I risked a quick glance out through the little window. The gunmen were advancing together. If I fired the first shot, they would open fire and that would be the end of it. Of me. If they surrounded the shack and ordered me to surrender, I might get out alive. Being captured was preferable to be being dead. I’m not too proud to give myself up.
Whoever was in charge of the operation decided that I wasn’t worth anything to them alive. A signal was given and they all opened fire.
Large calibre rounds punched through the wooden walls all around me. I lay flat on the floor and said ‘Oh, squit!’ over and over. Debris flew through the air and fell around me. A few shots clanged into the stove and at least one ricocheted off it.
Holes appeared in all of the four walls around me, new holes merging with existing ones to make larger gaps. It was like time-lapse photography of something being eaten by insects. And it wasn’t just the walls being gobbled up. Pieces were being blasted out of the support columns and roof beams.
The noise of all this was a weapon in itself. The unending barrage was deafening and felt like something physical pressing against my eardrums and trying to crush my brain. Mixed in with the steady percussion was the creaking of timbers under strain. The structure of the shack had been weakened and was in danger of collapse.
A pillar in the middle of the room fractured with a thunderous crack! and part of the roof sagged. I crawled under the little wooden table – it was my only available source of protection if the roof came down.
I kept hoping the attack would cease and that a voice would then call out telling me to come out with my hands up. But there was no ceasefire.
The wall in the front corner collapsed and part of the roof came down with it. The chimney pipe came down too and this tipped the stove onto its side. The stove door stayed closed but bright sparks and glowing embers flew out of the air vent. The embers began to smoulder on the wooden floor. And there were plenty of splinters lying around to act as kindling. Great – if the bullets didn’t get me the fire would. Should I venture out from under the table and try to beat out the flames? It would have been a futile gesture.
As the flames began to take hold, the rest of the roof came down. The legs of the little table tried valiantly to protect me, shivering under the pressure, but then they also splintered and the tabletop hit the back of my head.
The blow to the head must have knocked me senseless. I didn’t know how long I was out cold. When I came to, I thought I had been buried alive. All around me was darkness and there was a great weight pressing down on me. Breathing was almost impossible and I couldn’t move my arms or legs. Panic rose in me – was I paralysed? – and I had to fight it.
The gunfire had ceased and I couldn’t hear any movement. The scent of smoke made its way into my nostrils and made my eyes water. Something was burning. I was trapped under the collapsed remains of the shack and the fallen timbers were on fire. When I realised this, panic came over me again and this time I couldn’t fight it. I was going to die. Either the smoke would suffocate me or the flames would consume my flesh.
“Help!”
I tried to shift the wood that was pinning me down, but the weight was too great.
At that moment all hope seemed lost. But then a miracle occurred and I met my very own guardian angel. With a single bound he leapt over the flames and landed beside me. His hands gripped the wreckage that pinned me down and I felt elated as the weight was lifted from me. I was deliriously happy. Or possibly just delirious. There he stood, silhouetted against the flames, a majestic creature of heroic proportions. Strong hands reached down and gently swept me up and away from danger. It was wonderful to feel those strong steel arms around me and know that I was safe – that no one would ever hurt me again as long as I lived.
A single tear ran down my cheek as I looked up into that magnificent face. Emotion swelled in my chest and I could feel the pounding of my heart. My limbs were shaking and I clung to him, trying to draw strength from his body.
“My darling Floyd,” I whispered. “My cybernetic sweetheart. Kiss me!”
Holding me in his arms he crossed the disaster zone with mighty strides, carrying me away from the smoke and the flames. I leaned in close, longing to hear his voice speak my name.
“Quincy,” he said. “Did something crack your skull?”
My vision blurred and I felt consciousness slipping away. The soft, comforting tones of his voice followed me down into oblivion.
“You’ve just swazzed your pants. Urine impedes optimum performance.”
I woke lying in the bed in the truck. I was naked. And I had that vague guilty feeling you sometimes get after a night out. Floyd was sitting behind the wheel, checking the read-outs to see if the truck was charging properly.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Afternoon.”
“I had the strangest dream...”
“It wasn’t a dream,” he said.
The weird guilty feeling intensified and that, coupled with the throbbing pain in my skull, made me feel queasy.
“Here,” Floyd said. He passed me some aspirin and a bottle of water.
“I seem to recall saying some... crazy things,” I said, swallowing the painkillers.
“It was beautiful. I was deeply moved by what you said,” Floyd said. “You asked me to kiss you.”
“I didn’t?” My stomach lurched again.
“I have it on video,” he said.
“You know I wasn’t myself, right? I’d been hit on the head. And my brain was starved of oxygen... That wasn’t really me talking.”
“I know that,” Floyd said.
“But you’re not going to delete that video, are you?”
“I’m saving it for the gag reel,” he said. “Or I may use it to blackmail you years from now.”
“You’re a real pal.”
“I thought I was your cybernetic sweetheart?”
“Oh, scrack,” I groaned. I put my arm across my eyes to block out the light. But then a thought struck me and I sat up suddenly. It wasn’t a wise move. “Where’s Harmony?” I asked after the world stopped spinning.
“They took her,” Floyd said.
“Why did you let that happen?” I asked, anger in my voice.
“I came back to save you.”
“Oh,” I said. “Did I thank you for that?”
“In your own way,” he said. “You swazzed on me. Is that how humans show affection?”
“No. It just happens when your bladder’s full and you think you’re going to die.”
“I see. Because I did read that some couples like to...”
“Drop it!” I said.
“I washed your jeans but the underpants I threw in the fire.”
“We have to rescue Harmony,” I said.
“You should put some clothes on first.”
*
“You shouldn’t be driving,” Floyd said. He was holding the Trekker’s keys and didn’t want to give them to me.
“We don’t have time for this,” I said. “Is the truck recharged?”
“We’ve got maybe a hundred miles,” he said, “depending on the terrain.”
“Why didn’t they take the truck?” I asked.
“They tried. I didn’t let them.”
Floyd had re-enabled the drive systems in both vehicles. He reluctantly handed me the keys to the Trekker.
“I want you in front of me at all times,” he said, “so I can keep an eye on you.”
“You sound like my mother.”
“Some days I feel like I am your mother. Wipe the grass off your shoes before you get in the car.”
I responded in sign-language.
We set off and were soon back on the highway.
“Any idea where they took her?” I asked.
“The next town is Norniron City,” Floyd said. “Someone there will tell us if they’ve seen a small army arrive recently.”
As it turned out, we didn’t need to go looking for trouble. I
t came and found us. Minutes after we drove into town the truck and the Trekker were surrounded by armed men. A couple of them sported bandages, so I guessed they were already acquainted with Floyd. Their leader waved his pistol at me, indicating that I should lower my window.
“The truck stays here. You will follow us,” he said. He nodded towards a Bruiser that was waiting nearby. Crooks probably buy more of those things than the military.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I had no idea what I was being led towards. If I’d had to guess, I wouldn’t have said ‘a day at the races.’ Imagine my surprise when we passed a big metal sign that said Camel Racing. The sign looked like it had been badly dented and straightened out again and it was speckled with bullet holes.
There was a circular racetrack marked out by a chest-high white fence. The running surface was loose dry sand. The camels and their riders were in the middle and the punters were lined up around the track with most of them bunched up near the finish line. Some distance from the track was a parking lot filled with battered pick-up trucks and a few small aircraft that looked like they belonged to farmers. Beyond these was a Skylark – a small sporty-looking spacecraft that didn’t look like it had ever left orbit. I’ve stolen a few like it and they tend to look better than they fly. There were also a couple of food trucks and a beer tent. There were no permanent buildings on the site and nothing that looked like VIP seating. I got the impression this wasn’t major league camel racing.
When I got out of the Trekker I became aware of an odd smell in the air. A mixture of cucumber and rotting fish. I think it was coming from the camels.
I’d once, briefly, considered becoming a camel jockey. Mainly because it seemed much more appealing than being killed by a hail of bullets. That crisis had passed and I hadn’t thought about it since. A successful jockey can make good money – which probably means there’s more to it than just hanging on and hoping for the best.
I was led towards a paunchy businessman who looked like he was dressed to go line-dancing. But he had big feet and skinny ankles so I doubted he was much of a mover. Maybe he wanted to be a cowboy when he grew up. Clem Crawford was some years past sixty and those years hadn’t been kind. His hair was the kind of orange that can only come out of a bottle and his tan was fake too. His cheeks were getting jowly and he’d had some work done to hide the fact but he was overdue for a retightening. He breathed with his mouth open and I could see that his teeth were small like a child’s and made of some sort of whiteish metal. The lips looked like they were never far away from pouting. I’m sure he liked to think of himself as dangerous but I was pretty sure any outburst was likely to be a tantrum.
Jacob Flint had worn his wealth with a certain casual style. Crawford wore his in a way that drew attention to it – from the luminous cotton-candy hair to the gold watch with a face the size of a dinner plate. If it’s not obvious already, I disliked the man on sight. He held out his hand in greeting – his hands were narrow and the fingernails were a little bit too shiny. I pretended not to see it, turning to look at the camels behind him instead.
“Have you ever ridden?” Crawford asked.
“Not on one of those,” I said. “They’re not really camels are they?”
“No. They’re a kind of lizard,” he said. “They’re okay if you can put up with the stink.”
“Like a lot of things in life,” I said, turning my head to look him in the eye.
The bodyguard standing behind Crawford was so big that initially I didn’t notice him. He was wearing the obligatory black tee-shirt and cargo pants. The shiny black boots must have taken him half a day to lace up. The man’s chest was twice the width of mine and his shaved head looked like a leather basketball perched on top of a mountain. I don’t think he smiled much – there were two permanent frown-lines between his eyebrows. He had nice eyes though. He was probably a big softy who liked to cuddle.
“Are you a betting man?” Crawford asked.
“It depends on the odds,” I said. “I don’t bet on rigged events – unless I’m the one doing the rigging.”
“I like a man who knows his own mind,” he said, smiling his approval. “I’m glad you dropped by, Quincy.”
As if I had any choice in the matter.
“We have so much to catch up on,” he said.
“Have we met?” I asked.
“Forgive me. I feel like we already know each other. I’ve heard so much about you. J. Clement Crawford. My friends call me Clem.”
I decided that I didn’t want to be his friend and turned my attention back to the racers. From a distance, the creatures did look like camels though the humps weren’t quite as big. Up close you could see that they were something else entirely. Their skin was smooth and completely hairless, mottled with circular spots of different sizes. The feet had nails like an elephant but the toes were splayed like a camel’s so they could walk on soft sand. They had no ears that I could see and their eyes were large and cow-like. They all seemed to be smiling but that was probably just the shape of their jaw.
“We’ll watch the race,” Crawford said, “then we’ll talk.”
This was a six camel race and it took a little while to get the beasts lined up. I couldn’t tell whether this was because the camels were deliberately belligerent or just stupid. Then someone fired a starting pistol and they all took off in an ungainly dash. They ran with an odd swaying motion that reminded me of a spooked chicken. But while it looked comical at first, as they came past us it was clear that these things were really shifting. One of the riders was thrown from his mount and narrowly avoided being trampled. Other than that it wasn’t a thrilling event. The camel that first took the lead stayed there and was well ahead of the rest when it crossed the finish line.
“The bigger events are more exciting,” Crawford assured me. “I’m just here to see a camel I want to buy.”
“I hope it was the one at the front,” I said. “Unless you just buy them for the meat.”
“They don’t make good eating,” Crawford said. “Let’s talk inside – get away from the smell.” He gestured towards the parking lot.
I scanned the lines of old pick-up trucks. “Which one’s yours?” I asked. He didn’t think this was funny. He jabbed his heels into the ground as he marched towards the Skylark.
It was a nice-enough craft – a pimped-out civilian version of a military Corvette. It was overkill for short jaunts within a planet’s atmosphere, but that’s rich folks for you. These yachts typically spend more time on the ground than in space. More people can admire them on the ground. I wasn’t a fan of the cream and gold paint job, it just looked trashy. Inside, a lot of money had been spent to give the impression that a lot of money had been spent. I think the interior designer did a lot of work for casinos and brothels.
“I won it,” Crawford said proudly.
“Nice,” I said. “What was the first prize?”
“Are you trying to annoy me, Quincy?” he asked.
To be honest, I wasn’t putting much effort into it.
“Not yet,” I said.
Men like Crawford tend to have fragile egos. They don’t like it if they think you’re laughing at them. This makes them easy to manipulate – you just have to decide which way you want to push them. I still wasn’t angling to be his best buddy. But at the same time, I didn’t want him to turn to the bodyguard and say ‘Kill him.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
The passenger area of the ship was panelled with reddish wood, the fittings were brass, and the overstuffed armchairs were that chintzy fabric with big roses that look like pink cabbages. They looked comfortable but when I lowered myself into one it was like sitting on a bag of sand. I was offered a drink and snacks and turned down both. The bodyguard, whose name was Roscoe, was dismissed and I was left alone to face Crawford, who steepled his fingers in front of his mouth and pretended to be the villain in a spy movie. I wanted to say something flippant but he started speaking before I’d come up with anythin
g.
“Flint is paying you fifteen thousand dollars to steal whiskey from my warehouse and deliver it to New Grimsby.”
It wasn’t a question but I nodded anyway. “He neglected to mention the stealing part,” I said.
“False pretences,” Crawford said. “That made your agreement void before you’d even begun your journey, I should say.”
“I’ll take that up with him when I see him next.”
“In the meantime, here we are,” Crawford said. He swept his hands outwards with the palms up.
“What are you planning to do?” I asked. As far as I could see, at this point, he had the upper hand and I had nothing.
Crawford stared into my eyes and smiled. “I’m going to make you a counter-offer,” he said. “I will give you twenty thousand dollars if you leave the whiskey here.”
I blinked. I couldn’t help it. There was something wrong here. Was it a trick? Why was he offering me money to buy back something I had stolen from him? Why hadn’t he just called in the police?
“If I give you your whiskey back, you will let me walk away from here with twenty thousand dollars of your money in my pocket?” I said.
“That is correct.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“You’ve got me trapped here. You’ve got my truck and you’ve got the whiskey. Why don’t you just take what you want?”
“That is not permitted under the terms of the wager,” Crawford said. “I may send agents to try and stop you. Or I can offer you a bribe to persuade you to abandon your trip. But I cannot personally make any move to physically prevent you from carrying out this quest.”
“Wager?” I said. “I don’t understand.”
“Flint believes that you can and will deliver the whiskey by the agreed deadline. He is betting on you to win. I believe that you will fail and have placed my bet accordingly.”
Road Rage Page 15