Anhur

by Wayne Marinovich

  He sucked in a rapid breath as anger erupted within him. Leaning forward, he stared at a circle of dust on the mirror or was it dried blood? He raised his hand but couldn’t touch it. It would stain him.

  ‘Cindy?’

  The sleepy girl walked over to him and cuddled under his arm, her hand reaching up and stroking his chest.

  Rebus pushed her against the side cupboards, grabbing her by the throat. ‘Didn’t I tell you to make sure that the mirror was spotless? I need it to be perfect. How am I to look at myself with a dirty fucking mirror? Get out of here and find Skink for me. Tell him not to make me wait.’

  Turning away from the shivering girl, Rebus walked back to his office. His head was spinning, and he propped himself up against the wooden sideboard, looking down at a Samurai sword that was resting on a black stand. The ornate scabbard was missing, and he felt a pang of regret as he remembered he’d lost it in a battle with the Northern Jersey Boyz over the territorial dispute of Nashville. He and his 38s had killed them all in a battle that barely lasted ten minutes. The sword and scabbard were usually tucked into his pants when he walked around. He missed that feeling. No doubt one of his 38s, who was still looking in every street market, would find another one for him. He nodded his head. He would reward them well.

  A gentle click of the side door followed by the sickening smell of chemical disinfectant accosted his senses. A creak of the flooring near the kitchen, then soft catlike footsteps to his study.

  ‘Glad to see you can still follow orders, Skink,’ Rebus said, turning to look at his nephew.

  ‘Thanks for not killing me this morning,’ Skink said.

  His skinny black leather pants were tucked into military boots. A faded 38s leather jacket covered his overdeveloped upper body, bulging arms and chest stretching the creases in the leather. Long unwashed black hair hung down either shoulder. A pockmarked face from steroid-induced acne was partially hidden by a black vertical charcoal strip that stretched from his forehead to his chin. Red horizontal stripes, painted with fingers, went from his nose across to his ears.

  ‘What’s with the stripes on your face?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Makes me look more menacing.’

  ‘It looks stupid, you idiot.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Don’t just stand there, get out and send the captain in,’ Rebus said and went to sit on top of the desk. ‘Is there any news about my beloved Luka?’

  Skink took a small step back and swallowed. ‘He’s still out with the patrol.’

  ‘I wish he wouldn’t go out on these patrols. He has everything here. I take care of him enough, don’t I?’

  ‘Of course you do. He probably just wants to impress you. Of all the boyfriends you’ve had, he has been around the longest, and I’m sure wants to show his appreciation.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘Slither off and take those treacle words with you. Bring the captain in so we can finish off the business of the day before we turn to pleasure.’

  Skink walked backwards down the passage, bowing slightly as he left. Rebus looked down the length of the motorhome and saw the boy had rolled over. Maybe Luka would be back in time to share this one.

  • • •

  ‘Rebus, I deserve more respect than your other disgusting visitors out there. I’ve been waiting for two bloody hours amongst them. They all stink and stare at me like I’m a side dish. I demand to be treated with the respect that a captain of the New American Government deserves.’

  Rebus twitched slightly as his stomach churned with anger. He wanted to spit acid on the man, dressed in his khaki army fatigues and brown boots. His shirt was unbuttoned to his navel, the heat causing sweat stains under his arms. He was the enemy.

  ‘Why didn’t you just leave, captain? Men of substance, who command respect, don’t wait around for anyone.’

  ‘How the hell could I leave without the merchandise? I have clients who need this stuff. It’s in your best interest to not keep them or me waiting.’

  ‘Visitors get an audience with me when I decide. I don’t fit in with the likes of you or your junkies.’

  ‘The likes of me?’

  ‘Addicts, captain,’ Rebus said. ‘Needled-up junkies who’d sell out their entire family.’

  ‘I’m not an addict.’

  Rebus lifted his hand, a single finger raised. ‘I know you are. You’re an addict who gets high with the wrong people, many who happen to be my informants. I’ve recently heard that you’ve taken to dealing drugs on the street now.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Are you calling my informants liars?’

  ‘Yes. I swear on my mother’s life that I don’t deal on the street. I simply deliver the drugs for you.’

  ‘Skink,’ Rebus said.

  The man slipped into the doorway behind the captain, pushing a young woman forward. Moving to their right, Skink walked in front of the brown cabinets to the side of the door, his hands squeezing her shoulders tightly. The ravages of addiction were etched into her face and body. Her gaunt features accentuated her bulging blue eyes that darted from person to person in the room.

  ‘Go on, dear. Tell Rebus what you told me,’ Skink said.

  The young woman wiped her nose with a tattered sleeve and sniffed hard, a trail of blood across her face. ‘The captain sold me a packet of Hot Spice in Nashville.’

  The captain took a step towards her. ‘You lying shit. I’ve never seen you before in my life. You’re not even one of my high-end clients.’

  She looked back to Skink, who pulled a foil wrapper out of his pocket. A 38 Roadster label was on the outside. He held it up in front of her. ‘This is what she gave me.’

  ‘She could’ve picked it up anywhere on the bloody street,’ the captain said.

  Rebus slid off the edge of the desk, went over to the sideboard and opened a drawer. Picking up an old mobile phone, he walked back and flicked the screen on.

  ‘Here are a few images that another informant took of you selling my drugs to three Floodlanders.’

  The captain looked at the images and then back to Rebus. His eyes darted to the woman and then back to Skink, who had a broad grin on his face. ‘That doesn’t look like me, now does it?’

  ‘Tell the truth here, captain, and I will show you mercy. Lie to me, and you will not make it out of my office alive,’ Rebus said.

  The clicking of a pistol hammer being cocked made the captain look back. Skink had a Sig 226 drawn on him and aimed at his head.

  ‘Jesus, Rebus. You can’t shoot me here. Do you know the shitstorm that it will rain down upon your gang?’

  ‘Yes, yes, you’re a NAG Captain. A fact which I no longer care about. That is you in the image, is it not?’

  The man bit his bottom lip for a second and nodded his head. ‘I have a business proposition. You and me. Ruling the streets. I can cut you in on the action. Just think of it. All the rich and fat Floodlanders in the megacities.’

  Rebus’s eyebrows lifted in shock. ‘Skink, why have we never thought of dealing on our streets? It’s pure genius.’

  ‘Because we’re not that clever, boss.’

  ‘That must be it, my dear nephew,’ Rebus said. ‘What percentage do you have in mind, captain?’

  ‘I thought about seventy-thirty. I am taking the risks after all.’

  ‘That’s a little steep,’ Rebus said, walking towards him with his hand out. The captain handed him the phone back.

  ‘Sixty-five thirty-five then,’ the captain said.

  Rebus placed the phone into the drawer and closed it with a push of his hip. He felt the rope grip of the sword, and adrenalin pulsed all the way to the rising hair on the back of his neck. Swinging back, he spun around. The flash of silver made the captain blink then open his mouth in shock. A sliver of blood traced across his throat before he could utter a word. Rebus flipped the blade around and drove it forward into the captain’s chest, forcing him back into a cupboard. The blade pulled free as blood poured out and Rebus le
t the captain fall to the side. The fallen man kicked out at the passage cupboards for a few seconds as a dark puddle of blood spread outwards.

  ‘I’m not cleaning that shit up again,’ Skink said, folding his arms.

  Rebus smiled at him. ‘Go and get me two boys from the harem. And send me Cindy as well. I want their naked bodies covered in this captain’s blood then make them join me in the bedroom. When Luka gets back, tell him to hurry so he can join us.’

  Chapter 4

  North Charles Street, Baltimore, Maryland - 2043

  ‘You had one bloody thing to do,’ Professor Paul Hoskins said, staring at the squeaking metal fan that was on a pile of encyclopaedias. His northern British accent was still strong despite the twenty years of living in the US. The slim figure of his research assistant, Jonathan, stood bolt upright in the corner of the room where he had been cataloguing yellow-paged journals.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jonathan said.

  ‘Lately, you seem to be saying sorry a lot. How about doing as I ask for once? That’s what you are here for, isn’t it? To learn.’

  ‘And oiling the fan is going to help me understand sociology?’

  ‘No, oiling that old relic will allow us to listen to the only radio station left in this hell hole you were born in.’

  Jonathan rolled his eyes and got up to turn the fan off. He walked past crates of books and over to a wooden-framed window to open it. ‘Yes, Paul. The only station that‘s going to get us arrested.’

  Paul smiled at the long-haired young man who kept him warm at night then continued reading his copy of The Naked Ape by Desmond Morris. The text lifted him from life in the dreary study, which he had been allowed to keep once the university had closed. The Warlord of Maryland, plus his NAG benefactor, had let him use a few rooms for his project, and these included the living quarters above the study. He had everything at his disposal so didn’t need to go out into the constant misery.

  ‘When can we go out for a walk?’ Jonathan said. ‘I’m getting cabin fever here. It’s been weeks.’

  ‘Tell me the origin of the term, cabin fever, and maybe we can have a walk later.’

  ‘How am I supposed to know where it came from?’

  ‘It’s part of your bloody American history. You’re here to help me document and salvage history that would otherwise be lost to the carnage out there. You might as well learn in the process.’

  ‘I don’t even know where to begin looking for the origin. We have tens of thousands of books in this dusty mausoleum.’

  Paul sighed and swivelled around in his chair. ‘It was first used as a theme in the 1920s in a Charlie Chaplin movie called, The Gold Rush.’

  Shouts and screams over the radio stopped him talking. He stared at the old black, digital radio.

  ‘Folks,’ the voice from the radio had a tinge of panic. ‘The Radio Cognito building has been surrounded by NAG troops, and the main doors have been breached. I have heard shots being fired in the corridors so we can expect to be captured soon. We’ll continue on air for as long as we can, bringing you the accounts of subjugation of free speech by those who we’re supposed to trust. The NAG.’

  A female voice interjected. ‘Listen to the tyranny at our door. Coming to silence our blossoming free speech.’

  Paul swallowed hard as he walked over to the radio to turn the volume up.

  ‘What’s happening, Paul?’

  ‘Quiet, boy.’

  A loud banging permeated the static from the radio station.

  • • •

  The smell of hot metal reached Elijah Jones as he stood with his back against the wall in the filthy corridor. The clanging sound was deafening as Captain Alonso’s men swung the large sledgehammer at where the door hinges would be. He’d decided to let the sulking captain go in first to keep him sweet, but the seconds were ticking by. The ball in his stomach had eased, meaning his target was not here, maybe he had never been. Another clang, and sparks flew from the hammer’s contact point. The NAG soldier swinging the hammer looked back at Elijah, and then to Captain Alonso.

  ‘I think they might know we’re here, captain,’ Elijah said.

  Captain Alonso glared at him and then looked back to the hammer man. ‘Fall back and get me the demolitions man.’

  A soldier scurried forward, placing a small strip of C4 around the top and bottom hinges, linking them together with detonators, and wired it all back to their position. The group moved back around the corner and waited for the blast. Elijah looked up at a small speaker on the wall that broadcast from the studio. ‘We will continue broadcasting for as long as we can in the face of New American dictatorship.’ He tapped the young soldier on the shoulder, who smiled and pushed the button on the small detonator box.

  The deafening roar sucked the air from the corridor as the door was forced open. A ball of black smoke rolled outward. Screams came from the room, with a stereo version booming over the speaker.

  Elijah walked through the door a few seconds later and pushed through the men who’d fanned out, weapons aimed at the two DJs and the woman. A horseshoe-shaped desk filled the centre of the room and served as the control desk for the programs that were broadcast. Two desk microphones were flanked by control panels of buttons and LED lights. A third mic hung from the ceiling, its wires traversing the soundproofed ceiling panels to large cabinets and a bank of computers servers and racks of CDs. Behind the three seated people was a large glass window which housed the producer’s booth. The room was empty and in darkness.

  ‘Don’t shoot,’ the male DJ said, his eyes flicking from soldier to soldier. He wore a red t-shirt that hung out over black denim jeans, and he raised his hands and placed them on his blond head, his long hair falling backwards from both shoulders. ‘We’re live on air, and everyone can hear you.’

  ‘This is barbaric behaviour. Typical of you NAG bastards,’ the female said. She wore a black leather jacket which had faded grey along all the seams and zippers. Below that she had a red-and-white plaid shirt tucked into blue jeans.

  Captain Alonso grabbed her by her black ponytail and pulled her back into a chair. ‘Take us off the air immediately.’

  The woman laughed and stared up at him. ‘Next time do your homework first, you idiots. We cannot be taken off air from here. This is a remote site. Everything that happens in here goes out to all our listeners via another hidden location.’

  Elijah smiled as he walked over to the woman. As he passed the male DJ, he pulled his Glock from its holster and pistol-whipped the man to the side of the head. He groaned as he fell forward onto the console, thumping his head on the desk.

  ‘They’ve just assaulted Mike and knocked him out cold,’ she screamed towards the microphone that hung from the ceiling. She strained against Captain Alonso’s grip.

  Elijah shoved Mike off his chair with his large leather boot, then sat down with his feet on the unconscious DJ. ‘You’ve been broadcasting about the Hooded Man for the past six months, have you not?’

  The woman looked across at him, her eyes scanning his face. Dark eyes, fierce with anger and hatred. She would talk. She wanted to talk if only to confirm the man he wanted was nearby.

  Elijah pointed his Glock at the figure on the floor. ‘You will tell me all you know about the Hooded Man or your listeners will bear witness to you allowing Mike to die.’

  ‘Bounty Hunter. We must take this institution offline,’ Captain Alonso said.

  The corners of the woman’s mouth lifted. A spark in her eye changed her facial expression. She was an intellectual woman. Elijah felt his interest growing.

  ‘Well, I never. The infamous Bounty Hunter sits in our humble studio,’ she said, her jaw clenching.

  Captain Alonso’s slap was vicious, and her head lurched to the left. She groaned, shaking it and blinking her eyes as she attempted to refocus on Elijah.

  ‘What is your name?’ he asked.

  She rubbed the side of her face. ‘Sharon Graham.’

  ‘I know that yo
u and a few of your little roving reporters have chatted to eyewitnesses who have met, or been helped by the Hooded Man. I have no real quarrel with you. I only want a list of all your sources and information you have about this criminal. Cooperate with me, and you may survive this,’ Elijah said.

  Captain Alonso was about to speak when Elijah held up his hand. He glared at the soldier, squeezing his fists closed.

  ‘It’s simple, Sharon, and I call you Sharon knowing that it’s not your real name. Tell me what I want to know, and old Mike here survives.’

  She blinked, her eyes darting down to Mike then back to Elijah. ‘You’re live on the air, so I don’t have to tell you anything.’

  ‘I always get my man, Sharon,’ he said. ‘It’s just the body count that varies each time, so I’ll ask you one last time. Where is the Hooded Man?’

  ‘Get fucked.’

  ‘Captain Alonso, please escort Sharon out of the room and down into one of the old museum halls. She will tell us what we want.’ Sharon was yanked up by her hair, and she started to kick out at another NAG soldier who moved in on her.

  Elijah reached forward and grabbed the suspended microphone. ‘Listeners? I am the Bounty Hunter, and I’m offering a reward of a thousand NAG vouchers for information leading to the capture of the Hooded Man. Contact your local warlord, and they will contact me.’

  He stood up and walked towards the door, looking at Sharon who was fighting the men outside the blackened doorway. She stopped and stared at him, her head and shoulders straining against the hands that held her. Elijah turned and fired a round into the head of the unconscious man then walked out of the room. Sharon went limp as she stared down at the blood trickling to the ground.

  • • •

  Professor Hoskins turned to face Jonathan then felt himself starting to shake. His palms felt clammy, and his throat dry. He had to have some. Turning away from the love of his life, he walked over to a small wooden cupboard. He reached in for a bottle of clear liquid and pulled the half-protruding cork out with his left hand. Closing his eyes, he took a long swig of the moonshine. The sweet, scalding pain radiated outwards from his stomach.