Flash Fiction 14. Showdown

 

“He is here,” Grabiel declared, staring across the bombed-out rubble of what had once been Brisbane, Australia.

Grabiel swung around, twelve feet tall, reptilian skin, 600 pounds of pure fighter. With a reputation as alarming as his appearance, he was the highest ranking security official in the Earth Occupation Force.

Raising his weapon to his troops, he pointed to a tall, derelict building, “In there!”

Grabiel had been sent here for one reason – to capture Racer, the most effective agent in the human resistance.

Racer was an expert in foiling the plans of the alien overlords. Flitting across the world unseen, the mere rumour of his presence gave hope to humans everywhere.

Grabiel and Racer had circled each other for three years, boxing like invisible opponents. But now the game was over. Racer had nowhere left to run.

Grabiel and the troops climbed the stairs, their weapons trained on every doorway and exit.

“Close, oh yes, we are close now!” Grabiel muttered, the data in his helmet flooding his vision. Racer must be only metres away.

Grabiel raised his hand. Then he kicked open a door with such force it fell to the ground.

Dust filled the room. When it cleared, only an old woman cowered against the wall.

Grabiel swayed as he stared around the bullet-ridden apartment.

He swore viciously, “Have you seen a man in here?” he bellowed.

Before the old woman could answer there was a noise above. Grabiel and the troops raced up the stairs.

“To the left! The left!” Grabiel’s voice was a roar, “He will not get away this time!”

Guns ready, they raced around a corner. All they found was an empty hall and an old curtain, flapping against a cracked window.

*  *  *  *  *

The old woman walked slowly down the stairs, mindful of her hip replacement. What a bunch of impolite young thugs. People never looked like what you imagined.

After three years of hot pursuit, she’d finally come face to face with the famous Grabiel. Frankly, she’d hoped he would have been a bit more handsome.

But then, she supposed she didn’t exactly fit the description of Racer either. She’d been a good runner, back in 2013, when she’d earned her nickname. She was getting on a bit now. But just because you were eighty-seven didn’t mean your mind wasn’t as sharp as ever.

Grabiel and his henchman bounded down the stairs, knocking her against the wall. Bellowing furiously, they ran through the ruins.

No, Grabiel wasn’t her idea of a warrior hero at all.

Racer, the most dangerous spy in the world, not to mention a pretty mean bingo player on Saturday afternoons at the Ballina community centre, climbed onto her mobility scooter.

With the plans for the latest alien counterattack safely in her pocket, she smiled to herself and made her getaway, trundling through the rubble at twenty kilometres per hour.

 *   *   *   *   *
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