by Eyal Kless
Rafik fought for air, but the man’s arm was like steel. He could not recall later how Fahid’s knife was suddenly in his hand. He pressed the small button, felt the handle shake as the blade sprung out, and stabbed with all his might at the arm that was choking him. Radja roared with pain and loosened his grip. Rafik ducked his head under the arm and was suddenly free.
He bolted forward, just when Martinn stepped through the door, holding a pistol in each hand and firing them in unison above Rafik’s head. As he passed by Martinn, Rafik saw a flash of bright light scorching the wall near the door. He heard more shots, and Martinn howled in agony. But Rafik did not look back. He kept on running and was almost at the stairs when someone grabbed him from behind and pulled him into a room. “Don’t make a sound!” he heard Khan’s voice in his ear. “Where’s Martinn?”
Rafik pointed towards the broken doorway.
“Don’t move, kid,” Khan whispered. He peeked around the corner, holding a pistol with both hands, then signalled for Rafik to follow him. They stopped near the broken door, and Khan bent down and quickly looked inside. What he saw, however briefly, was enough to make him pull back and gag, holding a hand over his mouth.
Khan swore several times, then turned and pushed Rafik through another doorway and into the room he slept in. They made for the window, but when Khan looked out he saw that one man was already climbing up to it. He leaned out and shot twice, missed, then ducked back inside as a barrage of bullets blasted through the thin walls and ceiling.
“We’ll have to do it the hard way,” he said, more to himself than to Rafik. They moved back to the corridor and edged towards the stairs. They were halfway to ground level when the man who had first grabbed Rafik appeared. He was holding a combat rifle and pointed it straight at Khan. Half of the guard’s face was a bloody mess, but he still managed to say, “Let go of the kid, Rustfuck.”
Before they could react, the man jerked violently, bits of his flesh spraying everywhere as his body flew sideways and through the kitchen’s swinging door. A shotgun appeared, followed by the bulk of Dominique. She pumped it using her left arm and kicked open the kitchen door. “No one aims a weapon at my man but me,” she said and shot again, then looked up at Khan and Rafik. “I need a vacation,” she said, breathing hoarsely and leaning on the wall next to the still-swinging kitchen door.
Only when they were standing next to her did Rafik and Khan realise how badly hurt she was. Her blouse was torn and drenched in blood, and her shoulder was dislocated. There were cuts and burns all over her face, and a part of her right ear was missing.
“Rust,” Khan swore softly, “let’s get you to a Mender.”
They turned around, and Rafik got a glimpse of the carnage. It was the worst thing he’d ever seen.
“Damn, woman,” Khan whispered under his breath, “I told you to clean the place up.”
If Dominique heard him, she didn’t have time to react, because three more men came through the broken front door. They were followed by Jakov. Khan darted to the kitchen and came back with a rifle, and Dominique and Rafik crouched behind the wall of the stairway. It took only four shots before Khan’s rifle jammed. “Don’t shoot the kid!” Jakov shouted as bits of wall went flying all around them but he could barely be heard above the noise.
“The basement,” Dominique ordered. She fired her own shotgun, hitting one of Jakov’s men in the leg, as the three of them retreated into the kitchen. Rafik made every effort not to look at the mess on the floor. Dominique threw down the shotgun and picked up a pistol from the belt of the man she’d shot in the head.
They moved as fast as they could between the barrels until they reached a steel door. Dominique produced a key. Blood and sweat were coming out of her in quantities far too large for one person to sustain for long. She leaned heavily against the wall and urged them to get out. Their pursuers were coming down the stairs. Dominique detached herself from the wall, leaving an alarmingly large bloodstain behind her, and fired a few shots at the stairs, keeping their pursuers at bay.
“Remember the explosives we stashed?” she asked and fired again at the empty stairs. “That would slow the bastards down for good.”
“No time,” answered Khan as he fired his own pistol once, moving through the open door and pulling Rafik behind him. “Let’s rust out of here and get you to a Mender.”
Rafik quickly turned to check their surroundings, so he only heard Dominique’s voice and never saw the expression on her face when she said, “You always were a lazy lover, Khan.” She slammed the door, trapping herself inside.
Khan jumped and grabbed the handle but the security bolt was already down. He slammed his fist against the door screaming, “Dominique, open the damn door! Open the fucking door, you fat, crazy bitch, don’t do this!”
Faintly above the racket they both heard the receding footsteps and the voice of Dominique shouting, “Come on down, boys, I have a special brew here, just for you!” More shots were fired. Khan grabbed Rafik’s hand, and they ran. When they were only a street away, a set of explosions blew the entire bar into a mushroom of flame, which engulfed the adjacent buildings.
They stopped and turned to look, despite the urgent need to run, and, for what felt like a long time they watched the flames take what was left of the building. For a while all Rafik could do was stand there and watch the bar go up in flames. Khan shouted profanities and kicked things, but after a while his outburst subsided. He wiped his face and shook his head, shoved his pistol into his belt, then grabbed Rafik by the hand and led him away from the burning buildings and into the night.
20
The Backside Burner was not as wild or famous as Margat’s Den; nevertheless, it was a place everyone knew. The establishment proudly claimed to produce the spiciest food in the known world, hence its name, and had even hosted annual food competitions that were reputed to have claimed several lives. Located just outside of Newport at the SuperTruck depot, where SuperTrucks too huge to enter Newport parked, it catered to the taste of truckers with gut-wrenching food, unwatered drinks, playing tables, and an array of prostitutes.
In theory, SuperTruck owners could become very rich relatively quickly. A decade of hard labour and a bit of luck could earn a Tarakan highway driver enough coin to live in modest comfort for the rest of his life. The problem was that truckers seemed to spend at least as much as they earned, and usually much more than they earned, and by the time they paid their debts they were too set in their ways and too addicted to the dangerous and carefree way of life that the Tarakan roads dictated.
The Backside Burner might not be considered a rough establishment, yet it was still not the sort of place to bring a young boy. Heads turned, but whether it was some truckers’ code of “minding your own business” or the sight of a man and a boy in bloodstained attire, they kept their curiosity at bay.
The man Khan was looking for was sitting at the main card table on a deep-cushioned playing chair, which barely held his girth. On his head was a cap long faded into dirty beige that covered most of his upper face. His card-holding hand was tucked under a waist-length, food-stained beard.
Running for your life from a violent gang led by an angry half-man, half-metal murderer was by no means an everyday occurrence. Yet even under such circumstances, you did not approach a trucker from behind while he was playing cards, not unless you were looking to deepen the serious trouble you were already in. Kahn and Rafik waited at a respectable distance until his hand was played and his coins were gathered before they made a tentative approach in plain view.
“Captain.”
The trucker leaned back from the table.
“Khan Carr, you son of a who—” He stopped when he spotted Rafik and nodded to himself. “Hell, it’s no matter to you if I curse your mother, you never knew the woman.”
“I need to talk to you, Sam,” Khan said.
“You want to talk to the Captain?” The man turned in his seat and lifted his cap up to his brow. “Well, Kh
an, the way you’re looking right now, I hope you haven’t come to propose to me.”
People laughed and thumped their tables.
“I need to speak to you, Captain, privately,” Khan pleaded.
The trucker must have decided that the man had suffered enough abuse, because he pointed at a far booth as he got up from his seat. Captain Sam was not tall, but he was wide. His trousers were held up by four strong ropes that looped around his belly and shoulders. His walk was slow but confident as they made their way to a table and sat themselves on dirty wooden seats. Captain Sam ordered a large quantity of mead, and after looking at Rafik, he ordered a steak for the young boy. He then busied himself by stuffing black leaves into his mouth and chewing them thoroughly, adding a long gulp of mead every few chews. Khan twitched nervously, waiting for his cue to speak.
Finally, the trucker leaned forward and asked, “What’s rusting your metal?”
Khan was beyond pleasantries. “I need you to drive me . . . us . . . away from here, tonight. We need to get to Regeneration.”
Captain Sam didn’t even stop chewing as he said, “No can do, amigo. I’m only half full.”
“Sam . . . Captain, it’s urgent that we both get out of here tonight.”
The man turned his head and spat a long arc of black goo at a nearby bucket. “What’s wrong with you? Didn’t you hear? I am half full. Means I am half empty, and a half-empty load barely pays for power tubes to feed my Sweetheart. She gets slow and irritated if she has to run on road power alone.”
“I’ll pay you,” Khan said quickly, then gulped and added, “as soon as I get my hands on the coin or kind in Regeneration.”
The food arrived, and for a few moments Rafik forgot all about the grown-up talk. He hadn’t eaten anything all day and was absolutely ravenous. He didn’t even utter a blessing on the food, and only later admonished himself for forgetting.
Halfway through the steak, Rafik saw Captain Sam sliding away from his seat. “Nice meeting you, son,” he told Rafik and winked. “Apologies for ordering the small steak portion. You look a bit hungry.”
Khan leaned forward and grabbed the trucker’s arm. “I beg you. Please sit down and hear me out. Please.”
Captain Sam glanced casually down at his forearm and Khan let go. The trucker paused, then shrugged and sat back down.
“One wrong word, wise guy,” he warned, “and I’ll make dessert out of you and serve it to the kid. Look at him, don’t you feed the boy?”
“It’s the kid I’m talking about. Look, he’s . . . special . . . and he would bring me . . . us . . . shitloads of coin, I mean buckets of—”
“Brake and reverse right there. Are you sitting here, telling me you are going to get rich by selling this kid like a load of wood? Are you a fucking slaver now, Khan?” His voice was still calm but his tone made more than a few heads turn from halfway across the bar.
“Me? No, no, no, I’m not selling the boy. I’m just the middle man for the boy’s family, once I get my cut—”
Captain Sam thumped the table as he rose again to his feet.
Truckers were hastily vacating the surrounding tables.
“Khan,” Captain Sam said evenly and gestured with his callused hand in a broad arc. “I like this place. They treat me with respect and bring me clean food and strong drinks. I would not want to cause damage to this fine establishment, so you and I are going to step outside, and then I am going to break a few bones of your spineless little body until I can shove your own heel up your arse.”
“Oh, in the name of—” Khan turned to Rafik. “Just show him your hand.”
Only then did Rafik realise he was still wearing Dominique’s glove. Mid-chew, he slowly peeled it off, raised his right arm, and spread his fingers.
The trucker stared at the hand for a long while then let out a sigh and shoved a new batch of chewing leaves into his mouth.
The mood around them eased.
“What’s the story here?” said the Captain.
“It’s tragic,” Khan said, obviously relieved. “The boy was born in one of those Wildener villages, you know, where they kill you if they even suspect you have tattoos. I owe this boy’s father my life, so his family smuggled him to Newport and I promised to help bring him to safety. Now Jakov the weapon’s dealer, that nasty piece of rust, heard about the boy and tried to take him, burned my bar, killed my girlfriend, and we barely got out of there alive. I’m sure he’s still after me, and there are only a few places in this town I can hide. I don’t mind taking care of my own business, but I have to look after the boy. It’s a matter of honour.”
“Khan, you wouldn’t recognise honour if it was your own ugly love child.” The trucker looked at Rafik. “Tell me the truth—is this man treating you well?”
Rafik looked up at Khan and felt for a brief moment what it was like to hold the power of life over death. He prolonged the moment as long as he could, then nodded twice for good measure and heard Khan’s sigh of relief.
“Fine,” said the Captain. “I’ll do it. I’ll drive you to Regeneration, and then you’ll pay me whatever I decide you owe me.”
“Oh, good.” All the air seemed to come out of Khan all at once, and he slumped back in his seat. Rafik silently slid his leftover steak towards him. Khan looked at the plate and slowly picked up a piece of meat with his fingers and shoved it in his mouth. Captain Sam watched them intently, so Rafik guessed that he timed what he said next, perfectly.
“There’s one more thing.”
Khan was just opening his mouth to take another bite. “What’s that?” He closed his mouth and lowered the meat.
“I need an advance.”
Khan put the piece of meat down. “An advance?”
“Yes, I swore long ago that I would never take freeloaders. I need an advance, something of worth.”
“Captain, my bar just burned down, everything I own is gone, and I have nothing of value on me except a gun.”
“Don’t need a gun. Don’t believe in ’em,” said the trucker.
“That’s good, because I wasn’t going to part with it. Sentimental value.”
“Well, Khan, you’d better find something of value to give me or all your hovering and grovelling will have been in vain.”
“Captain, please—”
“Sorry, Khan, I know we go back a little, but I gave my word.”
“Who did you promise?”
“I gave an oath to my Sweetheart.”
“You swore an oath to your truck?”
“I’d be very careful what I say next, if I were you.”
Khan bit his lip and began patting his pockets, emptying their contents onto the table. There were bits and bobs and a few low-value tin coins but nothing else. Then Khan’s eyes lit up when he produced a ring from his pocket. The ring was plain and had a flat surface. It didn’t look like much.
“What are you showing me?”
“Look at this,” Khan said and turned the flat surface. A miniature female appeared, scantily clad, with all anatomical features very much in place. She was dancing in a circle on top of the ring, her arms stretched above her head, then shifting down to caress her own moving body. It was the most beautiful thing Rafik had ever seen.
“And look here,” Khan said, turning the surface again. Another woman replaced the previous one, dancing in a different way, but in the same mesmerizing style.
“Avert your eyes, boy.” Captain Sam barked a laugh, and Rafik found himself obeying although instinct told him not to.
“Fifteen different ladies,” Khan said in a throaty voice, “all dance on the ring.”
“Where did you get that?”
“It . . . was given to me . . . by . . . my mother . . . passed down the generations . . . of my family.”
“I’m not interested in filth.”
“But why?” wailed Khan in desperation.
“My heart belongs to one and only one.”
“You don’t mean . . . it’s a damn truck.”
>
“Watch what you say, Khan. It’s my last warning.”
The men were staring at each other intently so it took them a while to notice Rafik’s hand, which was presenting a different object to the trucker.
“What is that, boy?” Captain Sam glared at him.
“It’s a knife.” Rafik pressed the button twice and the blade sprung out. There was still dried blood on the metal.
“I’m sorry,” said the trucker. “I cannot accept that. I don’t believe in weapons.”
“Oh, for the love of—”
“It’s not a weapon,” Rafik said quietly. “It’s the only thing my brother gave me before he left, the only item I have left from my family. It’s important to me, but I will give it to you if you take us away from here.”
Captain Sam went silent for a moment. Then he accepted the knife in his leathery palm. He pushed the button several times and watched the blade spring in and out of its case.
“Well, it’s a rare enough item,” he remarked, testing the sharpness of the metal with his thumb, then spitting directly on the blade and cleaning it on the hem of his tunic before pocketing the item. “If you cross me I’ll use this knife to cut your balls off, Khan.”
Khan nodded.
“And I’ll make sure you live through the whole process, too.”
“I get it, Captain,” Khan snapped. “You’ll get more than your fair share. Do we have a deal?”
“Yup, done deal,” the Captain said. “Let’s go.”
They got up from their seats, and Captain Sam cleared his throat before bellowing, “Gentlemen, may I have your attention.”