Union Jack in…

GOVERNMENT PAY

By Steve Crosby

“I bum a fag off any of you guys?”

“There’s no smoking in here.”

Joseph Chapman leaned back in his seat. Standing around him there were three men in suits much nicer than his. “No, I’m planning to smoke outside, after we’re done here. Sort of a little celebration for getting cleared.”

“You’re so sure of that?” One of the men asked.

A second added with, “Five of those men were seriously hurt.”

“One of the girls broke her arm,” concluded the third man, the one who had spoken to Joseph before.

“Considering that they were trying to summon a demon,” answered Joseph, “They should be lucky that was all they walked away with. Or, just that they could walk at all. You should have seen it.” He spread his arms. “Maybe about two meters wide, six meters tall, four eyes and eight arms. Very ugly thing.” Joseph’s arms came together behind his head as he propped his feet up on the table. “To be honest, this whole thing is unnecessary. You can just mail me the commendation.”

Joseph’s feet were knocked off the table. “If this thing was as big as you say, how come none of our people saw it?”

Eyes rolled. “When I disrupted the ritual, it returned to its home dimension. Come on, bobbies, this is basic stuff I’m telling you.”

“Everybody in the service knows that your division is a load of bollocks.” One of them got into Joseph’s face. An idle thought of knocking the suit’s teeth out made Joseph smile. “What I think is that you just use all this paranormal garbage as an excuse to go knocking some of your betters around.”

“Well now, that would only make sense if I considered any of those spoiled brats my betters now, wouldn’t it?” responded Joseph. “Bored little richies thought it’d be fun to have an orgy and call forth a nasty from the nethers. In stopping them I managed to save their lives and possibly this whole city. You don’t want to believe me,” Joseph shrugged. “Then go do your jobs and investigate. Nasty little setup like that took research, materials that should be found in at least one of their flats.”

“We have people looking into it,” a suit said calmly. “In the meantime, why don’t you tell us about Kenneth Crichton?”

“Bloke was one of me best mates, got seduced and killed by a harlot,” stated Joseph with only a touch of irritation. “May be you’ve heard of his mum’s family, called Falsworth? Something tells me the Lady Jackie wouldn’t appreciate her son’s name bandied about.”

“Funny, you being involved in his death, and his grandfather’s.”

“Are you calling Captain America a liar?”

That name gave the suits pause. A ringing sound alerted one to his mobile, and he answered it.

“That’ll be my vindication,” Joseph snarked as he rose up out of the chair.

The suit stared daggers at Joseph as he put the mobile away. “Some interesting books were found. You’re free to go, but there will be a follow-up.”

“Try not to make it a Saturday night,” warned Joseph Chapman. “Bad enough I already missed this week’s Doctor Who.”

When the Security Service, commonly known as MI5, moved into Thames House in the mid-nineties, the old headquarters at Gower Street had been demolished. Nothing remained save for a parking lot, which Joseph Chapman had driven into that next morning. Just off the parking lot was a used-book store that dealt in arcane and supposedly mythical texts.

“Hey there Swiggy,” Chapman greeted the proprietor as he entered the store. The weathered old retired spook simply nodded his head as Joseph made his way into the back and down the stairs. The cover of running an old bookstore that never had any business made for a decent enough retirement. The cover of working there, however, Chapman didn’t much think it would help his resume if and when he ever got tired of the life. Down in the basement, sharp raps on a specific stone opened up a section of the wall. Behind this was a thick door locked by an electronic keypad. Chapman entered the code and walked underneath the old Russian House, once home to MI5 for over twenty years and in some ways still home.

Unfortunately, Chapman noted as he walked down the dingy corridor, the Security Service’s Paranormal Division always took it in the arse come budgeting time. Spiders dangled from the numerous cobwebs over Chapman’s head. Near his feet, a rat scurried.

“Least they could do is hire us a maid,” he muttered. “Blimey, I should just be grateful they keep me gear in working order.”

Cells lined one side of the corridor, what were once old holding areas for traitors but now meant for something much more dangerous. Thick chains and dried blood were the only occupants at the moment, and Chapman didn’t spare the empty rooms a glance. Those rooms weren’t worth thinking about for most of the month, and never during the day.

In the center of the corridor, across from the cells, was a simple wooden door studded in iron and silver. Before taking the knob, Chapman brushed his hand over the dark wood, still soft from being soaked so many years ago. The pungent odor was something he still couldn’t get used to, though. Wrinkling his nose at the strong stench, Chapman opened the door and walked into the belly of a British Government agency.

One wimpish bloke sat at an old desk, surrounded by shelves of tattered books. He glanced up at the sound of creaking hinges, adjusted his spectacles, and showed off bad teeth at Chapman’s entrance.

“Top of the morning, Joey. The bit at East End went off without a hitch, hmm?”

“Near enough,” Chapman answered. “Spooks forgot I was one of them again.”

“Soddin’ awful, that,” the bespectacled young MI5 outcast remarked offhanded. He was already looking back down at the texts laid out in front of him. “But hey, the new series of Doctor Who last night must have cheered you up some. Mind you, I had my doubts about that new Doctor, but he’s doing a right smart job.”

“Yeah, brilliant work,” Chapman muttered. A trunk with his gear was in the back of the room, behind two high shelves of dust with bits of parchment stuck in for kicks. “You find a reason yet for me to jump through Billie Piper’s bedroom window fighting a trio of vamps?”

“Heh, sorry, no. Those feline femmes weren’t too bad last night either, mind. Even knowing what they did to those patients…blimey, didn’t it just make your skin crawl when-”

“Oh ‘ell yeah terrible thing that,” Chapman remarked quickly. He didn’t want the episode spoiled, nor was he eager to admit he was the only Englishman not to watch the premiere. “The enchantments of my garb set back in? I could feel that slithery bugger unraveling them. Last thing I need is a leprechaun shoving a rainbow up me bum.”

“Not to worry. Old Kell was up late setting everything back in.”

“Good old Kell,” muttered Chapman as he opened the trunk. Relative of Sir Vernon Kell, founding head of MI5, the old codger was anything but good. Mind, working arcane support for a division’s sole field agent couldn’t have been what the legacy spook had in mind for his twilight years, so Chapman forgave the occasional cross word. And besides, Chapman thought to himself while looking inside the trunk, the bloke did good work.

Strapped to the lid were the gun, knife handle, blades and ammo magazine clips. Gone was the venerable Webley .455 caliber pistol, which had really been a .441 revolver now that Chapman thought about it. What Chapman used was a .22 caliber Tanfoglio Force pistol with 10-shot single action and a micrometer sight.

On top of the bundle in the trunk was the simple brown leather belt where Chapman would hang all those varied blades and bullets. There was a metal for every occasion, and one blade was even made of wood in case it ever had to be shoved into a bloodsucker’s heart. Underneath the belt, Chapman could see most of the design that made us his uniform and was in essence his codename.

“Huh?” The other man had said something. Joseph Chapman turned his head. “You said something, Roy?”

Along with Kell, Roy Greenley was the old support staff Chapman could count on. They handled everything from research to clearing operations with the brass to maintaining the equipment both technologically and metaphysically. Joseph got to do the fun stuff and shoot things.

“I said the new rounds aren’t quite ready yet. The glass bullets filled with holy water. They keep shattering in the barrel, whatever type of cartridge we use.”

“So use a standard hollow-point bullet, fill it with holy water and fit on a glass tip.” Chapman pushed down the lid, closing the trunk. “Crikey, I know that and I’m an art major.”

“Makes me wonder about art majors.”

“Bugger off. When’s check-in?”

“Four thirty.”

Chapman had been on his way to the door, but stopped and gave Roy a look. “That early? Sunset isn’t till after seven.”

“The sun doesn’t have to be down for the moon to come out. Me and Kell figured five o’clock, maybe six. Everybody’s been informed through the post.”

“Better telephone then. Post has a way of getting lost.” A moment of thought, a brief glance of longing at the trunk, and Chapman sighed. “Right, then. I’ll be here at four. If we got stragglers by five I’ll go drag them in, then it’ll be off to patrol.” One final address at Roy. “That it?”

“Believe so.”

“Good. I’ll be at class.”

As an employee in a local business and secret government agent, Joseph Chapman was free to leave his car in the parking space. In London, driving anywhere was a recipe for waiting hours in traffic. The best way for Joseph to get to Camberwell College of the Arts from Gower Street was by the underground, from Google Street Station to Oval Station on the Northern Line. From there a body could either walk or bus to the campus on Peckham Road.

On that day Joseph had felt like walking. A late morning drizzle three blocks from campus made him regret this decision. Fortunately, a block up Joseph ran into classmate Ricky Sullivan, clad in rubbers and holding an umbrella. A grateful Joseph ducked under the umbrella and grinned.

“What’re you grinning for?” Ricky asked. “There you were getting drenched for not watching any reports.”

“Course I don’t watch the reports,” responded Joseph. “Big waste of time when I know you watch them and meet me here on the way.”

“Yeah, when you don’t decide to take the bus you bloody git.”

Joseph met the remark with a laugh and pointed. “There’s the stop right over there. Any bus I’d have been on would’ve let off three minutes ago. Don’t go playing yourself off as some pathetic case. You are, but not in this case.”

“One of these days I’m not going to be here and I’ll be sitting in that classroom laughing when you walk in all wet.”

“Or maybe that’ll be the day I also decide to take the bus.”

Farther down Peckham Road, virtually across the street from the bus stop was the Camberwell College of the Arts, one of the five colleges that made up the University of Arts London. Before entering the building where their first class was to be, Ricky put about his umbrella while Joseph just went ahead inside. A beautiful mocha-skinned female stood in the corridor with eyes on the bulletin board, and Joseph sidled up behind her.

“Vicks, Vicks, Vicks,” Joseph muttered, starling the young woman named Polly Vicks. “Why oh why are you standing here checking for party notices when we both know you’re beautiful enough to get a dozen personal invitations? So move aside. I’m the one that needs to go out and find a social life.”

Polly rolled her exquisite eyes as she took a step to give Joseph more room. “Right. You, attend a party? You won’t even go out for evening drinks.”

“That’s because you’ve never invited me to a private get-together,” retorted Joseph. “For coffee up in your flat, I’d tell my ailing grandmum to bugger off.”

“I certainly won’t invite you if that’s how to talk to your nana.”

Joseph shrugged. “Guess you’ll never invite me then, cause I say that to her all the time. Serves her right for calling on me while I’m in the middle of creating.”

“Oh really?” Hands perched onto shapely hips. “And when am I ever going to see one of these works of art?”

As though he’d been expecting the question, Joseph grinned. “As soon as you invite me up to your flat for coffee. So you see, it’s a vicious cycle.” By this point Ricky had followed Joseph into the building, and he turned his head to address the rubbered classmate. “Are you going into class like that? All that squeaking will distract the nude model. You know how sensitive Polly’s ears are.”

Behind Joseph, Polly shook her head in humoured annoyance. Ricky did chuckle though.

“Good one as usual Joey. If you ever did attend one, you’d be the life of the party.”

Inward and outward, Joseph smiled. “In spite of what you blokes might think, every night I’m having my own brand of fun.”

“The sort that only takes one hand?” inquired Polly. That got Ricky roaring with laughter.

As he left his friends and started towards class, Joseph Chapman was mildly shaking his head and muttering to himself. “Nope. Just the sort that risks death and possible infection by the undead.”

Underground rave parties went on all over London, and these were generally the preying ground for vampires and other night stalkers. Hence the mild-mannered government agent patrolled the rooftops of London night after night when he wasn’t away on a specific case, seeking out those predators and discretely removing them.

But for three nights out of every month, the operative code-named Union Jack would keep an eye out for a very specific predator. The moon was full, and that opened up the possibility of werewolves. Union Jack knew they existed, had met a few earlier that evening at Gower Street. Unlike most predators, werewolves were more-often-than-naught victims, regular folks cursed with a bloodthirsty animal inside of them. Most of the werewolves in London were registered, though, and every month would spend three nights secured in cells.

Fortunately everybody had arrived, so Union Jack had been able to go straight out on patrol. As the sun still hadn’t set and discretion was a term of his employment, Union Jack couldn’t immediately go out in uniform. Over an hour he spent moving through the alleyways and darkened streets before night had truly fallen. Then it was time for Joseph Chapman to become the Union Jack.

Essentially, the uniform consisted of a deep blue bodysuit that could almost have been called black. Red cuffs broke up the color scheme at the wrists and ankles. Across the chest and back, red lines in a white outline ran in an ‘X’ fashion. Over this was a second thick strip of red outlined by white that ran vertically from Union Jack’s neck to crotch and horizontally around the chest to give the impression of a holy cross. Completing the uniform was the brown leather belt Union Jack wore around his waist and from which his weapons hung.

“Blimey but this is boring me to tears,” Union Jack muttered. Off in the distance, Big Ben had just tolled one o’clock and still he hadn’t found anything. “Two more nights of this and I’m liable to teeter off me block.”

Nestled inside the full-face mask was a miniature two-way radio, which Union Jack would use to communicate with the base. “Roy, please tell me there’s something on the wire. Something I could track down.”

“Sorry ‘Jack, you know how this goes. If anything happened tonight more than likely we won’t hear about it till morning or late evening the next day.”

Union Jack sighed. “Or we won’t hear anything for several days and can’t properly investigate for another month.” Two of the unfortunates in isolation had killed nearly a dozen apiece before Union Jack had caught up with them, and even created a few of their cell mates. “Okay then, long as I’m out I may as well scope the clubs for vamp activity. I’ll check in at sunup unless I find anything.”

Almost two hours later, Union Jack did find something. It was unexpected, as they usually weren’t known to hunt in loud, public places such as clubs. When Union Jack had gone within sight of the club, he was able to hear the music and see the lights from nearly a block away. By his reasoning the music had drowned out screams but the pulsating lights had clued him into what was going on. He’d never have seen the splattered blood on that window if not for the lights.

Loud and fast did Union Jack make his way into the establishment. That bloody window shattered into a thousand pieces against his body. During the roll Union Jack drew his weapon, which was out and ready to fire when he rose to his feet. There it was, crouched over mangled corpses no more than ten feet away, apparently feeding.

Without a word Union Jack fired. Unlike with vampires, he had no hate, no emotion at all for werewolves. Anything he’d said would have only served to further interrupt the thing’s meal, and there was nothing more dangerous than an animal who thought that its kill might be taken away. While feeding they were in a state of relaxation and therefore primed to be subdued.

When it came to werewolves, everything Union Jack did was different. The primary goal was not to kill, though he would if necessary. That meant his gun was loaded with tranquilizer rounds, filled with enough drugs to slow down an elephant. One shot should have taken down the werewolf. Instead it flinched, turned to look at Union Jack, and roared at him angrily.

“Bugger me it’s a female.” Hormones changed everything, counteracted the drugs.

Twice more Union Jack fired. At this point the werewolf was moving fast at him, a massive shape of hair and teeth and claws. Upright it had to be nearly eight feet tall and half as wide but lightning fast reflexes twisted to avoid two tranquilizer rounds. An arm that had to be more than muscle and bone smashed into Union Jack, sent him hurtling through the air and into sticky pools of blood.

One solace that Union Jack could take as he lay on the floor fighting to maintain his senses was that the werewolf flinched when it touched him. The white in his uniform was in fact made from spun silver. That one detail may have saved Union Jack’s life just then, because apparently the werewolf had decided he wasn’t worth killing. It rushed for the window, leapt out with a great roar.

Having risen quickly to his feet, Union Jack saw the werewolf dig its claws into the side of the adjacent building and swiftly climb for the rooftop. “No. You don’t get to run.” Lying on the floor nearby was a trenchcoat. Union Jack grabbed it as he ran for the window, wrapped it around his free arm as he stepped up on the sill and jumped straight up. The werewolf was barely halfway across the rooftop when Union Jack landed his feet onto the solid brick and took off after it, nearly as fast.

Seven shots remained in the Force revolver. Union Jack made them all count, taking careful aim as best he could while running across rooftops and jumping between buildings. “Definitely need to hit the range more often,” he thought to himself. Of five shots, three missed for certain and while Union Jack would like to think that two shots had struck home the werewolf had only given a sign once. Two shots left, then Union Jack would have to switch to the silver bullets.

Past the werewolf, Union Jack spied a skylight on the next rooftop. He saw a chance, and when the werewolf leapt he fired off the last two shots. To his eyes, time seemed to slow down. He could literally see the bullets as they passed from the barrel of the revolver towards the werewolf. When one round struck the werewolf in it’s calf, for an instant Union Jack thought he may have imagined it.

But down went the wolf, crashing through the skylight. And off jumped Union Jack from the rooftop, short of the next roof but smack onto a balcony. The wrapped arm smashed through glass, then that free hand removed an empty clip to replace with one bearing silver.

Way off in the horizon, sunlight was beginning to stream over London. The moon would be gone, as should the werewolf. But just in case, Union Jack had the silver. Revolver in hand he entered the flat, broken glass under feet.

“Ah-huh ah-huh.” A small panting shape lay there amidst the dust and debris. “Ah-huh ah-huh.” Naked. Union Jack unfurled the trenchcoat while his gun remained at aim. “Ah-huh ah-huh.”

“Are you conscious?” Union Jack barked. A full night of chasing had stripped away his patience. “If you’re injured, I’ll get you help. But you need to answer me.”

“Ah-huh ah-huh. Ah…ah-huuhckk!” Vile squechling sounds and liquid splashing against carpet was the answer Union Jack received. Forward he stepped, gun still raised. Beams of sunlight began to shine through the windows facing him.

“Talk to me!” Union Jack demanded. “People are dead, and if you can’t convince me that-”

“Aah-huh aauh oh, pl-please.” Light was filling the room. Union Jack could finally see what he was pointing a gun at. What had previously been hair and teeth and claws was now pale skin and visible bones, a gaunt thing that was almost dead and it had nothing to do with being a werewolf.

“Blimey.”

Three men sat at a table in a room beneath Gower Street. Union Jack the field operative, in full uniform except for the mask. Roy Greenley, researcher and field support, also a fop but Union Jack didn’t have a problem with that except at the office parties where he would make it a point not to get too drunk. And there was old Kell, liaison with the higher-ups and MI5 and dabbler in the mystic arts.

“That was a real mess, what you did at the hospital,” Kell told Union Jack. “Not the sort of thing we need in a budget quarter.”

“I honestly couldn’t give a damn,” replied Union Jack. “That girl needed help. They should be grateful I went to one of their spook facilities and not a public clinic.”

“Speaking of the girl,” broke in Roy. “How is she?”

“Alive, though not for long. AIDS, full blown.” Kell opened his mouth, but Union Jack raised a hand. “I did contact the cleanup crew before I left. All traces of blood will be carefully disposed of.”

“You talked to the girl?” Kell asked. “We’ll need a full history from her.”

Union Jack shook his head. “No, she wasn’t conscious. Planning to return later, before the moon rises. Doctor thinks she’ll be awake.”

“She’d have to be,” Roy said. “I mean, we could bring her here unconscious, but it’d be easier if she’s awake.” He glanced at Kell. “Right?”

Old Kell nodded that weathered and gray head. “Quite. She can’t stay at the hospital.”

In contrast, Union Jack was shaking his head. “What, shove her into this old place. Unlikely she’d survive the night, even with that curse off-setting her disease.”

“We can’t afford her getting loose in a medical facility.”

“They’d have her doped up, Kell.”

“I looked at those records. Part of the reason she’s so bad off now is because of what you shot into her. A full night of medication…” The look on Kell’s face was somber. “She wouldn’t survive. Come sunup she would just revert into an even worse coma and die.”

“For somebody in her position, that doesn’t sound so bad,” Roy stated.

“Only it might not kill her,” responded Union Jack. “Worst case is she’d linger another day, revert to the wolf a final time. Only this time it’d have a tolerance. Doping wouldn’t work, and restraining a rabid animal that knows it’s going to die would be near impossible.”

“So you know what you’ll have to do?” Kell asked.

“Like I said, going back there before sundown.”

“And what do you think about it?”

“That it has to be done.”

Old Kell smiled. “When you signed on, I told them you’d make a good agent.”

Union Jack rose to his feet and stepped away from the table. “Maybe you consider that a compliment, but that’s the worst insult I’ve ever heard.”

Eyes opened. She was in a white, sterile room. A man with a flag on his chest and a gun in his hand was standing over her. She recognized him, and shuddered at the thought of those circumstances.

“There are some questions you need to answer,” Union Jack told her. “Your name, personal information, medical history, we’ve got all that. It’s this special condition of yours we need to know about. Namely when, where, do you know from whom.”

Quitely, she gave the name of a location. Union Jack bristled at hearing it. “As you know what you’ve become, it shouldn’t surprise you to hear that vampires exist. That club used to be a source of food for them, up until a few years ago.”

She smiled weakly. “Yeah, I’d heard that. Would have saved me some grief to know it wasn’t that anymore.”

A brief nod. “That was it, eh? Figured on getting turned, take a cure at the price of your soul?”

“You ever suffered from a terminal illness?” she asked with some exhaustive heat. “Most people’d do anything to stay alive.”

“Instead you got a curse but no cure,” retorted Union Jack. “You blame the party scene for giving you the illness.” A nod from the patient. “Thought as much. Anger manifested as instinct. Those people are dead because deep down you wanted them dead.”

“Well it still wasn’t me though was it? I mean, I don’t remember doing it.”

“No, technically you’re an innocent bystander. A victim.” The gun was raised. “Until the moon rises and you’re an animal again. Then you’ll be something I’ll need to kill out of self-defense.”

Sudden words that left a cold weight of fear in her gut. “Th-there’s no other way? You can’t contain me, just chain me down and dope me up?”

“In your condition you wouldn’t survive.”

“I’m dead anyway.”

“Exactly. There’s no gain to risk something that might not even hold the monster down. Better to just kill you. Boom.”

“So do it.” Arms were raised a fraction, then dropped down. The intended gesture couldn’t be achieved. “I’m right here. Pull the trigger. Why risk getting your head torn off?”

“I shoot right now, it’s murder. In a few minutes, it’ll be self-defense.” Blunt. Cold. Every bit the government agent. “And no, we can’t do it with drugs. Mercy killing. Assisted suicide. That whole mess.” Union Jack shrugged. “My bosses are complete arseholes that way.”

“That’s all you can say? No apologizes, a ‘sorry I have to kill you?’ Just telling me I have to die and you just stand there with the gun waiting.”

Head tilted to the side, Union Jack gave his reply. “I’m not the sort to hold hands and give comfort. As I see it, you set out to become a monster. That you became a different sort of monster doesn’t change that.”

“This is all my fault, huh?”

“Not your disease. How you chose to handle it, yeah, that’s your fault. These are the consequences.”

Eyes of a dying woman glared. Outside the moon was fading into view and she could feel a beast lurking inside of her. “I do hope it rips into you.”

“Goodbye.”

Flesh swelled and hair grew throughout her skin. Bone shifted and stretched and muscle formed out of nothing. Pain enveloped her body, became the first thing experienced by the monster as it emerged. Something was hurting it. A man stood over it, a gun in his head. He was a threat. With a loud roar, the werewolf prepared to lunge.

BLAM!