Both friends nodded, glad to be free and leaving this god-awful place. The chief constable also informed them that a story had been put out that instead of being the perpetrators of this awful crime, they had in fact tried to disarm the bomb, which was pretty much the truth anyway. Either way, they were free to go and shouldn't get any more hassle from anyone, quite the opposite in fact. For Peter, it all felt like déjà vu. People would once again be praising him for something he hadn't really done... it was the Astroturf incident with the dragon Manson, all over again.
* * *
Having wasted no time in getting stuck in, the dragon investigators were quick workers. Huge two hundred foot barriers had been erected around the circumference of the bomb blast, with the only way now to see into the crater being from the air, and they'd made sure that all flying privileges in the area had been revoked. Large excavation machinery littered the car park, its purpose clear. But the dragons had no intention of using it. Blanketed by the giant barriers, and with one of their group acting as a lookout, they were free to use the entire range of their magical powers. And so it was that mantra after mantra started to be cast. Huge chunks of rubble magically threw themselves up and over the rim of the crater, as well as tiny, water-like streams of dirt and stone. Ordered to leave no stone unturned (ironic, given what they were doing) in trying to find anything that would aid their investigation, each of the dragons knew that this was just the place to start, given that all the other bombs had exploded over a much larger area.
* * *
Across Melbourne, Montreal and Cape Town, it was much the same as in all the other affected cities across the planet. Emergency aid stations were still in operation, with tireless emergency service personnel scouring hundreds of tons of rubble for survivors with specialist equipment. Schools, sports centres, town halls, anything with a large enough capacity, had been set up to accommodate the homeless, of which there were tens of thousands. It was truly a global disaster of epic proportions.
* * *
Below ground, it was a little different. In more than a dozen places, the worldwide monorail had been closed for the first time in its history. Bereavement Grottos were working flat out, with the council having passed an emergency mandate, stipulating that dragons would be put to rest without a formal ceremony for each of them. Instead, one whole day of mourning would be held, worldwide, exactly one week on from the very first bomb blast. As you can imagine, this caused uproar in most dragon enclaves. Disappointment was widespread. But the dragon council explained their stance in the telepathic papers, by stating that so many dragons had died, it would take months, if not years, to give them all the personal service they so deserved, something not a single dragon would wish for. On top of that, there was the health and safety aspect. While dragons, once dead, don't normally decompose, well... not at the rate of a human corpse, they do, ever so slightly, give off a putrid odour that attracts insects from far and wide. So many bodies, all in the same areas, would be something of a nightmare. Finally, the council announced, that with dragon and human kind both suffering tragic attacks on an epic scale, it was time to concentrate on helping the living and safeguard both the dragon domain and the world above, against a repeat of these senseless attacks. For most dragons, the council seemed to make sense. But not for all.
* * *
As they both walked across the uneven paving slabs towards the waiting police car that had been provided to take them home, Flash pulled his shiny black phone away from his ear, having just listened to a voicemail message. For the first time in what seemed like a week, a small smile snaked its way across the rough features of his face. Peter gave him an enquiring look.
"Everything alright?"
"You have to listen to this," laughed Tank, handing Peter the phone, having already started to play the message again.
Holding the phone to his ear, Peter listened intently. After a hushed beep, and a few seconds of crackle, a voice he recognised gently hissed into life.
"Ummmmmm... hello? Is that... is that Mr Tank's phone machine? It's... it's his... ummmmm... uncle, that's it! Uncle. It's his uncle here... just checking to see if everything's... um... okay. Perhaps... um... machine, you could tell him to phone. NO! Not phone. You could tell him. I mean ask him to... um... contact me, at his earliest convenience. Thank you so kindly for taking my message. His uncle."
It was all Peter could do not to laugh out loud at the fact that the old shopkeeper had obviously been chasing Tank, because he hadn't turned up to work when he should have, and then the news about the bombs had probably freaked him out, especially the Salisbridge one. Shaking his head, he caught his friend's eye as they both got into the back of the police car, on a very different journey this time. As he handed Tank back his phone, they both had the same thought. Perhaps someone needs to give Gee Tee some human interaction lessons. But who? That was the 64 million dollar question.
* * *
"Well?" demanded a silky smooth voice from the shadows of a dark and dreary building somewhere in North America.
"It all went off according to plan, with one exception."
"What exception?" screamed the voice from the shadows. Whoever planted the one that didn't go off would be summarily punished. NO... KILLED, and he'd see to it himself.
In the form of a twenty-something human male, the cowering naga seemed almost too frightened to speak. Once again, the voice asked, only this time with a whole lot of menace behind the words.
"WELL?"
"It was the one in Salisbridge, Sire," he nervously volunteered.
"WHAT?" challenged the hidden voice. "You've got to be kidding me."
In response, the human shaped naga shook his head, sorry that he'd been selected to deliver the bad news. A loud CRASH, followed almost immediately by a SMASH, echoed from out of the darkness. The naga had heard tales of this being's temper and had hoped never to experience it firsthand. He had, however, always thought them exaggerated more than a little. I mean, how bad could it really be? Before he had the chance to find out, the PUFF of a silenced gunshot sounded out from somewhere in front of him. Pain from his chest exploded through him as he crumpled to the floor, vision darkening.
'Pretty bad, as it turns out,' he thought, answering his own question.
With the naga lying dead in a pool of radiant blood, the human shape limped out into the light to inspect his work. Silently he cursed, and thought,