“You see him yet? You can’t miss the prick.”
Shem pointed his binoculars at the road and saw a long haired man astride a horse, a sheathed sword at his waist, idly pacing, head tilted up toward them.
“Fuck,” he said, startled. “He’s looking right at us.”
“What?” called Genny, from inside.
Shem poked his head back into the room.
“I said he’s looking right at us.”
Genny saw a frown crease his companion’s face.
“Did you hear that?” said Shem.
“No.”
“I thought I heard something.”
Genny stepped back from his lookout point and realised he was holding his breath as he strained to hear.
“Yeah,” he said, nodding.
Shem stepped back onto the balcony. The long haired swordsman was still trotting back and forward on his horse.
“He’s a decoy,” said Genny, the realisation dawning across his face. “Do it. Now.”
Hating orders, but knowing to refuse would end with a punishment beating, Shem swore under his breath with frustration and sprinted from the room into a poky corridor. He unbolted the front door and peered onto an empty landing. Exposed cables dangling from the ceiling blew in the icy wind that whistled through empty windows. He rubbed his bare arms and sprang toward the stairwell, hesitating for a moment to glance down. He saw movement below.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
He raced up the steps, taking them two at a time and crashed through the door at the top, bursting onto a gravel covered roof.
In the apartment, Genny ejected the magazine on his pistol, saw it was filled with bullets and slammed it back, hastily cocking it. He edged into the corridor and inched the door open, pointing the pistol through a narrow crack. His heart was thumping. Sudden movement caught his eye and he laughed, realising it was the overhead wiring swaying in the wind. He placed his finger against the trigger. He brought his left hand up to balance the weight of the gun. Litter stirred and drifted. He could hear the faint sound of footsteps on the stairwell.
Shem jogged across the roof, weaving around gnarled metal vents. He crouched next to a large blue and white kite and released the weight holding it down.
Instantly, the wind caught the kite and it surged away from him. He continued to unwind the cord, allowing the kite to soar high into the sky. A childlike smile curled across his lips as the kite swooped and rose in the sky. The wind toyed with it, tossing it one way and then the other. The interference in his head was drowned out by his fascination with it, the exhilaration he felt inside. He blinked, snapping his thoughts back onto his job - the unknown assailants climbing to the top floor.
Hastily, he secured the kite and raced back into the building, only to find the muzzle of a rifle aimed at him.
“Drop it.”
The man holding the weapon was tall, heavily scarred, long hair tied into a knot, a sword hanging at his waist. Shem glanced at the apartment where a blonde haired woman was standing in the doorway, next to Genny’s feet and ankles, a crossbow in her hands.
Stone jabbed his rifle into the young man’s face.
“Now.”
Shem tossed the gun and Nuria scooped it up. Stone grabbed the young man by his sleeveless shirt and dragged him into the apartment. Genny was lying with a crossbow bolt sticking out of his head.
“Man, you fucker, you killed Genny, you’re both fucking dead, you hear me? You too, bitch. We’re gonna …”
Stone pulled the youth out onto the balcony and threw him over, clutching onto his ankles at the last moment.
“Oh, fuck, what are you doing, man? Fuck, pull me back, c’mon, pull me in, oh shit, oh shit.”
Stone shook him.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Conrad heard the cries and stared up, a wry smile on his lips.
“Who took the one-eyed girl?”
Gasping for breath, arms hanging loose, Shem stared down at the rubble below, spinning and twisting.
“I don’t know,” he panted.
“Who took her?”
His stomach uncoiled and he retched.
“I swear, I don’t know.
“You know,” shouted Nuria. “You know every one who comes in and out of this city.”
“You’re gonna drop me, man,” said Shem, tears filling his eyes. “When I tell you who got her you’re gonna drop me.”
Stone let go of one ankle.
“I’m going to drop you if you don’t.”
“The Brute,” pleaded Shem. “The Brute has her. Took her from us. Bitch scared the shit out of us anyway.”
There was a shrill whistle from Conrad. Nuria tilted her head. She could hear the whine of engines.
“Did he take the bald man and the other woman?”
“That fool is dead,” said Shem. “Got chopped up for opening his fat mouth too much.”
“Where can I find the Brute?”
“How the fuck should I know?” sobbed Shem. “He’s not one of us. Please don’t drop me, man. I told you …”
Shem let out a blood-curdling scream as Stone relaxed his grip. Unfazed, Nuria handed him back his rifle and they each took a pistol.
Conrad saw the kite bobbing up and down on the wind. He dropped from his horse and led the beast to the side of the road, where the bushy haired Beatriz was concealed amongst the debris. She had nowhere else to go and had chosen to stay with them for the foreseeable future. She did not want to travel with the refugees to the Eastern Villages. She had no wish to start a new life in the shadow of the Maizan city, knowing they wanted her dead for mutilating Montre. Conrad flashed a smile at her as he tethered the horse, gently stroking the beast’s mane, but his effort was unrewarded. She was focused on the tower block, waiting for the others to return. He idly wondered if Tamnica had robbed him of all his charm as well.
Stone and Nuria emerged from the block, hastily stepping around Shem’s pulverised body. The sound of engines was growing louder, drawn by the kite. Stone walked into the middle of the street, waited, listened. He scraped his boots and could feel the vibration of the oncoming vehicles. A direct confrontation with the Maizans was what he had hoped to avoid when they loosely cobbled the plan together at dawn; sat amongst dwindling fires as the refugees prepared to continue their journey, a hung-over Conrad elected as decoy to draw the attention of the lookouts whilst Stone and Nuria slipped into the building. Yet the plan had failed and the lookouts had raised the alarm.
He had been tempted to goad the Maizans into the open, allow the lookouts to spot them, raise the signal, whatever it might be, but had dismissed the idea as foolish, knowing nothing of their numbers or weaponry. It had been the kind of plan he would have attempted in the past, with Tomas, carving the legend of the Tongueless Man and his companion through the wastelands, a legend he neither wanted nor cared for. He was tired of watching people in danger but now it was pointless to flee, to be hunted down across the rubble like wild animals; far better to stand and fight, as they had stood and fought when pressed by the Tamnicans in the forest.
The yellow marked concrete road was potholed, littered with dust coated rubble and several rusted vehicles, twisted metal jutting at awkward angles. The road curved down toward a darkened underpass, the bridge above buckled and shorn in half, choked with mangled cars, trucks, lorries and buses, a horrible tangle of metal, like mechanical sentinels from another age, thrust together in a display of obscene and nightmarish embraces, limbs and organs entwined and suitably crushed. The buildings towered around the broken roads, leaning with disapproval, a thousand empty windows glowering upon them.
Stone readied himself, finger on the trigger. Tiny beads of sweat trickled over his skin. The wind blew and stung the fresh scar on his face.
He took a deep breath.
The first rusted brown vehicle surged from the underpass, bursting out the blackness. Stone saw a curved crash bar bristling with iron spikes. He raised his rifle and fired, bull
ets piercing the windscreen, hitting the driver, spraying blood. The car swerved and spun out of control, turning onto its side, skating along the cracked road with a torturous scream. Stone kept firing, unloading bullets into the car, hitting a masked man in the front seat, his head snapping back. The car slid toward him in a shower of sparks and flying pieces of metal. He hurled himself from the road, landing in the rubble, as the vehicle rolled over, slamming down onto the roof.
As he picked himself out of the dirt a much larger second car ploughed forward, patched together brown bodywork painted blue and white. The vehicle had a broad mesh roof with two masked men clinging to the back of it, swinging long machetes. The driver saw the lead vehicle had flipped over and jammed his foot against the brake pedal. The worn tyres squealed and the car skidded and bounced along the road, shuddering to a halt with a spray of dirt. The two Maizans leapt clear, yelling.
Conrad lunged from the roadside and hacked at one of them with his sword, the blade slashing into an arm. He twisted and swung his sword again, chopping into the man’s rib cage. Nuria broke cover, firing her crossbow, the bolt chewing through the flesh of the second machete man. Frantically, he clawed at the missile lodged in his throat; stumbling and losing his weapon, body twitching as it slammed against the ground. She swung her crossbow onto her shoulder and pulled out the pistol she had taken from Genny.
Stone ran to the first vehicle as the surviving Maizans clambered free. A handgun flashed and shots smacked the road. He brought up his rifle and fired twice, both bullets striking the man in the stomach, punching through flesh and shattering bone. The man doubled over in a heap, one hand clutched against his bleeding abdomen, the other curled shakily around a revolver. Stone ran at him and slammed the stock of his rifle into the man’s head, cracking his skull. He scooped up the fallen revolver as a ball hammer swept above him, wielded by a tattooed Maizan; face masked, dark eyes enraged. Rolling onto his back, Stone jerked as the hammer crashed down toward his head, striking the car behind him with a loud clang. He fired the revolver until the chamber was empty, the Maizan collapsing on the road, covered with blood. He got to his feet as a third man pulled himself from the wrecked car, howling with rage, a machete in his grasp. Stone drew Shem’s pistol but the Maizan was nimble and rammed the handle of the machete into Stone’s face, dazing him. He swung his foot and kicked the pistol from Stone’s hand and swept at him with the fearsome blade.
Men spilled from the second car. Nuria cut another down, shooting with deadly accuracy, single shots. There was a staccato burst of gunfire from the underpass as a third car roared into view, the familiar rusted bodywork, blue and white paint, masked men hanging from both sides of it. Sword dripping with blood, face wringing with sweat, Conrad took cover, shouting at Nuria as bullets rained down around them.
“There are too many of them,” he said.
Nuria said nothing. She glimpsed Stone wrestling with a man swinging a machete at his head. Stone had no weapon. She tried to line up a shot but the two men were entangled. She lowered the pistol and ducked as the road erupted with the rattle of bullets. Pinned down behind the second vehicle, she crawled onto her stomach, inching forward and fired toward the underpass, biting holes in the third vehicle. Five or six Maizans were edging forward through the rubble, keeping low, firing on them both.
“I can’t do anything with this,” raged Conrad, shaking his sword. “Where the fuck is that woman? I thought she was going to help us.”
Nuria could see no sign of Beatriz. Quickly, she threw Conrad the crossbow and quiver and he plucked out a fresh bolt and fired, missing. She heard a wet crunch behind her and saw Stone racing toward them, pistol in hand. Two Maizans opened fire at him and he threw himself onto the verge, out of view. He powered along the rough ground marked with scattered rubble. Masked men swarmed toward them, pouring fire from automatic weapons, raking lines across the highway.
Bullets whizzing over his head, Stone focused his attention on the second Maizan car; one door hanging open, the engine idling, the driver dead, possibly their only way out.
“Nuria,” he called, and she saw him point at the car and form his hands around an invisible steering wheel. She nodded, knowing he wanted her to blanket the Maizans with pistol fire so he could reach the vehicle. He tossed his pistol at her. It spun through the air and she caught it. Wiping sweat from her face, with gunfire and taunts from the Maizans ringing in her ears, she took a deep breath, pistol in each hand. Swallowing hard, glancing around the side of the car, she looked into Stone’s face and nodded.
“Go,” she shouted, jerking into view, both arms outstretched, firing off round after round, unleashing a devastating volley at them. Stone sprang from the tangled verge, propelling himself forward, the Maizans forced to take cover, pinned down as Nuria’s pistols flashed. Stone dived into the car as a projectile buzzed through the air above them and a metal canister landed in front of the Maizans, who were slowly poking their heads up as Nuria’s pistols clicked empty.
There was a hissing sound and then smoke poured from it, swiftly billowing in the wind.
Righting himself in the driver’s seat, Stone glimpsed the outline of a giant man barrelling through the smoke, a monster, another Maizan with a blue and white scarf around his face. He was dark skinned, long arms and thick hands brandishing a machete and an axe, but he was running straight past them, heading toward the Maizans.
Nuria and Conrad hurled themselves into the car, panting heavily, as the smoke engulfed the Maizans.
“It’s the Brute.”
The cry came from one of the Maizans. Hearing the name, Stone sprang from the vehicle, drawing his sword.
“What are you doing?” shouted Conrad.
“He’s the one who has Emil,” she said, following Stone out of the car.
The Maizans were firing at the Brute. Stone witnessed him swiftly cut down two men with lithe, near graceful skills for a man of such bulk. He frowned. What the fuck was going on here? The Brute chopped down another Maizan. And then Allain’s words flashed into his head. There is a war. Maizans killing Maizans. There is nothing but misery in that city. Through the thinning veil of smoke, Stone lunged at a Maizan with his sword, half decapitating him. He prised the man’s fingers from a twin-barrelled shotgun, cracked it open and spotted one shell. He pressed forward as the Brute hacked and slashed through the Maizans pitted against him. Stone saw the gunmen flee back into the underpass. He watched the vehicle reverse and disappear from view.
Stone raised the shotgun.
“Where’s Emil?”
Without a word, the Brute swung at him, chopping the axe through the smoky air, slicing with the machete.
Stone leapt back. He needed the man alive if he had any hope of finding Emil but disarming the mountainous man already seemed an impossible task. Conrad was out of the car, sword in hand, backing him up. Nuria was alongside, loaded crossbow aimed at the Brute, who kept moving. Stone had to admire the man’s dexterous ability and mental strength; every movement carefully made, undeterred by the numbers and weapons ranged against him. He feinted at Stone and lunged at Conrad, weapons swooping and cutting through the air, blade clashing blade. An axe handle slammed into Conrad’s face and he howled, blood spurting from his nose, his sword slipping onto the road with a loud clatter. The Brute roared into Nuria, ducking the aim of the crossbow, pinning the weapon with the axe and swiftly bringing the machete to her throat. Nuria gasped, terrified to swallow.
Stone jammed the shotgun into the Brute’s spine.
“Forget about me?”
The Brute began to laugh. A deep rumble from inside his throat that shook his shoulders. “Did you see me helping you?”
Stone licked his lips. Despite the blade at Nuria’s throat, Conrad disarmed and wincing in pain, Stone instinctively felt unthreatened by the hulking man. There was something in his voice, and he was right - he had attacked the Maizans, despite wearing the same colours as them.
“You are too pretty to frighten any
longer,” said the Brute, lowering his weapons and stepping back from Nuria. “Now, will you take that gun from my back? I do not want to be a cripple.”
“Where’s Emil?” growled Stone.
The Brute was silent for a moment.
“You are the Tongueless Man?”
Backing slowly away, Stone looked the man up and down. The Brute thrust his machete into a scabbard hanging from his belt and slung the axe onto his back.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“You know who I am,” said the Brute, grinning. “They know me as the Brute. My real name is Jarracos.”
“Is she alive?” said Stone, still aiming the shotgun at him.
Jarracos nodded
“She said you would come. Both of …”
His words trailed off and the four of them turned at the same time, glancing toward the underpass.
“They are coming back,” said Jarracos, as the air once more filled with the roar of engines. “Too many for us. Come with me, come, come, hurry.”
Stone hesitated.
“I can take you to her,” he said. “But we must go.”
“What about the car?” said Conrad.
“This way is better,” said Jarracos, gesturing frantically. “Hurry, we must go now.”
A thin voice called out from behind the carnage of wrecked cars and bloodied bodies.
“Please don’t leave me behind,” said Beatriz.
--- Twenty Four ---
The Brute led them across derelict squares strewn with rubble and littered with rotting corpses.
Grim faced, Stone glanced over his shoulder and saw a number of cars and bikes emerge from the underpass. There were dozens of armed men wearing the now familiar blue and white face scarves. The four of them continued to follow, passing into cool shadows cast from wind blasted tenement blocks. He still carried the shotgun loaded with a single shell, finger next to the trigger. He had no trust for Jarracos, though he had witnessed the Maizans reel in fear from the man-giant and that had to count for something. Reluctantly, he trailed behind the man.
The Wasteland Soldier, Book 2, Escape From Tamnica (TWS) Page 28