Rarity: Part 4

I'm two streets away before I see the car behind me. Its lights aren't on - I never would've seen it if I hadn't glanced at the rear view mirror just as it passed beneath a streetlight. It's some light-colored thing, blending in with the thickening fog.

I stop at a light on one of the suburb's main streets, but I don't see the car behind me. I think that it must've turned off somewhere…

…But a little ways down the block, there it is again.

I turn onto the night-empty express way, heading for the Loch. It's still following, still without lights. When it passes under a light again, I get a good glance at it. Enough to see that it's a silver BMW.

Oh dear.

There's still the chance that it's not him, of course. I could drive to a police station, but if it is Fioli-Sternson, he could simply stop following me. If it's not him, and we're just coincidentally driving the same route… then this guy's an idiot for having his headlights off.

So, first, I need to determine if I'm actually being followed. The thing to do is to start taking random turns. I take the next exit - it heads away from downtown, toward the hills.

He's still there.

Maybe whoever it is lives around here. I can hope.

But before long, I run out of houses, and into the park that encompasses the nearest hills. The road gets curvy. He's still behind me, though with the fog, it's getting harder to see him. How can he see?

I take a side road and keep going, as fast as I dare. The road heads upward. I catch the dim red flash of his brake lights behind me - he slowed to make the turn. He is definitely following me.

I abruptly drive out of the fog, just in time to see a curve ahead. I'm on a road that goes over one of the hills - I'd call them low mountains, but they insist that they're hills here - and winds around the very top, which is where I seem to be. To my right is a slope of gentle grass leading upward to the crest, with a few scraggly trees clinging to it; to my left is the downward slope, steep and similarly tree-spotted, gashed with water-courses full of foliage. The moon casts everything in dim pewter and silver, with the small patch covered by my car's headlights glaring like badly colorized film.

As soon as I'm around the curve and just to the far side of the hill from the other car, I snap off my headlights and come to a dirt-churning halt in the viewing area on the left side of the road. The City is a glowing mass in the fog below.

I jump out of the car, drawing my revolver. I make it to one of the scraggly trees just as the silver BMW rounds the curve. The driver seems to see my car, even without his headlights on - unusually good night-vision, I guess. The BMW swerves toward it, and…

Oh, dammit. I do not need this.

With no sign of hesitation on the part of the driver, the BMW slams into my car full force. I wince at the crash. Car repairs are not within my budget any time soon.

It just gets worse. He doesn't stop with the impact - he drives my car right through the guardrail and over the edge. I can hear my car hurtling downhill and taking out small trees on its way, until one particularly loud crunch, after which there's nothing to hear but the laboring engine of the damaged BMW.

I grit my teeth and try not to move. The BMW backs out slowly, then rattles down the road, disappearing into the fog.

I realize that I'm breathing hard as I step out from behind the tree, and I'm not sure if it's from fear or anger. I walk into the road. I'm not sure whether to walk down, try to call a cab, or just skip to calling the police again right now.

The sound of the other car's engine, muted by the fog, changes in pitch… and approaches with startling speed. Does this guy have eyes in the back of his head, or what?

I raise my pistol just as the BMW streaks out of the mist, coming right for me. I aim low. Two shots take out the left front tire, and the car swerves sideways. I jump away, following my car down the hill. I don't look back.

I can barely see, and with my revolver in hand, I've only one hand to hold up to guard my face. I lift my legs high to try to avoid tripping, but I'm not entirely successful. A branch catches my foot and I tumble, rolling through tall grass.

After a moment, my shoulders hit a tree. That's going to bruise. I decide that my best bet is to lie still - I'm surrounded by fog, and I can't see a thing, except for the moon far above. It seems to be just a hazy patch of light. It also seems to be red now. I wonder if I've hurt my head, but I can't feel anything unusual there.

After what feels like a very long time, I decide to try to get up. I get no further than my knees before I feel a hand around my throat. I'm pushed back against the tree.

"Got you," a low voice chuckles as I make a futile effort to throw him off. I can't get my legs out from under me, and I can't pry his hand away. How did I fail to hear him coming?

"You're rather a difficult loose end to clip," the voice mutters at my frenzied movements. "Hold still now…"

I catch a glare - a reflection of the moon - and I fall still. He's got a rather large knife.

He obviously hasn't noticed that I've still got my gun. I've never shot anyone before, but this would seem to be a great time to change that.

I fire once, and I feel the jolt run through him. He still doesn't let go, however. He says, "Hey now -"

I fire again. One of the reasons I like my revolver is that I can cock and fire it easily with one hand.

His hand is still around my throat, but he's very still. After a moment, though, he sighs. "That wasn't very nice. You've ruined my suit." There is no hint of pain or even shock in his voice.

I lift the muzzle of my gun higher and fire again. I feel something damp spatter against my face. The hand lets go.

I push myself up to a standing position, using the tree for support and wiping my face in my sleeve. I expect to hear a body fall. They do that, right?

Instead, I hear, "Now that was just rude." The person in front of me stands, and…

I can see the moon. I should be seeing a silhouette of his head, but I can see the moon shining through a little hole in the middle of his head.

I fire again.

…I can now see two holes.

I sense his motion more than see it, and I dive to the side just as his knife slices at me. I hear it strike against the tree. It's sharp, made for precise slicing - the sound it makes as it runs through the tree bark is almost musical.

I stagger downhill, one hand out, vaguely aware that my eyes are open far too wide. Not that it matters. I still can't see.

I shot him twice in the head and he's still coming. What. The. Hell.

A hand lands on my shoulder. "I've had quite enough of you -"

"You never drink the blood directly," I hear a new voice, rich and dark. It's that fellow from the Hellsing Organization that I met earlier. How did he get here? "That's very clever; it's made you very difficult to track down. Congratulations, Sir Leonard Skeffinton."

The hand vanishes from my shoulder, and I hear a flurry of movement as I fling myself away. Something drags across the back of my shoulder, and I feel my skin give in a way it's not supposed to. I let out an inelegant shriek.

I hear the Hellsing guy's voice again, considerably agitated. "Get back here, you coward!"

I feel nauseous, and my shoulder aches and feels damp and cool to the night air. The damp is spreading. I struggle to control myself, taking deliberately slow breaths. It can't be bad. They feel a bit numb, but I can move my fingers. I think it's just shock.

The only thing I can hear is my own breath, which doesn't sound nearly so even and calm as I'd like. It must be the fog - everything's so muted that I can't hear the man that I think is less than five feet away. I strain my ears, but I can't hear the escaping man (who is probably none other than Fioli-Sternson) either.

After a little more absolute silence, though, I'm pretty sure that I'm alone - so it comes as a surprise when the hands grip my right arm and side to help me to my feet. I instinctively try not to move my left arm for fear of somehow making the shoulder hurt more. "Uh… thanks," I manage, trying to keep my heart from leaping out of my throat. Slow, deep breaths. Yeah. "I, uh… I thought you went after him."

"I was told to ensure your survival," he says, as though he would rather have chased the guy. "In the moment it took to determine your condition, he fled…" He falls to muttering something, though I make out the words "worm" and "coward". He begins to guide me uphill.

"He… cut me," I say, finally wrapping my brain around the thought.

"Not badly," he responds. It strikes me that his hand on my left side is creeping up toward the wound. I tense, and it stops. That… isn't exactly a medical touch. Jerk. I don't want to think about it; even if he's some weird kind of pervert, he's still leading me uphill, and I haven't tripped over anything yet. Possibly he's got night-vision goggles on or something.

"Why is making sure I'm okay more important than just catching him?" I ask, trying to distract myself (and hopefully him as well).

"If he kills you, his ties to this area will be completely severed, and he can escape to start another life elsewhere as he has before. If I chased him, he could get back to you first and kill you, and could then elude us."

"So…" I stumble, but he still supports my right arm. I keep going. "I'm… bait, because he's obsessed with tidying up before he leaves."

"Precisely."

And here I thought somebody might have, you know, cared or something. "And what if I decide to run, since I know just what I'm worth to you people now?" I scowl. At least I don't feel nauseous any longer - the anger quells the physical shock.

"Then we'll just follow you," the Hellsing guy says with a smile in his voice. Jerk.

As we climb out of the fog, something else surfaces in my mind. "I'm pretty sure that I shot him several times," I say. "Twice in the head, I think."

He brings us to a halt; I can see the road above us from here, silver in the moonlight. "You could be wrong," he points out, releasing my arm. His hand on my back lingers, then also vanishes.

I turn in time to see him heading back down into the mist. I call after him. "Hey!"

"You can make it from there," he calls back, without turning around.

Jerk.

Disclaimer:

Hellsing, the series, concepts and characters, are the property, copyright and trademark of Pioneer Animation/Geneon (see http/hellsing. No ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by the use in this work. This work constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This work is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.