by Al Ewing
The sound of metal scraping against metal cut him short. On the other side of the buckled chimney, a hatchway swung open, emitting a belching cloud of black smoke. Turning away from the priest, El Sombra took a few paces towards it, then crouched down.
In the steering compartment, Ewald couldn't take any more. They were well away from the canyons now - he could stepping away from the controls for one minute to close the damned door and shut out the smoke. He was coughing his guts out and the pain in his chest was getting worse. He looked through the door, eyes slitted against the smoke, watching the men at the firebox, their bodies shuddering with hacking coughs as they loaded coal. Where was Bruckner, anyway?
There he was. Halfway up the ladder, his head poking through the hatch. Shouting something. Typical Bruckner. He wanted command of this whole...
Bruckner's shoulders twisted. One leg began to jerk, shaking and shuddering, slipping off the rung. His hands flopped, arms hanging limp at his sides. One of the men at the firebox turned as though he'd heard a sound, a snapping sound...
Bruckner tumbled off the ladder and crashed to the floor.
His head had been turned backwards on his shoulders.
Ewald slammed the door and drove the bolts home. He stood, blinking for a moment, trying to convince himself his eyes had played tricks. The tightness in his chest was unbearable.
El Sombra watched the body hit the floor, then jumped into the hole, his feet finding a soft landing on the dead man's back. The room was a mass of smoke, the noise unbearable - but he could make out three burly men armed with shovels. They were stripped to the waist, tattoos of naked women covering backs and arms, earrings glinting, teeth missing, noses broken and chins unshaven - tough guys. El Sombra grinned. It had all been too easy anyway.
"Call those tattoos? They make you look like Dusseldorf rent boys!" he barked in German, and laughed, the laugh turning into a hard cough in the smoky air. One of the men dropped his shovel in shock. Their eyes widened. "Oh yes, I speak your hideous language."
The first to react was the bullet-head with the swastika over his right nipple. Snarling something in rural Bavarian, he swung his shovel for El Sombra's head. The masked man dodged beyond the range of the blow, his back bumping against the wall of the chamber. He wouldn't have been able to retreat any further, but then he didn't have to. As the momentum of Bullet Head's swing took him off balance, El Sombra gripped a rung of the ladder and swung his feet around, slamming both heels into the larger man's nose, breaking it for what was surely the fifth or sixth time. Bullet Head didn't fall. All he did was bellow, like some enraged animal. El Sombra jumped away, into the smoke, finding himself backing up against a bearded behemoth with a bandana wrapped around his head and a hoop dangling from his ear. The behemoth lunged, meaty arms wrapping around empty air as the masked man ducked, then rolled to avoid the sharp edge of a shovel being brought down with enough force to dent the metal flooring beneath. And things used to be so easy.
In the cargo bay, Stammler and Altmann listened. Stammler and Altmann had served in the cargo bay, day in, day out, for more than seven years. There was something of the hawk about these two men. For them, their duty was almost a pleasure - in their off hours they spent their time in almost total silence, sipping brandies in the officers' mess, looking out of the window. Waiting. Occasionally, one of the citizens of the town would hurry by on their way home, and then they would stand without making a sound, leave the mess and follow. Mostly, those citizens were never found. When they were - well, they had broken the curfew, most likely. And where would they find two men for the cargo bay on the level of Stammler and Altmann? It was best in the end to let such matters pass.
Stammler looked out of the corner of one eye at Altmann, who stared straight ahead. Scuffles up top. Three gunshots. Now some sort of fight was breaking out by the firebox. There had been episodes of roughhousing before, yes, and the roof guards had taken pot-shots at birds of prey in the past, then whined like children when the inevitable court-martial came. But this was a different matter.
Protocol stated that Stammler and Altmann were never to leave the cargo bay, from when the Engine started off from the supply depot, to when it pulled in at the base in the town. Even opening the door would lead to demotion and punishment - probably the firebox. Stammler looked at the door and listened. Then he nodded, very slightly.
Altmann unsheathed his knife.
Bullet Head struck lucky, catching El Sombra with a heavy kick at the end of his roll. The smoke was clearing through the hatch, and the masked man was easier to see now. The steel-capped boot slammed into his ribs with a noise like a side of meat being chopped by a butcher. El Sombra gritted his teeth, then let out a gasp as the wind was knocked out of him by the flat of one of the shovels, this one wielded by a huge Aryan thug with a facial scar that formed his lips into a constant sneer. "Hold him, Franz," murmured the scarred man to Bullet Head, as he twisted the shovel in a slippery grip, "I want to see the swine's face when I twist this inside his guts."
Ewald Schenker was shaking. His hand was slippery as it grasped the lever for the right-hand tread. His knuckles were white. He felt almost as though if he let go of the lever, he would fall. Would he ever stop falling if that happened? What was happening back there? What in God's name had those madmen done? The face of Heinrich Bruckner rose in his mind. The expression on the twisted corpse had been one of disbelief and outrage, as though Herr Bruckner was appalled that this should happen to him, of all people.c
It's my fault... I wished him dead.
Ewald swallowed, his eyes staring blankly through the slit at the front of the engine. He could not think like that. The barbarians were outside the door. They were killing each other. Bruckner was dead and he would be next. They would come through the door, and one would take Ewald's head in his hands, and slowly he would twist...
The pain built in his chest again. Ewald willed it away, but it would not stop. He could not breathe. Suddenly, the strength left his legs and he toppled, dragging the lever forward with his fall. The right-hand tread went into high gear with a terrible grinding noise, and with a hideous juddering motion the engine began to swing hard to the left.
In his mind, Ewald was still falling. He was falling and he could not breathe.
The sudden jerk threw Scarface off balance. "Was ist..."
El Sombra twisted off the ground, planting his hands into the metal of the floor. Kicking out to the sides, he planted his right foot into Bullet Head's belly while the ball of his left foot slammed into Scarface's crotch. As the two men curled up, the Behemoth launched himself off the wall with a cry of rage. El Sombra brought his legs together to meet the charge, bunched them in - then kicked out, using the momentum of the Behemoth's charge, sending the attacker flying straight over him.
The aim was perfect. The Behemoth's head and shoulders jammed in to the open mouth of the firebox, his face against the blazing coal. His name was Gustav Dietz, and when he was seven his baby sister had giggled and called him 'funny face'. Funny face, funny face, look at the funny face. They called it a tragic accident when she fell into the river. At the funeral, he had barely masked his sense of victory, the flush of pride that he had stopped her teasing. Where was the funny face now?
His screams echoed around the engine.
Soon the funny face was gone.
Ewald's hand, shiny with sweat, slipped from the lever. As the lever snapped back to its normal position, the right-hand tread slowed. The engine came out of the turn and began to move straight ahead, towards the south.
The hand slapped against the chest and Ewald's corpse lay still.
Altmann turned to Stammler, who nodded again. The two of them moved to the door and took up positions either side. Their knives gleamed in the light from the window-slits.
Bullet Head recovered first, swinging his fists as El Sombra flipped onto his feet. The second punch connected - a blow to the side of the head that sent El Sombra stumbling back into the ladder
, tripping as his feet tried to negotiate Bruckner's prone body. He fell sideways, clutching at the wall for support, seeing stars as Bullet Head moved in for the kill, reaching with hands like slabs for the masked man's face. "Eye for an eye, swine," he growled in his thick accent.
The sword came down hard through the hatch, the point raking down to tear open the flesh, carving a vicious trench through Bullet Head's skull, tearing off most of his nose and upper lip. As Bullet Head opened his mouth to scream, the tip of the blade tore his gum, scraped over the front teeth and drove into his tongue, then down through the bottom of his jaw into the hollow of his throat, to lodge in his chest. For a long moment, Jesus stared, pale and sick with horror, as he felt the sword vibrating in his grip with the heartbeat of the other man. Then Bullet Head jerked away, howling and choking on his own blood, the sword slipping from Jesus' slick palm and going with him.
El Sombra's vision began to clear. He took in the situation. Bullet Head was gurgling, choking on his own blood as he pleaded with Scarface. Was he pleading for help? For medical attention? To be put of his misery? It was impossible to tell. Scarface was bone white, frozen in place. El Sombra smiled.
Taking measured steps, he walked towards Bullet Head and spun him around, smiling as he looked into the wide, uncomprehending eyes.
"Amigo... that's my sword."
He took hold of the handle of the sword and twisted, driving down, bursting Bullet Head's heart, and then tugged upwards as though drawing the blade from a tight scabbard. Bullet Head tumbled to the floor, his blood dripping from El Sombra's chest, covering him in spatters down to his bare feet. The masked man grinned, like a cat with a bird. Scarface had shrunk back against the wall of the craft - now he swallowed, hard, as the point of the sword came to rest against his belly.
Jesus began to climb down the ladder. "Christ, it's a charnel house. I can't believe I did that."
"If you hadn't, it would have been my body at your feet." El Sombra smiled again, keeping his eyes locked on his enemy. The head of the shovel in Scarface's hand raised a fraction of an inch. El Sombra's smile widened and the sword shifted, digging into Scarface's flesh a quarter of an inch, making the larger man grunt in pain as a thin rivulet of blood crept down towards his belt. The shovel clattered against the metal flooring.
The priest spoke up again. "We should think about leaving, my friend. This thing's started heading south - and I think you said the only thing that way is a cliff? This beast doesn't seem to be slowing down much. We should grab what we can and bail."
El Sombra sighed. "That's a real shame. I was looking forward to taking this toy for a little ride. Can you imagine what this thing would do to a man if it rolled over him, amigo?"
"I don't have to."
"Oh, that guy. Well, perhaps he had an incurable disease. I bet we did him a favour. Hey, blondie!" He jabbed the sword again, another quarter inch. Scarface breathed in sharply, air laced with the stench of blood and the sickly-sweet smell of roasting human meat. "Which way to the cargo?"
Altmann and Stammler were listening through the metal door. They stood, muscles tensed, their combat knives ready, waiting for the next person to walk through.
The corners of Stammler's mouth twitched slightly before his expression resumed its natural state of blankness. It was as close as he ever came to smiling.
Scarface raised a finger and pointed. The finger shook.
Jesus took a step forward. "Okay, I'll go in there and get what I can..." El Sombra's free hand settled on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.
He shook his head. "You do that, amigo. I'll wait right here." He said, loudly.
El Sombra moved his eyes back to the scar-faced man. His finger raised to his lips. Then he gestured with the same hand in the direction of the door to the cargo bay: after you.
Scarface stood, and blinked. El Sombra twisted the sword, very slightly. Scarface begin to nod quickly.
When El Sombra tugged the point of the sword free of his body, he turned, casting a desperate glance behind him, and stepped towards the door, walking like a man condemned to the gallows. He raised his hand to knock, but the point of the sword jabbed into the small of his back. The hand moved to the handle, twisted, and pushed.
The door swung open, and almost immediately the blade of a knife seemed to grow through the back of Scarface's head. There was a sound like a heavy curtain tearing, his body jerked, and offal fell to the floor in a wet heap. The blade at the back of the man's head vanished, and Scarface toppled backwards. The scarred face was split open, the torso ripped from chest to belly, and something that looked like wet red rope was trailing from the corpse to the offal on the floor. The offal that was preventing the door from swinging shut again.
In the doorway were two men with the eyes of hawks watching mice. Each held a dripping knife. "Unfortunate. The element of surprise is lost," said one, in a voice as soft and steady as a ticking clock.
"We can kill them both, no trouble." Murmured the other.
El Sombra smiled and replied in German. "Excuse me? I can understand you."
Jesus looked from one to the other. "What are you speaking? How do you know German?"
El Sombra shrugged. "I picked it up somewhere."
Jesus shook his head. "My Latin is a little rusty, you know? Maybe I should have a psychotic episode and wander the desert for nine years. What are they saying?"
"Nothing important. They're about to try and kill us both. Take a step back, amigo, I need room to work."
Jesus looked at the masked man for a second, and in that second Stammler moved. His arm became a blur of motion and in the next moment the knife was jutting from he priest's shoulder. It happened so fast that Jesus felt nothing. He looked at the knife as though it was something from a dream.
Stammler clicked his tongue.
The pain hit. Jesus cried out and stumbled back, landing with a thud on the metal floor. Gritting his teeth, he reached for the handle of the knife.
El Sombra spoke without taking his eyes off the two men. "Don't take that knife out, amigo. That's what's keeping your blood in your body. Just stay down and leave this to me."
Altmann slowly raised his knife, taking the blade between finger and thumb.
El Sombra kept perfectly still.
Stammler's mouth twitched.
El Sombra tried to ignore his friend groaning in pain behind him. He tried to shut out the rumble of the engine. How long did he have before they went over the cliff? He breathed in. There was no sense thinking about that now. The important thing was to still the mind. Remember the desert. Remember the silence and solitude. Remember what was learned there.
Still the mind.
Altmann's hand moved. El Sombra's moved at the same instant.
The knife flew through the air, aimed directly at the masked man's heart -
- and ricocheted off the blade of El Sombra's sword.
Altmann blinked. "Unmöglich..."
El Sombra flashed a tight smile.
"Nothing is impossible."
He lunged forward, thrusting the blade into Altmann's heart. Altmann's jaw dropped and he took a faltering step backward. By that time, Stammler was already moving. He and Altmann had done everything together for seven years, and his death had meant less to Stammler than a drop of rain splashing against the back of his hand. For Stammler, the most important thing about Altmann's death was that it left El Sombra without his sword for a split second.
Stammler extended the knuckle of his middle finger and aimed for the masked man's throat with the speed of a striking cobra. First the trachea would be crushed. Then it would be a simple matter to remove the eyes. He would leave the optic nerves connected, so that pictures of what he did would continue to be sent to the brain. After that, he could retrieve his knife and begin work in earnest, as his foe writhed on the floor, gasping for a breath he would never take.
Stammler knew exactly how long a strong man took to suffocate. He knew what could be done in that time
.
But El Sombra was still inside that silent place in his mind. He let go of his sword and shifted back so that Stammler's strike moved past into empty air, smashing against the metal of the open door. As Stammler's hand fractured with the force of the blow, El Sombra reached to grip it, closing his other hand around the forearm.
Less than a second had passed. Altmann was still on his feet, his reflexes keeping him standing. There was a foot of blade jutting from his chest. El Sombra brought Stammler's arm down onto it with all his strength.
El Sombra kept the killing edge of his brother's sword sharper than a razor. It was more than sharp enough to slice through the bone.
Altmann finally crumpled to the floor as Stammler looked down at the stump of his wrist. He held his other hand over the stump, but the blood continued to leak between the fingers, seeping out onto the floor. He let go and the blood came in quick pulses. As he stared at the mess that had once been his good right hand, Stammler was overcome with a feeling that some fundamental part of the world had gone terribly wrong. Some section of the world's great machinery had come loose. It was for him to take the hands and tongues and eyes of others. Not this. Not this at all.
El Sombra gripped his sword and pulled it free of Altmann's corpse, taking a quick look around the cargo bay. Then he stepped back into the main section of the Engine, leaving Stammler to it, and moved quickly towards Jesus. "Are you okay, amigo?"
"I've had some better days... Christ, this hurts!" the priest snarled through gritted teeth.
"There's a medical kit in there we can use, but mostly it's all guns, bombs, bullets... there are a couple of cases of beer. A reward for the troops, I think."
Jesus got slowly to his feet. "It sounds like the best... oww... the best place for all that is at the bottom of a cliff... speaking of which, we should move. Grab a case of the beer and the medical kit, I'll... I'll see if I can get up this ladder with one hand."