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 I’ve started work on the next ‘fast fiction’ BPN tale entitled - A Thousand Words.

The plan is to produce a short story every two weeks or so, inclusive of one black and white image inspired by the traditional ‘pulp’ mag style of yesteryear.

When I have enough content for a 60 or so page mag I’ll put out a hard copy through lulu.com.

Each short story will, initially, stand alone as a building block to understanding the world of the Archangels 1958, and the characters both good and bad who inhabit its streets.

In parallel with these vignettes I will also be writing a longer, origin tale detailing the first meeting and subsequent early history of the two main protaganists entitled – The Brotherhood of Adam.

As a sneak peek here’s the opening sequence:

From the belly of the city the roar of the roadster thundered out into the chill of the night; the distant wail of police sirens fading as it ploughed onward without indecision, through the poorly lit waterfront district.

 The huge, red black vehicle did not slow, as it passed through the silent derricks and cluttered jetties, rusted freight rails and salt water pools, until it burst onto the interstate and headed east toward the suburbs.

Within the cars dark interior the dully illuminated dashboard emitted three sharp beeps denoting the hour. The figure at the wheel checked all rear view mirrors for signs of pursuit, eased off the accelerator and slowed the hurtling automobile as it approached the Steranko Railway Bridge on the farthest outskirts of the city. 

The car was travelling at ninety four miles per hour when it was swallowed by the darkness beneath the bridge – and the driver saw the woman.

She loomed from the shadows in the sharp spread of the halogen headlamps, arms clasped about naked breasts, narrow waist encased in black corsetry, legs sheathed in black stockings. 

Stood upon muddied stilettos with the roar of the engine reverberating through the tunnel toward her; she stared into the lamps of the oncoming car and smiled.

The driver instinctively wrenched the steering wheel savagely to the left and felt the car lift away from the road.

Starved of repellant force the rear end of the vehicle refused to follow the front, and began to free-slide above the rough road surface as frantic hands wrenched the wheel hard to the right. 

For a moment the speeding car seemed to wrap, snakelike, about the girl. Gravel and shale sprayed viciously at her semi-naked form as the Newton Gear regained purchase from the road for an instant and the hurtling mechanical mass changed direction.

Electromagnetic gearing, metal and oil screamed into the dark and savage air tugged wildly at the ribbons and lace of wasted lingerie, as the car howled past her, caroming headlong into the side of the bridge.

Bricks and mortar sprayed from the wall and cascaded across the bonnet as the cars wing crumpled with the impact and surged onward. 

Scything into the bridge structure it groaned finally to a shuddering halt, slewing broadside across the road at right angles to its original path some thirty feet beyond the woman.

One solitary lamp still shone a beam of light into the settling clouds of dust, but the engine of the big car, unperturbed by the impact, still idled.

The Cherenkov Effect of the Newton gear cast a neon blue glow beneath the vehicle as a gloved hand pressed a Bakelite switch within the interior; and with an ominous thud of releasing deadbolts the door swung slowly open.

The man known as Archangel stood to his full height and rubbed the whiplash in his neck. Flecks of light reflected from the worn leather of his white suit as he drew one of the twin .45s from his hip holsters, and scanned the road in the direction he had been travelling.

 The disc of lamplight at the end of the remaining hundred and seventy yards of tunnel showed no signs of movement and, satisfied, he returned his attention to the girl.

He held the pistol ready, against his thigh, as he slowly approached her. Apart from the shallow rise and fall of her bleeding shoulders and the gentle shifting of her long dark hair by the tunnel breeze, she remained motionless.

Dense blue-black wheals covered her back and buttocks and, as he drew level, he noted the dislocation of her right shoulder joint.

He slowly moved to stand before her and stared directly into her eyes.

  Numerous open wounds to her face and arms had caked to brittleness and the swelling to her right cheek and eye had all but closed it completely.

 She had been beautiful very recently, and the blankness that she returned in the fixed, vacant, smile seemed both cruel and misplaced.

 “Don’t be afraid. I’m here to help.” He said quietly. He knew that she did not see him or hear the words that he strung together to elicit a response, but he continued.

“Who – did this to you?”

 He felt the familiar heat of rage swell, uncontrollably, from the core of his being. The smile faded from the girl’s face and she began to weep, silently, filled with the sorrow of the broken.

 The Archangel replaced the gun into its holster. “I’ll bring you a blanket.” He said, gently offering her a comforting hand as he moved toward the car.

  Over her shoulder he registered the crouched silhouette and the rifles muzzle flash too late, and even as he lunged to grab the girl’s upper arm he cursed himself for a fool.

 He wrenched her sideways, pulling her toward him as the high velocity bullet found its mark.

 But for the Archangels intervention, the point of impact would have been to the center of the girl’s upper back; as it was the bullet impacted her left shoulder blade with the force of a small car.

 The velocity of the projectile threw the girl forward off her feet, the bullet exiting above her collar bone and tearing through the sleeve of the man’s leather suit in a welter of crimson….

To Be Continued