‘Did I wish you to shoot three men?’
Bell protested. ‘I shot them to save you.’
‘But did I tell you to kill them?’
‘No. But you . . .’
‘And have I told you to torture and kill Karen?’
‘N-not directly.’
‘So everything’s your interpretation. Now what if I blame this whole demeaning excursion on you?’
‘Then I’m ready to take the blame.’
‘Excellent.’ Raul nodded at him. ‘You’ve killed three men. There are two EXIT agents here that could kill you. All of us are damaged — are going to lose fingers, toes, feet. Are we ready for life with a tin nose, mechanical foot, one hand? How do we live in the face of that? Are we prepared to take what comes?’
‘Fuck no. Hell.’ Mullins poured himself another slug. ‘I want compensation.’
‘So what do I do?’ Bell pleaded. ‘You know what’s best.’
‘You’re a typical follower, Peter — always want to be told what to do. There’s great security in that. And stupidity.’ Raul smiled at him, aware Bell longed to bask in his approval. ‘I thought I’d just suggested that you do what you think. That way, you create your life as you decide.’
‘Touch Hunt,’ Cain said, ‘and you’ll create your death.’
Mullins half-lifted his M–4, glanced at Raul. ‘Junk him?’
Eve yelled, ‘No!’
‘You’re a dangerous EXIT person, Cain,’ Raul said, ‘whom we can kill in self-protection.’
‘Hardly logical when I’m trussed like a chook.’
‘I agree there’s an element of control without any notion of trust or consent. Just consider it as conflict resolution.’ He chuckled. ‘You’ve gone soft, my friend.’
‘In the head,’ Mullins jeered.
‘You’re a burnt-out case.’ Raul was enjoying this. ‘A worn-out warhorse ready to be butchered.’
‘Exactly, exactly.’ Bell gazed adoringly at Raul, eager for attention. ‘And what animal am I?’
‘A dog. Stupidly faithful.’
Bell swallowed his discomfort.
Mullins stared from one to the other, not sure what was going on or how to join in the conversation. ‘So what’s my animal then?’
Raul laughed. ‘A bull. You want fighting. Food. Sex.’
‘I wanna stuffa chicken.’ He put a cumbersome arm around Nina.
Nina jerked back, punched him. ‘Fuck off, mullet.’
He guffawed.
‘And that would be — compensation?’ Raul asked Mullins.
‘You mean the chick? What you getting at?’
‘Are you bull enough to . . .’
‘. . . snatch some snatch? That what you’re saying? What if . . .’
‘. . . strange things start happening? Just drug her. Or knock her out. And they’ll stop.’
‘You’re telling me to . . .’
Raul’s insinuating smile. ‘This hellish place has damaged our bodies — could kill us. Aren’t we entitled to some raw enjoyment? I suggest you drink up, relax, then . . .’
Mullins half-grinned, drained his glass and wiped his mouth.
Raul stood, beamed at them all. ‘Well, that was better than kero fumes and pemmican. Now I’m going to see the pope.’ He reached for his boots, got his outside clothes from the rack. ‘I might even discuss with him whether existence is an illusion. And I’ll take him some food.’
Eve got up and went to the alcove. ‘I’ve got something to put it in.’
‘I’m sure you have, dear.’ Raul appraised her rear. ‘Now I see why gentlemen rise when a woman gets up from the table.’
The sloshed Mullins guffawed but Bell refused to interpret it as lewd.
Raul spread his arms. ‘People are afraid to have fun. To live. They dream about it — never do it.’ He kitted up, turned back to his troops. ‘You have life’s playground equipment on this very train.’ His eyes rested on Eve, then Nina. Then he turned to Bell. ‘And you have a certain female person who needs severe and protracted discipline.’ He picked up his gun. ‘So while I’m away — consider what I’ve said to you.’
‘So I can rub Cain?’ Mullins asked through a mouthful.
‘Did I tell you to kill him? Or did I just point out what life owes him?’
The oaf’s heavy frown showed he wasn’t sure what he’d heard.
The now terrified Eve came back with plastic containers, forks and napkins in a bag. Raul looped the handles over the thumb of his overmitt and smiled. ‘Pancakes and honey for afternoon tea?’
Bell got up to open the inner door for him.
‘I just step off and on again?’
‘Yes. There are steps on the ends of both sleds and it’s only walking pace. When you want to come back, just jog until you catch up to us. You only have to go the length of the linkage.’
‘Right. Have fun.’
Cain, immobilised, was starting to freeze. And as Bell let Raul out, the cold air from the small porch chilled him more. But not as much as the situation. Raul, just using words, had set a time bomb.
Bell slid the inner door closed again, swayed unsteadily, then retrieved his dropped windproofs.
‘Going out?’ Mullins slurred.
‘Got something to take care of in the workshop.’
An unpleasant grin from Mullins. ‘Need help?’
‘No. You’ve got to stay here — keep an eye on things and the compass. Or these two’ll untie him.’ He collected his M–4 and left.
Cain thought, just one man and one gun.
But how to get free?
Nina helped her shaking mother clear the table, hoping to get away from Mullins who sat finishing another glass. Eve glanced apprehensively at Cain, then the pair of them retreated behind the alcove to clear up.
Mullins drunkenly grinned at Cain, hand on his weapon. ‘Fun time.’ He grabbed the M–4, removed the four-column magazine and ejected the chambered round. He stuffed the round back in the mag, folded the gun-butt, then lurched up, almost knocking over the bench. He limped to the storage racks, stood on the bottom shelf and put the weapon and mag near the back of the top rack. He returned to the table, picked up his commando knife — a long double-edged blade — and limped into the alcove.
A scream from Nina. He emerged dragging her by the arm.
Eve followed him, shrieking, but he menaced her with the knife. ‘Stay behind there. If I see you, I’ll stick you.’
She looked at Cain, terrified.
He said, ‘Do what he says.’
‘He’s going to rape her.’
‘Do what he says or he’ll kill you both.’
Beside the huge form of the emotional illiterate, the girl’s compact body seemed a child’s. Mullins hurled her to the floor, hauled her along the rough matting by one arm, dropped beside her and licked his raw lips. Half smiling, he ran the knife along her cheek. ‘Payback.’
The girl now lay on her back, eyes bulging. ‘Oh Jesus. Mum? Oh Jesus.’
‘Do what he says, baby.’ Eve’s terrified voice. ‘Just . . . do what he says.’
Mullins said, ‘All right!’
He forgot his damaged hand and foot, vanished into his task, dragging the pile suit off the girl starting on the inner layers, eager to see her naked, his pants bulging. Cain tugged at his bonds, could do nothing. But if the girl could summon her gremlins . . .
When Mullins had her stripped he stared at her, stunned. She was more perfect than a retouched centrefold. Small uptilted breasts, a gymnast’s long slim thighs, the miracle of a developing girl combined with the freshness of a child. He murmured, ‘What a honey. You want fingers? Then don’t you fucking move.’
He worked himself free of the thermal underwear until it was around his ankles, exposing big fair-haired legs. He searched around for lubrication, saw nothing, spat on himself, kicked her legs wide.
Cain’s view of it was a wriggling hairy arse and the purple face of Nina — holding her breath.
It
didn’t take long.
The racks began to shake. Behind him, a logbook flew off the console. Then Eve screamed as pots and plates shot out of the alcove to smash against the side of the van. The end of one of the benches tilted into the air, then the entire thing rose slowly toward the roof.
Mullins looked up, dumbfounded, as the metal bench fell on his arm. Nina, shrieking, hauled herself up, clawed at his face. One of her fingers must have caught his eye.
He bellowed in pain and backed off.
Then Eve was around the partition with a skillet clasped in both hands, ready to smash in the man’s head. He shoved her off, rose on one knee and thrust the knife up deep into her chest. She belched, staggered, and the iron pan fell from her hands only to float across the room. It smashed into the transceiver, wrecking the DC voltmeter, then sailed back and — in mid flight — disappeared.
In the bedlam, Mullins’s yell of fear and rage. He twisted, half-blinded, looking for the girl.
Eve staggered two steps toward Cain, as if she felt he could still help her, glazed eyes staring at him with the astonishment he’d seen on so many dying faces, the sudden amazement at coming to the end.
Then she collapsed half on top of him.
That was his chance.
He backed against her until his bound hands met the edge of the knife. It was jammed solidly between her ribs, a section of the keen edge still protruding. He cursed the size of her breasts which made it harder to get the rope against the blade, thrust at the edge knowing he’d either cut his wrists or the rope.
He felt a cord give. Then it was simple.
The racket of screams, roars and phenomena told him Mullins was too occupied to notice.
He rolled, arms free, wrenched the knife from the woman’s chest, turned.
Mullins, one eye bloodshot, was grabbing for the naked girl who had got loose again, was half up, her back to him, clinging to the table. He hauled at her bare legs, jerked her off her feet. She fell, slim bottom, goose bumps, her girl’s form tiny beside his.
As Cain hacked the rope from his ankles a packet of dried onions hovered in front of him, blocking his view.
‘Bitch,’ Mullins roared.
Nina’s scream. The onion bag fell to the floor.
Cain had the knife.
Too late. The girl lay still. Mullins had snapped her neck. With her death, the shaking had stopped and fallen objects had made the van a bombsite.
Cain, body cold-stiff, gasping thin air, dropped a knee onto Mullins’s spine, yanked up his head — pig-slit him with all his force, howled, ‘You scum.’
Mullins gurgled, rolled off the broken body, blood spurting, ruined face agape.
While the man’s heart pumped his life out, Cain confirmed that Eve had gone. Then he climbed on the rack and got the gun, feeling the warmth that had eluded him on the floor. He shoved the magazine back in, pulled and released the cocking handle, depressed the decocking lever so that the hammer could move forward. That done, he placed the gun on the object-strewn table, retrieved his outer clothing from the rack, got his boots back on.
He was appalled to discover he felt disassociated, calm. Because of the extremity of the continent, the fight for breath, warmth, life?
He wiped the knife on the degenerate’s long johns, located the knife sheath on the table attached to a discarded belt, sheathed the knife and slid the sheath onto his own belt.
Panting now with the effort, he retrieved his outer clothing and put it on. His joints ached with every movement. The time on the floor had almost wrecked him.
He found his mukluks, a balaclava. His goggles were gone but he retrieved another pair. He adjusted his mitten harness, snapped the big inner-lined gloves behind his back. He’d need them out of the way to use the gun.
He picked up the weapon like a carpenter selecting a tool. The action would be warmed after its time near the roof of the van. He got the strap over his shoulder. Forgive them for they know not what they do.
Bright sun slanted under the shutter through the high double window, imprinting the opposite wall with glare.
Execution time.
MOP-UP
Cain stepped off the sledge onto finnified snow like loose gravel. Searing cold and blinding light. On the ground, ice crystals shone like gems and diamond dust danced in the air. Above, stratus fanned from the horizon into a canopy of splendour.
The traverse slid ponderously past him like a shunting train, the one spot of colour in an infinity of white. Rusting yellow and red container vans sprouting H-shaped vents and masts, fuel drums, miscellaneous hardware — all perched on massive sledges. The train was elaborate, as the diminutive cold porch proved. Each van door opened onto a small railed landing formed by the flat ends of each sledge. A railed, expanded-metal catwalk extended down one side of the vans, joining the landings and steps at both ends. He let the steps of the next sledge pass him, waiting to check the following van. As it drew level, he swung on board like a pre-war bus conductor and clumped up to the next landing.
The insulated door of the big container creaked. He lunged inside, set to drop and fire.
Empty. An elaborately fitted workshop. There were spare shoes for the Caterpillar tracks with special openings that stopped the snow compacting, spares for the hardware on the sledges, a lathe, drill stand, welding kit, pipe bending machine . . . Then he saw the rope on the floor and masking tape on the bench.
He got out of there and off, waited for the last sledge to reach him, the one that would house the generators, grabbed the rail and swung back on.
He checked inside the van. Primary and secondary generators with ancillary equipment, three dead crewmen and the solidified Zia. He backed out and edged along the catwalk to the porch at the rear of the sledge.
Bell crouched at the back rail levering something with a length of pipe, his M–4 dangling on his belly, his snorkel hood obscuring his side view. From a winch bolted to the platform a length of light steel cable angled out. He was trying to force the cable more to the centre with a pipe he’d jammed against a stanchion of the railing.
Now Cain saw the weight dragging on the end of the cable — Hunt, tied by the wrists and gagged with masking tape. The cable, shackled to her bonds, was slithering her over the snow in a smooth track left by the runners. Bell was trying to move the cable across so that she’d rip apart on the hard uneven snow between the tracks.
She couldn’t have been there long but her outer layers were shredding. She was twisting to protect herself but was too cold, had no strength.
Cain levelled the M–4 at Bell. ‘Your turn.’
As the man swung around in shock, Cain dispensed one burst of three.
The impact slammed Raul’s disciple against the opposite railing before his trigger finger reached the guard. He hung over the top rail, guts jellified, howling.
Cain closed, stripped the magazine from Bell’s M–4. Rule sixteen: never discard ammunition. Then he lifted the dying man’s legs and toppled him off the sledge.
By the time he’d winched Hunt off the snow, Bell was a lifeless yellow mound far behind.
Cain half-climbed over the rail and reached down to grab her legs. She was conscious but not connecting enough to help and it took all his strength to get her onto the platform. Panting in the thin air, he freed the cable, peeling off the tape.
She moaned but couldn’t stand. Her hair, eyebrows, lashes were frost. He dragged off his polar cap and balaclava, got them on her head, pulled up the remains of her ripped hood. He was nearly hallucinating with hypoxia and rapidly losing heat. He replaced his double-lined hood, his starved muscles protesting. The air was so cold he expected to feel a crackle in his lungs.
He got her over his shoulders in a fireman’s lift. It left his hands free for the gun. The weight of her made his legs tremble.
Now he had to run faster than the train!
He stumbled ahead along the length of the sledge to the front steps. There were no rear steps on the caboose. So if he c
ouldn’t trot faster than the dozer he couldn’t get back aboard.
Could he jog on the hard snow, carrying a woman, and not fall?
He stood for almost a minute working up to it, sucked in all the freezing air he dared.
Bell and Mullins had been nothing. This was the test. The test of an ageing man who should have been out to pasture years ago — a shot-up man who couldn’t trust his body to hold out.
He stepped off.
Stumbling, panting, he half-jogged along on the snow. The weight of the woman and two sets of Antarctic clothes made the task immense. He struggled, gasped, thin air freezing his lungs, the effort torture.
His bad leg was holding up but he was gaining too slowly on the sledge. He’d lose against the dozer as he tired. He powered forward desperately, knowing he mustn’t slip. He made it past the steering linkage, drew level with the rear steps of the next sledge, grabbed the rail and hauled himself aboard.
He slumped on the lower steps, heart pounding, desperate for breath, one boot still dragging on hard snow. This was only the workshop van. One to go.
It was minutes before he was strong enough to stand and stagger along the catwalk to the front. There he waited, at the bottom of the steps, mustering his strength. Raul, in the next van, would have heard the bursts. Would he be outside, armed and waiting?
Exhausted, he braced himself, stepped off again, stumbled forward as fast as he could, eyes fixed on the front of the van. No one in sight, thank God.
At the limit of his strength he reached the next set of steps, collapsed onto the sledge, covering the catwalk with his M–4. When he had breath in him again, he left the ragged shape on the walkway. He had to get her inside. But first he had to deal with Raul.
He hauled on the rail, dragged himself upright and limped on rubber legs along the side of the rear living van. He lunged around the edge, barrel first. No one. The thick outer door was still shut. He lifted the big cold-store-type handle, pulled the door. The closet-sized cold porch was clear.
He pulled off his goggles and hood, crouched painfully, weapon at the ready, slid the inner door wide. Bliss. Warm air, defrosting his lungs.
It was the dormitory van — fold-down bunks, toilet, basin, shower. Raul, back to the door, was watching John eat his meal. On his canvas chair-back was screen-printed: BABY, Pole to Pole.
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