Stayin' Alive: A Tale Of Mercenaries In Polyester: Prologue

by DuAnn Cowart

The dark figure crouched in the shadows of the safehouse hall, one hand pressed flat against the cold stone floor of the safehouse as his keen orange eyes scanned the corridor for any hint of movement of the building's formidable residents. 'Clear,' he noted, face impassive as he rose and despite his bulk ran lightly down the hallway towards his destination. For all his external composure, though, his heart thudded quickly in his chest as it always did on missions, pulse quickening in response to the adrenaline coursing though his body.

'I live for this shit,' he thought, running one hand through his pale hair as the other unconciously patted the bulging pouch strapped to his right thigh. Imagining the satisfaction if he completed the job, he grinned, one sharp canine tooth glinting dangerously in the flourescent light.

He didn't even pause when the hallway deadended into another corridor running perpendicular to it, merely spun on a booted heel and turned right, huge muscles rippling underneath his customary black fatigues as he did so. He looked right up at the surveillance cameras as he passed, favoring one with a wink and a quick salute. He chuckled deeply, a bass rumble sounding low in his huge chest.

About halfway down a hallway littered with them, he stopped, standing outside a plain, inconspicuous, and- best of all- unlocked door. He stepped inside.

This room at the heart of the citadel was small, dark, and lined wall to wall with an incredibly sophisticated computer system that was still, even with everything he'd seen in a decade of mercenary work, breathtaking. 'Amazing.'

Breaking himself out of his reverie, he snapped open the pouch and took from it a plastic cartride with strange, bright markings on its cover. Thumb caressing it gently as he did so, he deftly slid the cartridge into a slot in the machine and entered the appropriate command sequence necessary to activate it.

Sensitive ears heard the machine whirr as it read the precious information contained within the sheath, and he grinned broadly in triumph. Then, spinning away from the huge machine in one fluid, practiced motion, he smoothly ducked and rolled out of the room to rush down the hall to safety, arms instinctively raised to protect his head against the explosion that was soon to come.

****************

In one of the several upstairs bedrooms, the owner of the safehouse stirred in his sleep, troubled by the nightmares that were his constant nighttime companions. Brown hair beginning to silver around the temples was matted with perspiration, and the usually slight scars around his right eye stood out bright red against a face drained of all color. Fists- one flesh and bone, one shiny metal- clenched tightly in the orange and brown plaid sheet. Cracked lips parted to whisper "Jenskot, no, don't. . . ."

Across the hall, in the relative quiet of the night, his teammates, his companions-in-arms, slept as well. During these hours of rest, exhausted bodies and weary minds renewed resources necessary to pursue the trying lives they had chosen. Between jobs as they were now, this time of replenishment of depleted reserves of strength was especially important. In the field, during battle, days might pass without sleep or rest, and professionals such as those presently residing in this outpost were well aware of that fact.

Suddenly, without warning, this brief respite from the chaos of the life they had chosen, this precious somnolent tranquility was shattered by a blaring cacophony of sound so loud that it shook the fortified concrete walls. Up and down the hall, bodies shot up out of burrowed cocoons of warmth and instinctively, if blearily, staggered out to deal with the situation.

Three men and one woman in various states of undress met in the hall. The first man out- a towering mountain of a man, almost seven feet tall- began issuing orders immediately in a voice accustomed to command, a voice that held no hint of the nightmares he'd fought so fiercely only moments before. He had to yell to make himself heard over the booming sounds shaking the fortress, and his left eye flashed once in the dim hall. "G.W., check the perimeter. Standard defensive procedure, people. Hammer, get to the comm system. Dom, go-"

He suddenly stopped. He stopped speaking mid-sentence, and a look of purest disdain formed on his handsome chiseled features. Inhaling sharply, his fists clenched once more by his sides. A quick glance down the hall to a still-empty bedroom verified his suspicions, and only a repeated calm-inducing mantra from his youth kept him from exploding in anger.

The pale young woman at his side looked up at him in concern. Following his glance down the hall, she, too, took note of the sole member of their band who wasn't present. Violet eyes widened in dawning comprension, and her lips twitched, fighting back laughter. Lowering the large rifle grabbed in haste from beside her bed to the floor, she held out a slender, muscled arm to halt the other two men dashing purposefully down the hall. "Waitaminit, guys." Her voice was low and amused, and a bare foot began tapping unconciously on the tiled floor.

A well-built black man of medium height, already halfway down the hall, snorted derisively "What? Don't wanna get your nighty dirty, girl? Get to work and stop complaining."

She didn't even spare him a glance. She did, however, pull the belt of her thin robe tighter, and responded in an annoyed tone. "Screw you, too, Hammer. I'm serious. Nate," she turned to the man who had barked out orders. "Tell 'em." At his disgusted look Domino, unable to contain her amusement any longer, burst out in loud peals of laughter.

Nathan Dayspring, the time-traveling mercenary known as Cable, glared at her and growled something very vile in a beautiful lilting language that ended in "He's a dead man," muttered finally in English. Wincing at a particularly loud note assaulted his sensitive hearing, he sighed and turned to the other men. "Listen."

Puzzled glances changed to disgusted understanding as the booming bass klaxon tones solidified into strains of something resembling music. The sheer decibal level made understanding difficult, but as the shifting, undulating notes changed shape and took form, and all confusion was quickly erased.

The blaring attack on their sleep-fogged senses, the attack from an unnamed foe, the incredibly loud crackling noises coming from every intercom and speaker in the building coalesced into a distinct rythm. The senseless cacophony of sound lengthened into beats, into rhythyms, into . . . music?

In the dead of the night, breaking the quiet calm, the distinct strains of "Funkytown" shook the Appalachian headquarters of the mercenary band called the Wild Pack down to its very foundations.

~Dum dum dum . . Won't you take me to . . .~ The walls shook.

~Dum dum dum . . . Funky-Town?~ The rafters creaked.

~Dum dum dum . . . Won't you take me to. . .~ The floor reverberated.

~Dum dum dum . . . Fun-kee-Town. . .~ Blood pressures rose.

Putting her hands over her ears, Domino, eyes still twinkling in amusement, yawned. "I'm goin' back to bed, and I'm tellin' you- anybody wakes me up before noon, and it's their ass."

Waving a sleepy farewell to the others, she turned and went back to her room.

Cable, eyes still haunted with night terrors, watched her leave, his expression unreadable. "Please take care of this, G.W.," he finally sighed. Rubbing his eyes blearily, he walked away and back to his room, broad shoulders bent with the weight of memory. As a last thought, he yelled over the racous rhythms of the music "And if either one of you see him before I do, tell Grizzly he's got double guard duty this week."

Bridge looked at Hammer, who shrugged. His dark eyes narrowed. "Son of a bitch," was all he said, then he too returned to his room.

G.W. Bridge, muscles tense in anger, bounded down the stairwell and through a wall of iridescent orange beads to stalk down the hall towards the computer com center. Standing in front of it with his hands over his ears, he punched a round button with far more vigor than was absolutely necessary. A simple 8-track cassette shot out, the music stopped, and the room was full of blessed silence. Finally able to think clearly for the first time since he'd been awakened, G.W. yanked the tape from the player that Grizzly had just last week insisted be incorporated into the computer system's mainframe. Dropping it to the floor, he stepped on it, crushing it to pieces. Leaving broken shards on the floor, he stormed back to his bed, plotting his teammate's demise all the while.

Outside the building, perched on a fallen tree stump, Grizzly's huge body shook with silent laughter. When the music abruptly stopped, he took another puff of his cigar. 'It was worth it,' he grinned, and blew a satisfied stream of thick smoke into the clear night sky, pulling his Nehru jacket tighter against the chill of the night.

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