Sticky Footprints

The bullets came in volleys. The steam-propelled slugs tore through the crumbled brick walls of the manse in Birmingham. Most families had fled the advancing battle lines, but Master had insisted that the Queen’s Men would stop the lunatics before they reached the edge of the city.

Unfortunately when Master did decide to leave, he sped off without looking and careened into the Smooth-leaved Elm down the street to avoid the unexpected line of mechanical soldiers blocking the route to Lee Bank Middleway. The bonnet was damaged beyond repair by the collision.

The soldiers left sticky footprints of dirt and congealed blood on the cobblestones as they advanced toward London. I walked stiltedly toward the prints left on our drive and sprayed cleansing foam from the nozzle on my left arm. The foam dissolved the mess and left clean concrete in it’s place. I returned to my station in the garage and buffed the three Rolls Royce Shadows.

Master will want to take them out for a drive when he returns from his errand.

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