Warhead

by Andy Remic

  ‘How can we bridge it and get you away?’ said Carter.

  ‘We cannot.’

  ‘You sure?’

  Simmo met Carter’s gaze, and Carter saw that there was peace there. A final, chilling peace.

  ‘I am sure, my friend.’

  Another stream of bullets exploded through the roof, smashing a line across the floor. Several hummed past Carter’s face and he threw himself down, cursing foully.

  ‘Simmo!’ hissed Mongrel.

  Pinned in place, unable to leave the bomb circuit, Simmo had taken three rounds: one in the back of a shoulder blade and two bullets that had flattened on ricochet, one striking just above his kidneys and the other near his spine.

  Simmo, however, showed no signs of pain. He lay, blood flowing from his three wounds, cigar stump still clamped between his teeth. His head turned and his dark-eyed stare met Mongrel’s, and then Carter’s.

  ‘Get out of here,’ he growled, chewing his cigar.

  ‘We can’t leave you,’ said Carter.

  More bullets roared outside, and Mongrel shot off another full magazine in response. He swapped mags swiftly, letting the empty one fall clattering against the floor tiles.

  Snow was settling across Simmo’s shaved head, carried in through the holes in the bullet-riddled roof.

  ‘You will,’ said Simmo calmly. ‘Simmo here hold the fortress, you be sure.’

  ‘We not let you do that, pizda,’ snapped Mongrel. ‘We love you too much, grumpy old bastard that you is! Just tell us how bridge the circuit, dolboy’eb!’

  ‘Can’t do that.’ Simmo reached over, grabbed back his H&K from Carter, then hefted the weapon thoughtfully. ‘Get the fuck out of here, you buggers, before I shoot you myself!’ He coughed then, and Carter saw the blood staining his teeth. ‘Go on! You only have a minute—then we are all dog meat!’

  Carter and Mongrel stared uncertainly at one another.

  ‘So much for rescuing the HUB!’ snorted Mongrel.

  ‘Fuck the HUB,’ snarled Carter. ‘Simmo, let go of the circuit—we’ll take our chances. Maybe Rogowski was bluffing you again. Thought he’d take you out with his final blast...’

  ‘That noise was a terminal cut-in,’ said Simmo slowly. ‘You not bluff that kind of thing. It integral. But The Sarge do have one final request for you.’

  ‘Anything,’ said Carter.

  ‘Light my cigar, there’s a good lad.’

  Carter and Mongrel sprinted out through a low doorway as Nex came pouring across the quadrangle and into the workshop where Simmo let fly with his H&K until he ran out of ammo.

  Bullets smashed into Simmo’s twitching body and his blood flooded across the tiled floor.

  And between plumes of blue cigar smoke his teeth gritted in a tight nasty smile as his fingers twitched in a shaking spasm—and cut the connection to the bomb.

  HighJ fury blasted the HUB and pulverised Simmo’s bleeding body and the bodies of thirty attacking Nex soldiers. Nanoseconds later it ripped the roof from the workshop and melted stone and flesh alike in a massive eruption of purple fire.

  There came a click, then a soft whine.

  And the whole of the SpiralGRID closed down.

  Sonia could feel herself shivering under the multiple dark-hole eyes of the guns. She calmed her breathing, creating a steady pulse which soothed her mind, body and soul. Yes, she was going to die. So at last the pain—and the struggle—would be over.

  The baying noise of the crowd in the execution yard faded. Gone were the shouted questions of the press, gone was the annoying sound of Judge Ronald’s irritating voice.

  All faded into a hissing white noise ...

  The ten Nex, dark-clad, emotionless, lifted their 13mm NailGuns. They were huge, brutal weapons, quite cumbersome and impractical in a battle situation where their weight made them more of a liability than an asset. But they were ideal for the purposes of execution: nobody was shooting back then, and their massive stopping power made damned sure that the target wasn’t going to get up.

  Judge Ronald Hamburger’s voice echoed tinnily over a tannoy.

  ‘Prepare for the execution!’

  The crowd cheered.

  ‘Firing squad, check your weapons!’

  The crowd brayed.

  ‘Firing squad, safety switches off!’

  The crowd roared.

  ‘Firing squad ... fire!’

  The ten NailGuns coughed, bucking in the gloved hands of the masked firing squad. Nails shot from the dark-eye muzzles but the solid streams of metal roared not towards Sonia J but at—the crowd.

  The gathered paparazzi, cameras and microphones at the ready, were scythed like wheat under a glittering black blade, ripped asunder to lie dying and dead, torn into strips of raw bloody flesh. And Judge Ronald Hamburger, who had turned to flee as the Nex firing squad turned its guns on the watching people crammed into the execution yard, was shot brutally in the back as he put on an excellent arm-pumping example of a sprint towards the exit.

  The huge guns stuttered to a halt and a terrible silence filled the yard that now reeked of cordite. Groans arose from heaps of bodies as blood pooled and trickled through kill channels which had drained away the life of thousands of previous execution victims.

  Slowly, Sonia J opened her eyes. Her nostrils twitched at the gun smoke. ‘Jesus Christ,’ she whispered as she surveyed the carnage: the twitching bodies, the pools of blood glistening under cold skies.

  The Nex turned towards her at the sound of her voice. ‘Are you going to kill me now?’ she whispered.

  Before any of the Nex could speak, there was a blast of HighJ explosive and a huge hole appeared in the wall of the execution yard. Massive chunks of concrete spat outwards, scattering across the ground and leaving a portal to freedom ...

  Suddenly, gloved hands were on Sonia’s arm. ‘This way, Miss J.’

  ‘Why didn’t you kill me?’ she asked softly.

  The Nex looked down with cold copper eyes. ‘We are part of your organisation, Miss J. We are a part of the REBS. Now, if you please, this way—quickly. It will only be moments before Nex soldiers arrive—other Nex soldiers—with helicopters and tanks.’

  Sonia was led to the smoking remains of the wall and ducked through the jagged portal. A sleek alloy Manta Trans-G was waiting, its engines hissing softly, on the square beyond. The group clambered up the recessed steps into the small fighter’s hold and slipped their hands through restraining straps. A Trans-G was commonly used for fast infiltration, for the placement of troops behind enemy lines, and for the drop-off of special-force squads. In this case, it was being used as an escape module.

  The Manta’s engine howled as the craft lifted vertically. Suddenly, Nex poured from the breach in the execution yard’s wall, guns yammering in gloved hands.

  The Manta banked and lifted with amazing agility, easily escaping the hostile Nex bullets.

  Inside the Manta, Sonia J had gone white. ‘Thank God,’ she said, shaking her head as sobs racked her body, a release of the suppressed emotions that she had been holding tight.

  Carter and Mongrel had their heads down, sprinting hard as the explosion rocked the very ground under their boots. They skidded to a halt on the snow, glancing back—and then at one another.

  ‘He can’t be dead,’ growled Mongrel.

  ‘We all die,’ said Carter.

  ‘Not Simmo! It not in his nature.’

  ‘We all die,’ repeated Carter. His eyes glazed for a moment as distant memories threatened to overwhelm him. Then he slammed his hand against Mongrel’s back. ‘Come on, or we’ll be the next monkeys to shuffle off our mortal coil.’

  ‘The only coil I willing to shuffle off is coil up whore’s pizda! Come on, Carter, this way down arse-tight alleyway.’ Mongrel turned right, and they pounded down a narrow brick tunnel which stank so badly of rats that Carter held his breath as he ran. Swarms of slick vermin scattered out of his way, darting along ancient cracked gutters as the two men stampeded past
. Several filthy rodents stopped to watch with glittering dark eyes.

  Mongrel led Carter down a flight of steps into an old basement, and within minutes they were working their way through a series of underground tunnels packed full of battered galvanised pipes, pitted with rust, many of them broken and leaking streamers of slime to the black concrete floor.

  After ten minutes of struggling through the subterranean chambers and narrow shafts, Carter, who at this point was hauling himself up onto a ledge covered with orange slime, finally muttered, ‘Where exactly are we going, Mongrel? This is some fucking escape route, my friend.’

  ‘There thousands of Nex waiting for us out there,’ said Mongrel, one hand clamping hold of Carter’s wrist and helping to haul his friend up. ‘And now GRID is down—we fucked, Carter, we fucked bad. I think we go and pick up your Comanche, yes? We have secret rendezvous LZ set up—way outside London. All the DemolSquads have instructions to head there in case of bad shit going down. London too hot now for missions; just too dangerous.’

  ‘You mean we’re running away?’

  ‘We regroup,’ said Mongrel gently. He looked down into the part-flooded chamber from which they had just emerged. In the black water, streaked with glimmers of oil, rats with glossy spiked coats glided. ‘They broke our back, Carter, despite our efforts. Just like man stomping on rat. We need get out of this shit hole, we re-form, we gather strength together; then we attack one last time.’ Mongrel nodded to himself.

  Mongrel’s ECube buzzed. He fished out the small alloy device from his heavy combat clothing and keyed in a code. Then he spoke into the device. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘It’s Roxi. I got the child.’

  Mongrel’s face broke into a beaming, toothless smile. ‘Well done, that girl! You come up against much bad fight in NY? Was it tough-fuck gig?’

  ‘Yeah, real tough. But nothing I couldn’t handle. The GRID’s down, Mongrel—what happened there?’

  ‘We got shafted. Severely. From above.’

  ‘Jesus, the minute a girl turns her back! Tell Carter that I have his boy, and that he’s fine. Just a little shaken up. I assume we’re going to RV at Code3?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘See you soon, Mongrel.’

  ‘Be good, Rox. And be careful. Mongrel have big sloppy kiss waiting for you when you get back! And you not want to miss out on that treat! Out.’ Mongrel pocketed the ECube, then grinned at Carter. ‘She got him. I knew she would.’

  Carter’s smile was wary. ‘I’ll believe it when I see it. No good getting too excited; every time that happens, I end up having to kill somebody who gets in my way. And there’s nothing I hate more than shooting somebody I like in the face.’

  ‘Not this time, Carter. You trust old Mongrel.’

  ‘Like we trusted Rogowski?’

  Mongrel snorted. ‘That fucker now sausage meat. He get what he deserve; Mongrel think he bluffing about being just messenger. He just playing old mind-o games with our heads.’

  ‘Who’s to say what motivates somebody to turn against everything they have ever fought for in the past? Everything they have ever loved? One thing is for sure, though—the world today has changed beyond all recognition. I wish I could share your optimism, Mongrel. I really wish I could.’

  Mongrel gave Carter a strange smile in the gloom of the stinking underground chamber. Below, two rats were squealing as they fought over a small, bobbing item.

  ‘When something’s eating you, Carter, when something’s chewing you from inside—then you learn to look at real values in life. Har! I am tick-tocking worse than any bomb now; and it bad because I know I not halt the detonation—no matter what I do. I as dead as Simmo, Carter. The cancer, it worming through me like parasite; my death is only matter of time.’

  Carter placed his hand on Mongrel’s broad powerful shoulder. ‘You’re a good man, Mongrel. You’re a strong man. We’ll find a way for you to fight this thing.’

  Mongrel nodded, smiling a sardonic smile. ‘Enough morbid talk. We got places to go, people to meet, ladies to woo. And an old Spiral Comanche to steal.’

  ‘Ladies to woo?’ Carter stared at the hulking toothless man. ‘God Mongrel, can’t even the guaranteed prospect of death rein in your rabid lust?’

  ‘The cancer? Ha! Not even fucking HTank on head stop this squaddie with romantic inc— incli— hard-on.’

  Carter grinned savagely. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To Code3. In Scotland.’

  ‘The mountains?’

  ‘Yes, Carter. We going back to the mountains.’

  The Comanche swept down through the falling snow, with Oban and the silver glittering waters of Loch Linnhe to the far west and a huge strung-out vista of mountains appearing through the blizzard. The helicopter banked, engines humming and rotors thumping as they bore east and then flew up through Glen Coe—following the desolate A82 highway with mountains rearing either side of the snowdrift-buried road. Carter peered out from the cockpit as feelings raged through his heart and soul. Below and to either side lay his world.

  Carter had finally come home.

  It had not been hard to reclaim the abandoned Comanche. The area where Carter had originally landed had been deserted. There had been no Nex, no civilians ... London had seemed almost like a ghost town. With heavy weaponry drawn and ready, Mongrel had muttered something nasty about the Nex being drafted in to hunt down the remains of Spiral.

  ‘You’re doing well for such an amateur pilot,’ said Carter, glancing over towards the insect-like HIDSS.

  Mongrel grunted something unintelligible from his entombment in the black helmet. His gaze was intent on scanners and the awesome view from the cockpit. They dropped towards the Munros, dropping down over sprawls of snow-clad conifer forests to the south of Fort William and flying low to follow the River Nevis before Mongrel brought the combat helicopter around to sweep up and over Sgorr Chalum. Then the massive bulk of Ben Nevis towered ahead. They flew on, over the lower green and white-peppered flanks towards the stone summits of The Ben.

  Carter peered out at the daunting lump of rock. He smiled, a smile of understanding. The mountain had treated him well all these years, had pushed him to his limits during the seven winter runs which had forced him to the limit of his physical abilities—but, ultimately, despite the pain, she had never once sought vengeance. The Ben was unforgiving. The Ben was merciless. But she and Carter, well, they had an understanding.

  The Comanche howled up past steep slopes of scattered grey stone, pitted and hollowed like the surface of the moon, and rimed with a crust of frozen ice. They skimmed over the summit plateau, the old crumbling observatory flashing past as the awesome views spread out ahead of them.

  ‘Nice place,’ muttered Mongrel.

  ‘Nice? Nice? You are the fucking master of understatement, Mongrel, you stinking old goat. Did you see Devil’s Ridge down there? Or the Observatory, or the Tower Gap? No, of course you didn’t because your eyes are jaded—you are a fucking city heathen. A pub-whore piss-artist.’

  ‘Ha, I agree, this old soldier prefer kebab house to nasty fresh air of such places. But I concede: this has desolate feeling to it, feeling of freedom which growing in Mongrel’s crusty old soul. I have had enough of city, I spit on city. Durell has cursed my playground with Nex and death. No more one-legged whores for Mongrel!’

  ‘One-legged ... let me guess. It’s a long story, right?’

  ‘Aye, Carter, you catch on quick, lad. Is long, long story. I tell you some time ... before I die.’

  Carter watched the terrain flashing below them, and within minutes Mongrel slammed the Comanche into a vertical landing. Its engines roared as the combat helicopter fell between steep-sloping walls of ice-jewelled stone and touched down, suspension groaning, cooling engines clicking. Carter jumped out as the rotors thumped above him. Cold air slammed his face, snow tried to settle on his eyelashes, and he grinned a wide boyish grin.

  He breathed deep.

  The cold mountain air smel
led good. Like no other air on Earth.

  Gathered on this mountain plateau, in a carved scoop hidden neatly between the rearing savage peaks from which flurries of snow drifted and swirled, there were perhaps twenty aircraft. All piloted by Spiral operatives; all hijacked by the remnants of the DemolSquads,

  Mongrel dropped the HIDSS, scrambled out and stood on the rocky plateau, sniffing, face twisted into a frown. He glanced around at the other choppers and three Manta fighters, and then put his huge shovel hands on his bulging hips.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Carter.

  ‘This place smell funny.’

  ‘It’s called fresh air, Mongrel.’

  ‘Ahh? Ahh! That what it is. I not used to breathing something without the old biological or chemical pollution. Look, there Simmo’s Manta!’ But then the smile dropped from his face. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Shit. It take the Mongrel a long time get used to the Big Man being gone.’ He sighed, eyes distant and nostalgic. ‘You know, he used to have big green Land Rover, huge hulking piece of battered garbage, ergonomic as brick, heavy as tank, blowing and honking its stinking burnt-fish-oil fumes all over damned airfield like worst of torque-raped engines. We used to call it his Land Reaper—witty play on Grim Reaper.’

  ‘Yeah, Mongrel, I get it.’

  ‘Well, Simmo fucking obsessed with his big green anvil on wheels. We used to mock him without stop, used to say his Lanny was like sitting in your armchair and driving your house! Oh! how we roared with laughter, mocking his 4x4 caravan, but the old Sarge, no, he not think this one bit funny. Oh no, lost his sense of humour over the lads’ quips about his battered fish-stinking Lanny. Used to get old beardy scowl on his jowls and wander off to the NAAFI muttering about SU carburettors and rotational pistons and the ease of draining gearbox oil. He a proper Lanny freak. But I ... I—’ He beamed proudly. ‘I was privileged to share cups of Horlicks with Sarge. We swap old war stories, tales of adventure, told around roaring log fires with our B&S spoons raised in salute ... as the squaddies let down the tyres on his cheese-stinking machine. Ahhhh! Those was the days. Happy, happy days.’