentleman.”

“You… are an idiot. Clothes in that duffel.” Michael, still smiling, put the clothes on in the back, as Graham accelerated away from the house.

“Had fun?” Graham asked him.

“Yes, thank you, very fun. I missed things like that.”

Graham’s phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out, hoping it would be his wife. It wasn’t.

“Hi Graham,” James said in the same tone Michael had used. “I need your help.”

“Mmm, Christ…” Graham groaned, stopping the car on the side of the road. Michael leant forward and shouted at the phone.

“Hey James!” He yelled. Graham winced as Michael’s voice slammed into his ear.

“Heeey! Michael! Good to hear from you, buddy!” James shouted back. “So Graham, I need you to bail me out of jail.”

Graham sighed. Again.

James was the only one out of the three that had seen action in Alaska and Canada against the Chinese. In Alaska, right before the Americans and English were about to launch a counter-attack against the Chinese in western Russia, he went AWOL. Nobody knew where he went or what he did, but he avoided the Mushroom Wars by a hairs thread.

When the war ended he reappeared in the Armed Forces, in East WA. He almost died in Operation Eisenhower, the counter-attack against the battalion of Orcs who invaded America, known as the Tahj-Merc Orcs. When he nearly died and watched most of the soldiers in his company get slaughtered, he caught a boat to England to avoid certain death.

Out of the three, he was the tallest, with arms like tree trunks. His brown hair was cut short, military-style, complete with stubble around his chin. He was twenty-eight, and also had brown eyes, and a silver tongue, which the team used to sell their goods at very handsome prices.

Later on that day, Graham was driving out to see his family. After paying a large sum of money to the police for bailing James out of prison, and dropping them both off, he was finally on his way to Brighton.

The portal in England had erupted in Birmingham, and while the British were doing a good job of defending London, they also had enough men to defend most of the south-east coast, which just happened to include Brighton.

Driving there was usually safe, but sometimes the local defence force would stop traffic for hours when there was suspicious activity, and occasionally you could hear gunfire and explosions in the distance.

Already late, Graham was glad to see that the roads were moving swiftly. Armoured vehicles and convoys filled the roads, and there were tank and APC patrols in the disused bus lanes.

It had been close to three weeks since he had seen his family. As he parked the Maybach in the driveway, he breathed out in anticipation, wondering what had changed while he had been away.

He wasn’t disappointed. His seven year old son answered the door, and grinned widely when he saw his dad. His ten year old daughter ran up to him and jumped into a hug in the hallway. And his wife frowned in mock anger, annoyed he was late, but too relieved to see him to put on a convincing act.

Meanwhile, Michael and James were in London. Michael wanted a new car with his earnings and James was tagging along. Michael was looking around for a Jaguar, or an Aston Martin.

Neither of them had family. Well, James might have, but he never talked about anything to the others, no matter how much the other two tried to get him to spill personal information.

Michael’s family was dead. Most likely. No news had come from Australia for ages. Graham noticed that Michael didn’t seem to be bothered by this fact that his family may be dead, and hoe Michael didn’t care enough to try and send a letter.

Neither Graham nor James asked why.

They were looking around at some Mercedes and Aston Martin’s. The car-dealer was rude. He followed them around, scowling as they browsed. Michael had to annoy this guy. At any chance he got, he looked up and smiled widely at the angry guy. James was resisting the urge to laugh every time Michael did this. Both were amazed at the seriousness of that man.

Being quite rich, the two of them were browsing newish vehicles, made a few years back and with no physical damage. James insisted on looking at the engine and the interior of all cars for harm.

They were checking out a twenty-year old DBS, when Michael’s phone rang in his pocket. He stepped away from the cars, shooting another grin at the angry car-dealer while pulling his work-phone out. Unknown number.

“Hello?”

“Is this Michael Chrat I’m talking to?” Asked a guy with a rather deep voice. Rule four to privacy in a post-apocalyptic world: paranoia is good.

“No, he isn’t here right now. Can I take a message?”

“Yes, please. We have a job for his team. What would be a good time to call back?”

“An hour or two, I suppose. I’m sorry; I didn’t catch your name.”

“Oh, of course, this is Sir Thomas Aiken,” the man said. “Of the Royal Crown’s Empire.”

Graham was enjoying the evening with his son. Drawing, as a matter of fact. Graham was surprised at Pete’s skill.

The father was sitting on the carpet, frowning at the two different drawings on the coffee table in front of him. His own blue dragon, an awful likeness of the one Artemis’ Finest had fought two weeks earlier, wasn’t as good as Pete’s, who had managed to draw an orange fire dragon with skill for a seven year old.

“Where did you learn to draw like this?”

“Mum taught me,” Pete said back.

“…Mum can draw?”

His phone rang on the table and he groaned as he saw the name shown on the screen. He picked it up and pressed the green button, excusing himself from his child.

“Michael, call me again and I’ll cut off your hands and bitch-slap you with them until you’re uncon-.”

“No, no, no, hold on. You need to hear this.” He sounded anxious. Still though, it had been three hours since he had last called for help.

“Can it not wait?”

“Definitely not. Listen, I just got a call from the Royal Crown’s Empire,” Michael informed him. Graham hesitated in thought.

“Seriously? You joking?” Graham’s scowl fell away from his face, an expression of worry and curiosity showing clearly. He saw his son move closer out of interest. Graham strode down the hall to the backyard.

“No. No, I’m not joking. I’m telling you, some Sir Tommy Aiden or something called, wanted our services.”

“Did you tell him it was you?”

“No, but he’ll be calling back in an hour.”

“Don’t answer. Change your number. Smash your phone. Jump off a cliff,” Graham suggested.

“This isn’t funny man. What could those psychopaths want?” Michael said, seriously.

“What did he want again?” Graham asked him, massaging his own head.

“Said he had a job for us,” Michael repeated. “Went on to mention Orcs and a large wad of cash, I don’t remember exactly, I was still trying to get over the fact he was a Royal Crown.”

“Ah, just tell him we don’t fight Orcs,” Graham said wisely.

“They’re the Crowns! They’ll know what happened in Taiwan.”

“Seriously, man, just destroy the work-phone.”

“Alright. Okay, give me a second.” In London, Michael pulled out the other satellite-phone from his pocket, and dropped it on the ground next to him.

James and the car-dealer watched as Michael stomped on the phone with force, shattering the screen and smashing the buttons. Another stamp and the face of the phone fell off, leaving the insides vulnerable. A final footstep and the phone was no more.

“Okay, I did it.” Michael said.

“Alright, good. I’ll talk to you later, Michael,” Graham said.

“Um, alright. Thanks man, bye.”

The Royal Crown’s was the only hated border colony of the Great Britain Party. Actually, everybody hated the Royal Crown’s, but they were a major pain in the ass to the Great Britain Party. They were the only two colonies in England, and the Royal Crown’s happened to be the biggest dicks ever, they annoyed the hell out of everybody.

They were a group of elitists, who split away from the rest of England, under the leadership of the Queen and King. Quite a lot followed them, until they realised that the other English colony was a lot more efficient and didn’t seem to be so much like Nazi’s.

The Royal Crown made a load of empty threats, but never seemed to notice how much they looked like complete assholes. Working for them, is bad business. They could offer as much money as they had, but few would agree to do work for them. Helping the Crown doesn’t bode well with anybody.

For people like Artemis’ Finest, it could mean the end of their career. There was no way they would agree to work for the Royal Crown’s. Willingly.