World War Moo

by Michael Logan

  Geldof’s grandfather had given him a budget of one and a half million dollars, but he’d been told to talk down the initial quote. However, coming from a culture where you automatically paid the price that was on the sticker in the shops, bartering was as natural to Geldof as putting the toilet seat down after a pee. The steady look in the mercenary’s eyes told him he would be wasting his time trying. Plus, he wasn’t finished yet. There was something he’d resolved to do, something he hadn’t told his grandfather. “There’s one more thing. I’m coming with you.”

  “No way. We don’t take passengers.”

  Now it was Geldof’s turn not to react. He didn’t want the mercenary to see how terrified he was at the prospect of returning to Scotland. In the days since meeting his grandfather, he’d spent his time deep in thought. There was no guarantee these men, good as they were supposed to be, could extract his mum. The mercenaries and Fanny could be killed, and he would never see her again. He didn’t even know if she would agree to leave. If she’d decided to play some messianic role in Britain, the only way to get her to depart would be to drag her. That wouldn’t exactly lead to a pleasant reunion. If he went with the mercenaries he would have a better chance of seeing her one more time, and, if she really did love him, he could persuade her to leave with them. There was, of course, a strong chance he could get killed, but that was something he chose not to dwell on.

  “You take me, or I find somebody who will,” he said.

  Scholzy held his gaze for what felt like hours. Geldof had to fight hard not to look away.

  “You’ve got guts,” Scholzy said finally. “I’ll give you that. We’ll take you for an extra five hundred thousand.”

  “Done,” Geldof said.

  His grandfather wouldn’t be happy that he’d spent the whole budget and would freak out if he found out about Geldof’s plan to tag along. Considering Geldof didn’t intend to go back to the villa, he didn’t really care as long as his grandfather didn’t discover his intentions until it was too late. “What happens now?”

  “You give us half the fee up front. Then we get planning.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” Geldof said. “Can you send us your bank details and we’ll do a transfer?”

  “No banks. You send the money through Hawala.” Scholzy grunted at the look of incomprehension on Geldof’s face. “You don’t know a damn thing, do you? It’s a trust-based transfer system run by the Somalis, beloved of many a jihadi. Your grandfather hands a wad of cash to somebody, tells him where and who for, and then we pick it up. Totally untraceable. The old man knows the drill.”

  “So, we have a deal, then?”

  “We have a deal.”

  Fighting the conflicting emotions of sheer terror at going back to the U.K. and elation at the prospect of seeing his mum, Geldof held out a trembling hand to shake on it.

  Scholzy lit a cigarette and blew a long stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “So, tell me. Are you still a virgin?”

  Geldof blushed. “That’s a very personal question, and I don’t feel comfortable answering it.”

  “Ah, so you are a virgin. How about I buy you one of these ladies to get you going, heh? A little gift to seal the deal.”

  Before Geldof could respond, Scholzy waved over a woman in a tight, glittery dress that struggled to make it over her curvaceous hips. “Tell the boy your name.”

  “Lucy Pussy.”

  Scholzy slapped the woman on the behind. “Don’t worry, it’s just a name. Her pussy isn’t as loose as it should be considering the number of cocks that have been up there.”

  Lucy rubbed her firm breasts against Geldof’s arm and put her hand on his thigh. His body thrummed in response. It would be so easy to say yes and lay his lack of sexual experience to rest. The fact that he was about to put himself in mortal danger and may never get another opportunity made it more enticing. Yet as much as his body urged him to respond in the affirmative, he brushed her hand away.

  “The boy’s nervous, Lucy,” Scholzy said. “He’s a virgin. You have to be gentle.”

  Lucy nibbled on his ear, sending fresh waves of electricity coursing down his neck. “I like virgins. It’s over fast fast. I’ll do you for a special price.”

  Even though every hormone-soaked muscle in his body resisted, Geldof pushed back his seat. In all his fantasizing about his first sexual experience, he’d never imagined an impersonal transaction. With Mary and other focal points for his nocturnal fiddling, there had always been one commonality: the object of his affection finally realized what a handsome, smart, and beautiful human being he was and fell into his arms in a fugue of passion. Most likely this would never happen, but better to wait decades for that special moment than toss his cherry away on a seedy encounter that would make him feel as grubby as the wanked-in socks he used to stuff down the bottom of the washing basket in more horny times. None of these romantic sentiments made the mutinous erection he tried to hide by tugging down on his shirt any less throbbing.

  “I’d better go back to the hotel now,” he said, signaling Mwangi with a tilt of his head.

  Lucy, seemingly unoffended, moved off and draped herself over a short, fat white man who looked as though his seventieth birthday was a distant memory.

  “I’ve got one last question,” Geldof said, keeping his hand firmly on his shirt. “How do you plan to get us in?”

  “When you want to get something insanely suicidal done,” Scholzy said with a broad smile, “you call the Russians.”

  SEVEN DAYS TO EXCISION

  13

  In this, Lesley’s second incarceration while chasing a story, nobody had interrogated her. Considering the last time it happened she’d been reduced to a quivering wreck, this could be chalked up as a positive. Unlike Brown, who needed to find out if she’d backed up any of the information and seemed to delight in tormenting her, these men didn’t have to grill her. They saw her meet Jack and heard everything he told her. They would have checked she hadn’t contacted anyone and they had her laptop. They most likely also kidnapped Jack. The worse thing was that they’d been there all along as she bashed away on the keyboard, so sure she wasn’t repeating the mistakes of the past. She hadn’t even noticed the watcher. The ghost of the old, incompetent Lesley hadn’t been as thoroughly exorcised as she’d believed.

  At least Terry would have reported her disappearance. However, he didn’t know she was working on such an incendiary piece, and there were all manner of ways to go missing in New York. He would most likely think she’d been murdered or fallen down a manhole cover. Given her heavy drinking lately, the latter would probably be his chief suspicion. The police would be looking for her, but if they probed too closely she was sure they would get the message from above to back off. She didn’t know if Homeland Security, the FBI, the CIA, or the Secret Service were holding her. Not that it mattered. A turkey ended up just as firmly trussed whether it was the farmer or his wife who tied the knots. All she could do was hope a Thanksgiving Dinner wasn’t in the offing for this particular bird.

  On that front, she wasn’t too concerned. The cab had headed up Sixth Avenue before her captor jammed a black canvas bag over her head. That relieved rather than terrified her. The fact they were obscuring her vision meant they didn’t want her to know where they were going, which in turn suggested they would release her once the attack was under way and couldn’t be stopped. She tried to keep track of their movements through Manhattan, but quickly lost her bearings. Her best guess, once they hit a straight stretch of road, was that they were heading upstate. They drove for what felt like hours. The only break in the monotony came when the car juddered and the driver cursed.

  “I think I just hit a coyote,” he said in a New Jersey accent.

  Lesley sunk down in the seat. Even while being held captive in a moving vehicle, her malign aura was so powerful it could suck creatures in to their deaths.

  Finally they pulled off the main road and rattled along at a slower speed before coming to
a halt. Once the engine died, the only noises were the night whisperings of nature. Her captor pulled off the bag and helped her out of the car. A small log cabin sat in a forest clearing, hemmed in by soaring pine trees. The only way in or out was the narrow dirt track they’d driven down. Although her minder was barely pointing the gun at her any longer, Lesley didn’t try anything. She smoked far less now thanks to the restrictions in New York, but that didn’t mean she’d partaken in anything as vulgar as physical exercise—although she did purchase trainers and a gym membership, which in her book should have conferred some honorary fitness upon her. Her guard looked as though he could overpower her using his pinkie, and if she somehow did manage to knock the gun from his hand and make a break for the trees she would get only a few hundred meters before collapsing in a sweaty heap. And so she’d let him lead her inside as the cab crunched off through pebbles and strips of bark.

  Now she’d been cooped up for over a week, stewing in her own juices. Her guards rotated every twelve hours, standing outside the door while she showered, sitting across from her as she stared at the television, and watching her as she slept—which at first ensured she lay awake for hours staring at the ceiling until she got used to it. They brought her clothes to change into: ill-fitting dresses, blouses, and jerseys snatched randomly from the racks of Walmart by the look of it. All the while they refused to talk to her, get a message to Terry that she was alive, or buy cigarettes and booze.

  Despite the isolation and mindless wait, it was a relief to have the responsibility for all those lives taken out of her hands. Whatever consequences arose from the military onslaught, or lack thereof, she could console herself with the knowledge that none of it was her fault. Her jinx was as safely locked up as she was. All the same, she thought obsessively of the preparations that would be taking place—bombs being loaded into crates and planes, soldiers mobilizing, drones being fueled up—and the face of the blue-eyed boy haunted her uneasy sleep. Escape, however, was not an option.

  That night, as she was about to climb into bed, her kidnapper returned and held out the bag.

  “No questions,” he said. “Just put it on.”

  She complied and allowed him to tie her hands. It was possible that the attack was in full swing and she was about to be freed. Although it was earlier than Jack had anticipated, they could have accelerated the timeline for fear of further leaks. While she was happy at the thought of getting the hell out of there, her freedom would mean the bombs were falling. She no longer knew how she felt about that.

  This time the journey was much shorter. When she got out of the car, they left the bag on and led her stumbling through a series of gates and doors. From the exchanges between her companion and those manning the entry points, it seemed they were in an air base. She walked across a wide, open area, cold wind whipping around her, and up what felt like a metal gantry. Somebody shoved her into a seat and clicked a belt around her waist. She was definitely on a plane.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked.

  “You’re going on a little holiday. All expenses paid by the U.S. government.”

  “Can you at least take the hood off? If it gets bumpy I might puke in it.”

  “At least you won’t have to reach for the sick bag. I’d sleep if I were you. You’re going to need your strength.”

  Lesley was beginning to get the strong feeling that her assumption she would be released had been misplaced. The air-conditioning came on as the plane’s engine fired up, and footsteps receded as her guard walked away. She began to fumble at the seatbelt with her bound hands, sucking the cloth into her mouth with each panicked breath. Somebody delivered a stinging slap to the backs of her hands.

  A male voice, low and hard, sounded close to her ear. “The fasten seatbelt sign has now been lit, so I’ll have to ask you to remain in your seat.”

  * * *

  The following hours were nightmarish in both wakefulness and fitful sleep. Her dreams were full of images of buildings crumbling and bodies disintegrating in the heat of blasts. When she woke amidst a rattling bout of turbulence, she was convinced she was trapped beneath the rubble with bombs still raining above her. Only a helpful slap to the side of the head brought her back to reality, which was almost as bad. The bag came up once, just as high as her nose, to let her gulp from a bottle of water and be spoon-fed greasy spaghetti.

  When the plane landed, she stumbled on numb legs, aided by prods to the back, onto what seemed like another airfield. There, after an interminable wait, she was tossed up like a sack of potatoes into another cabin, which she realized belonged to a helicopter when the blades began to whine. This was worse than being held by Brown, who’d at least got to the point quickly. What they were doing felt like mindless cruelty with no apparent end—unless it was an attempt to break her so she wouldn’t talk about her capture upon her eventual release. She fervently hoped that was the case; the alternative was that she’d become a victim of rendition and was en route to a country where human rights treaties were used only to stabilize the wobbly leg of the table upon which they kept the pliers, scalpel, and blowtorch.

  After another unquantifiable period in the air, her stomach registered that the helicopter was dropping. A door clunked and air whistled into the cabin. Somebody cut through her bonds and the bag was yanked off her head. Outside of the helicopter was blank darkness. Between two men in U.S. Air Force uniforms sat Jack, his hair dishevelled and skin pale beneath the cabin light.

  One of the soldiers yanked her to her feet and jockeyed her to the brink of the helicopter. With no further ado, he gave her a hard shove in the back. She didn’t even have time to scream before her hands and knees smacked onto wet grass. Almost immediately, Jack landed face-first beside her with a thud. The wind from the blades buffeted her, and she looked up to see the helicopter silhouetted against a sky full of fragmented clouds backlit by the moon. It banked off to the right, gaining altitude until it was lost in the darkness. She grabbed Jack by the shoulder and helped him to his feet. His face was caked in mud, and he seemed unsteady on his feet.

  “Where are we?” he said.

  Lesley looked around, trying to get her bearings. With the helicopter gone, she could hear the wash of waves on rocks nearby, although she could still see little other than a field fading off into the murk. She didn’t need to see anything to have a good guess at where they were. “The bastards dropped us back in Britain.”

  Jack wiped mud from his lips and flicked it to the ground. “Jesus,” he said shakily. “I’d like to say it’s good to be home, but I’m afraid that would be a lie.”

  Lesley took in a whooping breath. The oxygen fed the spark of anger smoldering in the pit of her stomach, boosting it to a roaring conflagration. She turned to Jack and began beating her fists against his chest.

  “This is your fault, you fucking arsehole,” she shouted. “Why didn’t you pick some other idiot for your stupid bloody story?” Jack didn’t even try to fend her off; he just stood there and let her beat her rage out against his breastbone. When the coals of the fire had gone cold, Lesley sat down heavily, uncaring that the muddy grass chilled her buttocks. She dropped her head to her knees. “We’re dead.”

  “Not yet, we’re not.”

  “Yes, we are. You just don’t know it yet. Were you here during the outbreak?”

  “No,” Jack admitted. “I was stationed in New York.”

  “I almost died, several times, and that was before people got infected. Now every living thing on this island is going to want to kill us, and there’s no way off.”

  Jack sat down and put a tentative arm around her shoulder. She could tell from his heavy breathing that he was just as scared as her. However, he put a brave face on it. “Look, I know this isn’t ideal.”

  “That’s the fucking understatement of the century.”

  “At least we’re free. And while we’re alive, we’ve got a chance.”

  “Really? If the bloody zombies don’t get us, they’re goin
g to bomb the shit out of this country any day now. You can choose which one of those ways to die suits your personality. I’m just going to sit here and starve quietly. In fact, I might suffocate myself.”

  Lesley plunged her head into the mud.

  Jack pulled her up. “Stop fucking about. They’ve left us here to die, no doubt about it, but they’ve made a big mistake.”

  “You’re right. They should’ve pushed us out from much higher up.”

  “We’ve still got time. Somewhere on this island there must be a way to get a phone call or an e-mail out. I mean to find it and let everybody know exactly what they’ve done and are going to do. They’re not going to get away with it.”

  “That’s very action hero of you. Shame we don’t even know where we are.”

  “I’ll have you know I used to be a scout. Troop leader, no less. And I have my orienteering badge.”

  “Okay then, Baden-Powell. Where exactly are we?”

  “If you get up out of the mud, we can start walking and figure it out.”

  “Why bother?”

  “Because getting this story out and maybe stopping the attack is the only chance you’ve got of surviving this. Nobody’s going to stop and ask if you’re a zombie before dropping a big bomb on your head or shooting you.”

  “Are you just going to keep nagging me if I don’t get up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great. Do me a favor and nag me to death.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Lesley,” Jack said, “try to find some positives.”

  Lesley ran through a mental list: fresh air, the great outdoors, a chance to pee without a guard listening to her tinkle. None of them were particularly heartening. Her life seemed to have become a cycle of repetitive events. For the second time, she found herself kidnapped and trapped in a zombie-infested nation as she tried to disseminate a story that would have wide-ranging repercussions. Once had been quite enough, thank you very much. The only thing missing to make the awful sense of déjà vu complete was a very large bull. Once more wrapped in the comfortable blanket of self-pity she’d worn so many times down the years, she said nothing.