Hey guys. Thanks everyone for your support! I simply adore you guys; I'm really enjoying writing for CP again.
It's giving me an outlet, a hobby. It's interesting, being a 37 year old chick writing about an obscure 20 year old environmental cartoon. But I always adored the series and it still remains the only fandom that I enjoy writing for.
Thanks again!
Guide You Home
Chapter Four
Kwame stood for several moments against the hot corrugated iron of the hanger, sneaking a glance towards the tarmac. Another plane had landed and Kwame held his breath, noting a familiar bald figure swing the door upwards.
Argos Bleak.
Plunder's protégé jumped from the aircraft and stalked across the runway. Bleak's shoulders were hunched and a pissed-off look was evident on his sweaty face.
Kwame listened intently, his breath hitching in his chest as another figure strode out to meet Bleak.
"Any sign of them?" Looten Plunder's smooth voice was carried by the slight breeze, although Kwame still had to strain to hear them. He crept closer, daring another look around the corner of the hanger.
"Nah, boss. No sign of them. You sure they crashed?"
"Yes. Blight said it was a direct hit." Kwame watched Plunder throw his hands up in frustration, before removing a cigar and lighting it. He puffed away for a minute or two, gathering his thoughts.
"Want me to go back up?"
Plunder exhaled, blowing smoke over Bleak's shoulder. "No. We don't have time. I need you around here just in case those planet-brats have survived. Can't afford another fuck-up like the last shipment."
Bleak smirked. "Yeah. Just make sure you punch a couple of holes in the next container, boss. I hear oxygen is a requirement for most living things."
Plunder narrowed his eyes at his off-sider but remained quiet, rolling his cigar between his thumb and index finger. "Check on the second container of merchandise. They're going out at midnight, after the animals. Make sure they're behaving themselves and staying quiet."
"And what if they're not?"
It was Plunder's turn to smirk. He stubbed his cigar out on the heel of his shoe, throwing it away onto the tarmac.
"Then use one as an example to the others of what happens if they don't cooperate." Plunder shrugged, a nonchalant expression on his face. "Just don't leave any marks, Bleak. My European customers are rather pedantic."
Plunder turned and walked away, leaving Bleak to his own devices.
Kwame leaned against the hanger for a moment, Plunder's words reverberating through his mind. He raised his hand to his head, pressing his palm against his temple as he tried to make some semblance of meaning from Plunder's cryptic words.
Check on the second container of merchandise…
Use one as an example to the others…
Kwame frowned, his heartbeat rising as he considered the possibility that animals may not be the only 'product' on Plunder's agenda. He risked another glance around the corner and watched Bleak's retreating figure, striding purposefully towards a utility vehicle parked outside the structure that Plunder had just entered.
Bleak climbed in and started the engine, tearing off in the direction of a large non-descript shed located on the fringe of the airfield.
Kwame slumped against the hangar, wiping sweat of his brow as he considered his next move. He was exhausted, injured and alone. His lips pressed into a hard line as he also considered the biggest implication.
I am powerless.
The African man squared his shoulders with a fierce determination. He glanced around and when satisfied no one was watching, sprinted the distance towards the administration building.
Wheeler woke with a start. It was pitch black and he was suddenly overcome with a claustrophobic sensation. His good arm shot out in front of him, making contact with a plastic-type material and he prodded it, confusion settling over him like a blanket.
What the hell?
He sat up, steadying himself against the dizzy spell. He raised his hand again and gripped the tarp, pulling it aside as a fine layer of dust floated down over him, illuminated by the afternoon rays of light filtering through the small windows.
Wheeler blinked and looked around, noticing that he was still inside the jeep, which in turn was parked inside a large metal structure. He grasped the tarp and tossed it to the ground, his eyes searching for Kwame and finding him missing.
The American sat back, rubbing his face while he contemplated his next move. He felt dizzy and faint, but his concern for the others quickly motivated him into moving. The red-head tossed open the door and stood, leaning against the vehicle for support.
The hangar was mostly empty, probably designed to house one of the aircraft that had flown over his head earlier. Fuel barrels, old machinery and supplies lay strewn around the perimeter of the interior. Alongside the back wall stood industrial-type shelving units with various containers and items scattered throughout.
He leaned his body over into the back of the jeep and rustled through the mess littered throughout the back seats. He was surprised to find a couple of apples rolling amongst the fast food wrappers, receipts and fuel canisters.
Wheeler grabbed them, aware that he needed to keep his energy up for as long as possible. He rubbed the fruit against his jeans and took a large bite, heading towards the shelving units. He began rifling through the items, looking for anything that could be of use to him.
Industrial solvents were stored in heavy tins on the bottom shelf and he peered at the labels, his mind working overtime as he considered their uses.
Mineral turpentine, kerosene, acetone, enamel thinners…
The American's eyes settled on a small bottle of diethyl ether and he paused- a spark of recognition passing across his face. He bit his lip as he recalled his pre-Planeteer days in Brooklyn.
Wheeler grabbed the bottle and held the clear liquid up to his face, recalling the times he'd spent roaming the streets after copping various backhands and punches to the head from his drunken father.
He recalled the shady figures in the alleyways sniffing ether from filthy handkerchiefs, and the drunken, stumbling and disembodied movements that came as a result. He narrowed his eyes, remembering a homeless man inhaling for too long and passing out.
Also acts as an anesthetic.
Wheeler reached his hand into his pocket and removed Linka's bracelet, wrapping it around the limp fingers of his right hand. He slipped the ether bottle into his pocket and took another bite of his apple as he searched the area for some rags. He found some tossed behind a petrol drum and he pocketed them too.
He sighed, rubbing the babushka charm between his fingers briefly as his thoughts turned to her. He glanced down at it once again, wishing beyond belief that he were curled up on the lounge watching a movie with his pretty Russian colleague instead of wandering bruised and bloodied around an airstrip in Eastern Mali.
Provided there were no eco-alerts, it had become their Friday night ritual of the last couple of months; a bowl of hot, buttered popcorn in the rec room and an action movie with Linka.
Wheeler had actively toned down his public declarations of affection for the Russian, aware that while most girls would revel in the attention, the blonde shied away from it, embarrassed and self-conscious. She was so incredibly private and shy when it came to relationships.
Not that they were in a relationship... but neither were they simply colleagues these days: they were somewhere in-between, treading an invisible tightrope that threatened to launch them in either one interpersonal direction or another. The arguing and bickering of the past had given way to mutual and deep respect and Wheeler was content with that… for now.
But it didn't detract from the fact that he lived with her face in his memory.
That when she smiled at him… whether it be from across the Geo-Cruiser or when he opened a door for her, his heart threatened to burst out of his chest.
That he counted down the days until Friday night came around; their limbs tangled under a heavy blanket and his arms wrapped tightly around her, while Schwarzenegger, Willis or Gibson dispatched bad guys with lethal efficiency.
That some nights while Linka dozed lightly against his chest, he would simply soak up the features of her face; touching the freckles, the laugh lines in the corners of her eyes, the curve of her chin and the softness of her cheeks.
That sometimes, when chatting comfortably about nothing in-particular with his lips pressed against her temple, he would breathe in the peach scent of her hair and would spend the rest of the evening fighting the overwhelming urge to pin her down and crush his mouth and body against hers.
Wheeler sighed, clutching the bracelet in his hand. He simply adored her.
You got it bad, man.
The redhead looped Linka's bracelet around the bandages on his splint, tucking the torn ends beneath the fabric as best he could.
Ma-Ti will be on his way to you soon. Hope you're okay, babe. Be safe.
He grabbed his backpack and a baseball cap from the back of the jeep, tossing the hat on his head in an effort to disguise the telltale shade of his hair. With that, he threw the bag over his shoulder and hurried towards the hangar doors.
The heat outside was oppressive and he blinked, unprepared for the onslaught. Wheeler darted towards a pile of timber pallets and hid behind them, peering out at the field in front of him. He caught a glimpse of a figure close to what looked like an office building and he exhaled with relief, watching Kwame's familiar figure slip out of the office unnoticed.
He watched Kwame jump into a lone buggy and speed off in the direction of a large shed on the outskirts of the airfield. The American looked on as his friend alighted and disappeared inside using a side door.
A high-pitched scream broke his concentration and he froze, the hairs on the back of his neck raising as it echoed across the barren field. Distinctly female in origin, Wheeler's heart lurched as he gripped the pallets, listening and watching intently for any sign of the owner.
His mouth dropped open in fear as he watched on, horrified as another vehicle pulled up across the field. Wheeler squinted, watching as the sun reflected off the new arrival's shiny head. He saw the stocky man alight from the jeep, the muscles on his arms thick and ropy as he grabbed a canvas-type sack and seemed to throw it over something.
Wheeler heard Bleak's distinctive voice barking orders and the American narrowed his eyes as Sly Sludge appeared, looking around nervously. Together they hoisted a struggling form out of the vehicle and disappeared inside the hangar.
Shit. Linka?
Finding nothing to answer his silent question, he pursed his lips, deep in thought. As another plane barreled down the runway, he pulled the brim of the hat low over his eyes and squared his shoulders, striding purposefully towards Kwame and the isolated building.