by VJ Miller Sr

The final chapter of this story. Everything really heats up.

Last time in part three, Iceman has chased Rourke’s car in a commandeered delivery van all over the city

If you missed Part One, Two or Three

“You can’t be going after him?”

“Do you have another rover?” he repeats firmly.

“Over there. By the wall.”

Across the garage covered by a tarp is another six wheeled, glass enclosed rover. Leaping to it Iceman attempts to clamber aboard but is cut short by a tight grasp by the man on his arm.

“You’re not going anywhere until we’ve made sure you have ample water and supplies.”

Iceman steps up. “I’ve no time.” The man catches his arm once again.

“You’ll have to make time. You can’t go out there till you’re properly outfitted. You’ll need a cooling suit just in case.”

Seeing the futility in wasting time arguing with the man, Iceman yields. “All right all right. Just get on with it.” Continue reading Iceman Series – Part Four- →

by VJ Miller Sr

If you missed Part Two

Last time we left with a Question: Who is the dead man in that dark damp alley?

Fred screeches up to the alleys mouth. Pausing, he speaks to the officer on duty who points to Owens deep in the interior. Long strides carry the taught body ever nearer. Hobnailed boots click in rhythm on the brick paving; echoing hollowly off the walls of the alley’s confines. In the gathering mist he walks straight to Sgt. Owens, paying no mind to the other officer.

“What happened Greg?” came out ice encrusted.

“I… I don’t know how to say this…”

“It’s Charlie… isn’t it?”

Nodding solemnly, Owens kneels to pull back the shroud, followed by Fred, removing his helmet.

Nostrils flaring, eyes narrowing, he examines the crushed body that looked as if he’d died very slowly, extremely painful; beaten to death with some heavy object, or objects. Close scrutiny shows the left pinky missing; neat, purposely severed rather than torn off in the execution. Stoic, sickened, Fred slowly rises, followed by Owens who replaces the shroud.

“I hated to do it this way… but I couldn’t over the phone.”

Silent, staring vacantly, Fred turns his back without a further word to stalk off into the thickening fog toward his bike.

“Fred… Fred. What are you gonna do?”

Fred halts, ponders, then turns half around at the waist; his voice cold as a Siberian winter. “Fred Sinclair… is dead...” He tugs on his helmet. “Only the Ice-man lives.”

Bewildered, the two detectives behold Fred’s departure into the cloying mist; of the roar and screech of tire of his rapidly receding motorcycle. Continue reading Iceman Series – Part Three- →