Wyland awoke with a painful snort, and had to open his mouth to gasp in a breath of air. The air tasted like a barn, all hay dust and horse shit. His nose, indeed the center of his face, was thick and painful. He opened his eyes, but found it useless, there was a gauzy grey something wrapped around his head. He tried to move, but also found that useless, as his legs and hands were bound with a scratchy jute rope that dug into his flesh as he wriggled around.
He felt his heart beat rising as the events of the day came back to him. Beads of sweat formed where the head covering was bound tight against his neck and around his forehead. He had no idea how long he had been out, but it was still light enough for light to trickle through the head covering. A strange rebounded, echoing noise when he flopped around told him he was on a aluminum floor. He could hear something else nearby, breathing slowly. No, there were several other breaths nearby. Other victims. He thought of the Aushwitz gas chambers. He would be dead soon, he was sure of it. He had seen Alva.
Unsuccessful again. Another failed try for the All-Time Loser. Jethro Tull's maddening song "Locomotive Breath" crept through his head.
"In the shuffling madness,
Of the locomotive breath,
Runs the All-Time Loser,
Headlong to his death."
There were more lyrics, but this small stanza now repeated endlessly in his increasingly incoherent brain, along with the deep bass line, a wavy, pulsing menace to Wyland's sanity.
Convinced now that he was completely fucked, he stopped and lay still. His breath was shallow and ragged. His eyes darted back and forth, seeing only a fuzzy light and a woven geometric pattern.
Nearby, the others' breathing was calm and deep, like they were sleeping. He was crying; from exhaustion, from desperation, from the painful thickness that was the center of his face, from the deepening sense of failure that weighed on his chest.
Occasionally, there was a strange clicking sound coming from somewhere nearby.
Suddenly, he heard shouting. Angry shouting, also nearby. Outside the thin, aluminum walls that held him, he could hear Oliver Cunninghill's nasally brogue and expertly foul tongue cursing someone. There was a stormy wind obscuring some of the words, but Wyland could hear some of it.
"...wee problem...feckin' Crommie...tried to stop him...didn'a actually voice...Alvanic curse...Red...Whoopa."
Then, a calm, low spoken voice in return. Wyland didn't recognize it, and it spoke low enough that Wyland couldn't hear anything except a murmuring. Then, Ollie again, closer now.
"Hors-shite! He's a feckin' muppet, 'e is! 'Tis you bawbags what taught 'im!" Then, a deep, unsettling "THUNK", followed shortly by the loud bang of something hitting the aluminum sheeting nearby.
Now the other voice again. Still low and calm, but near enough that Wyland could hear this time. The voice was civilized, friendly, elderly.
"You're welcome to join him, Oliver. I made very clear our needs last we met. Your brother is dangerous. The American will hear it as well. We have perfected the timing rhythm, and it will be quick, mostly painless.
"No, ya feckin' chump, Imma do ya!" and a violent rustling, then another "THUNK", this time followed by heavy, wet wheezing and a ragged cough from Oliver. The civilized, elderly voice now spoke again.
"Very well. Your family is now more a liability than an asset, although you yourself showed such promise. I'm terribly sorry for this."
More rustling. Wyland could now tell there was thick, wet grass on the other side of the aluminum wall. Several pairs of boots now worked through it. Oliver was whimpering something.
"C'mon, Blue, t'was at yur weddin'. C'mon now." More whimpering and crying, then it was muffled by something. Wyland smiled at the thought of Oliver being muzzled by old, grizzly Blue, perhaps with an old sock. Wyland smiled deeply at this thought, but then the weight of what was happening hit him. Hit him hard, brought the panic and hysteria back.
He though about what he had just heard. "The American will hear it as well... Quick, mostly painless."
Wyland began wildly shifting and wiggling, trying desperately to get through tightly bound ropes. His shoes hit the aluminum floor, hard, and a loud bang ensued.
"Ahhh, the Yank is awake!" Rusty doors opened, and Wyland could hear something brey near him.
A goat? What the fuck?
Then he realized where he was. He was inside a livestock trailer. The goat breyed curiously, obviously used to the sound of the rusty old gate opening. Wyland could hear the sound of it's hooves clicking against the metal.
Like a lamb to slaughter, he thought.
Then noise. Men walking on the trailer floor.
"Mister Blake, I assume? I would shake your hand were it not tied behind you. An impressive show, I assure you. I would applaud your journalistic instincts, were you an actual journalist." A soft laugh here. "A successful outing, all in all, for us. Not for you, mind you, but I do believe you've saved us a spot of trouble. You've likely ruined months of work for Scotland Yard."
The head covering came off, violently ripped off Wyland's head. Ol' Blue, standing over him, held what Wyland recognized as a jute potato sack.
Beside him, an old man hunkered down next to him. Old bones cracked as the man sat down aboriginal style before him. He reminded Wyland of old Ben Kanobi, even down to the fuzzy brown robe he wore, although Wyland could see a striped brown button down underneath. He wore black Converse All-stars. It gave him the look of a child, long since grown old, but never grown up. On his arm, tattooed in fine detail, was a very elaborate version of the protection rune from the Star of Solomon and the cover of Tawelu Marwolaeth.
Here was the Professor.
