CHAPTER 7

Night Fight

Jim's eyes opened slowly to the sight of peeling paint on the ceiling. He breathed in and flexed at the pain that surged through his torso, letting out a dull sigh. His eyelids drooped.

"Captain Gordon," a soft feminine voice called from above him. He was greeted by a nurse with a blue rag wrapped around the lower half of her face. "Thank God you're alright, we were starting to get worried."

Jim lifted his arms and pulled his body into a sitting position. He had be laid on an old hospital bed. He looked around briefly, seeing that he was still located in the GCPD building. Other officers were resting in beds around him.

"Jim," Harvey trundled over, Bruce and a fellow officer by his side.

"Harvey, where is he?" Jim said as he was pushed back down after trying to get up.

"Where's who?" he raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"Jerome, where did he go?"

Bruce stood over his bed. "He fled just after you passed out. We tried to have some men track him down, but we were unsuccessful."

"So, Jerome could be out there anywhere? Great, now we're back to square one."

Harvey shook his head. "At least he's not here."

"He has a point," Bruce said. "What's more, he's out on the streets injured, which means he won't last very long."

"With Gotham's lack of doctors and medication," the nurse interjected. "He won't even last the night. But the shortage isn't a good thing," she gestured to the beds. "We can't treat the wounded."

Jim bit his lip. "We need to contact someone outside of the city and ask for help,"

"We already have," she said. "They said they'd arrive here by helicopter in a few hours. They're half a day late."

"To be honest, Jim," Harvey wagged a finger. "I don't think they're gonna come. Gotham's a gonner, and boy do they know it."

"Luckily, there is one place we can pick up supplies," Bruce added. "Gotham General Hospital. All the necessary goods are kept there."

"Doesn't that make it an easy target?" Jim's heart sank. "And an easy target means easy pickings for criminals," his mouth suddenly creased into a perfect line. "I know where Jerome's headed."

Meanwhile, somewhere in the centre of the city, a small fleet of vehicles were pacing though the streets. Men had rifles and machine guns aimed out of the windows, their sights kept in the shadows in case something decided to attack. After all, this was Oswald Cobblepot's square of territory. Unfortunately, to get to Gotham General, it had to be crossed.

The driver of the first truck shot a glance in the directon of Jerome, who sat in the passenger seat with his body pressed against the window.

"You okay there, Jerome?"

Jerome clutched his shoulder and scowled. "Keep driving, will ya?!"

The driver's head snapped back to the road. "Yessir,"

He scowled and turned to look out of the window. His eyes followed the broken streetlights as they began to flicker into life, casting a dull orange huge against the grey buildings. The clouds had begun to give off small wisps of sleet, throwing down swirls into the dirty streets. Jerome rested his forehead against the window as warm blood leaked into his hand. Pain stabbed through his right shoulder.

There was a buzz against the dashboard as a radio crackled into life.

"Jerome?" it said fuzzily. "Come in, Jerome."

He reached over for it and pressed his finger against the button on the top.

"What do you want?" he rasped through gritted teeth.

"Squad four just spotted a figure on the rooftops,"

"What kind of figure?" Jerome sniffed. "Actually, that doesn't matter, kill it anyway."

"But sir, what if-"

"I said kill it," he hissed. "And what I say goes, ya got that?"

There was a mutter. "Uh, yessir."

Jerome looked up at the rooftops, keeping his mind sharp for any shapes that moved amongst the darkness. Something flashed passed a chimney. He waved a hand at the driver bossily.

"Slow, slow down... now." he whispered.

The van slowed, the tyres creaking across the damp tarmac. Other vehicles further behind stopped to take the long way around, to discover what was following them.

"Where are you...?" Jerome narrowed his eyes, catching a flash of grey-brown flesh. "What are you?"

The radio suddenly jumped in his hand, spitting out a few jumbled up words.

"Jerome-" something was interfering with the signal, Jerome shrugged. It was to be expected. "So...wh-t...what the heck? What the...h-ck...oh... Oh my God." it cut out.

Jerome stabbed at the button violently. "Hello?" he called, continuing to stare from the window. "Bah,"

"Uh, Jerome," the driver hesitated, tapping the steering wheel. "We got company."

He slammed a foot against the accelerator as Jerome's head spun around. They were greeted by a toothy snarl as the van overturned. Something large had hit the side, leaving four large imprints in the metal. The van screeched across the road as the windscreen shattered, spewing glass across the two men and slicing their skin like paper as the vehicle halted. Jerome opened and closed his eyes in half-offended arrogance, unclipping his seat belt as he did so.

His body fell to the side, landing on the radio. "That hurt," he whispered, looking up. The driver was hanging from his seat in a lifeless fashion. "So much for that guy. We really need a guy riding shotgun."

Jerome watched a car swerve around the van and jack-knife into a building. Flames erupted from the room. He let out a 'hmph' and placed a hand through the broken windscreen and onto the bonnet. Something jumped up from the side of the van: sharp teeth with jagged slits jutting out at every possible angle as warm breath steamed the windows.

Jerome let out a yell and pushed himself back against the leather seats. Yellow eyes glared at him as the creature closed its mouth, reaching in and gripping his leg. There was a short struggle as Jerome was dragged out forcefully and thrown against the ground.

Between the gasps for air, he giggled nervously. He studied its scaly texture. "You got a real bad case of dry skin there, buddy."

It snarled.

"What are you supposed to be?" Jerome breathed, moving his wrist in a circle. He suddenly stopped laughing. His mouth creased into a frown and shook his head, the concrete behind him scratching at the back of his neck. "--When I thought Gotham couldn't get any weirder."

The creature picked him up by the shoulders and forced him onto his feet. Jerome let out a squeak as the bullet in his arm scraped against the bone. He glared into the cloudy eyes a few feet above him and held out a hand. "The name's Jerome... Jerome Valeska."

"I know 'oo you are," it said deeply, hunching its back.

"And you are...?"

"Waylon Jones," Waylon replied bluntly, clicking his overgrown nails together.

"Is it alright if I call you Croc?" Jerome asked. "S'just you remind me a little of a crocodile, that's all."

Waylon gripped his throat and pushed him against the overturned van. "Don't call me tha, I'm not 'ere to discuss names, Valeska."

"Then why are you here?"

He snarled. "Bruce Wayne, some nut wants 'im. He told me to spread the word."

Jerome sighed and pushed him away, Waylon backing off reluctantly. Two vehicles of Jerome's followers pulled up beside them, a few jumping from the back and aiming weapons at Waylon. He gestured a hand and they lowered the firearms. "Everybody wants that kid six foot in the ground, except me, of course. Bruce is just too much fun."

"There's a reward fer bringing him back, dead or alive." Waylon glanced around at the punks. "Don't fink it matters."

"What kind of reward?"

"Cash."

"And how do you know this guy is telling the truth?" Jerome walked around in a circle. "Gotham's full of lying, sneaking, double-crossing little freaks. Always has been, always will be. And anyway, do you even know who this guy is?"

Waylon breathed deeply and looked up to the sky for a moment, snow falling onto his scaled skin and melting upon impact. "No... but I know what 'e looked like."

Jerome raised an eyebrow.

"Tall, dark-haired... wore a hat and glasses wiv' a purple suit. Little creepy, if I'm honest."

Jerome lowered his head and growled. "Jeremiah... I knew you'd resurface at some point." he smiled. "Took ya time."

Waylon pushed his face up against Jerome's and growled through bared teeth. "Spread the word, Valeska. We need everyone out after Wayne." he leaped up, his claws digging into the brickwork of a building. Before Jerome could blink, he was gone.

Jerome was silent for a moment before he shrugged. "Right, change of plan! We're gonna pay a visit to my brother."

"But, Sir," a punk stepped forward. "Your arm." he gestured to the crusty blood on his shoulder.

"Meh," Jerome lurched forward and gripped a knife from the punk's jacket pocket. "There's ways round these things." he threw his blazer onto the floor and grinned as he pierced the skin on his shoulder. There was a 'clink' as the blade hit metal. Jerome pulled it out along with a bullet. "There, all done. Doc. J does it again." he handed the knife back to the punk. "C'mon, let's get out of here."