El Sombra

by Al Ewing

  Stammler did not move as the masked man walked past him, grabbed two boxes and left. He felt grey, washed out. The pool of blood he was sitting in was getting larger no matter how tightly he gripped his wrist. As the masked man helped the other one up the ladder, Stammler realised that he was going to die. The notion did not trouble him in itself. But the thought that his killer - the masked man - would continue to live, with both his hands... that was an irritation. A splinter stuck in the corner of his mind. He should really do something about that.

  Slowly, he stood.

  El Sombra passed the medical kit and the case of beer up to Jesus through the hatch as the Engine rumbled on. Jesus picked up the beer with his good hand and hurled it over the side to land in a patch of sand. The kit followed. The priest winced, gritting his teeth. "I hope the bottles don't break - oww! Christ, I should have let you do that!"

  El Sombra nodded. "You're lucky you didnt make your wound worse. Do I have time to get another load?"

  The priest shook his head. "No. I can see the cliffs. We should jump now rather than take any risks. You're going to have to help me make the... oh my god -"

  An arm without a hand wound around El Sombra's throat. Blood sprayed in his eyes. He lost his grip as Stammler's weight dragged him off the ladder and back into the Engine, the breath knocked out of him as he slammed into the floor. Blinking away the blood, the first thing he saw was Stammler's fist before it smashed into his jaw, loosening teeth. The stump smacking into the side of his head, sending more blood into his eyes. His sword had fallen within reach, he was sure, but he did not know where. His fingers scrabbled fruitlessly.

  Stammler straddled El Sombra. Keep him off balance, that was the main thing. He aimed a blow at the masked man's forehead, but El Sombra swept an arm across and diverted the blow enough to crash it into the metal next to his head. Stammler ignored the pain. He only needed to hit once, and his own blood was proving a useful weapon. A few more seconds of life, that was all it would take.

  Jesus' voice cut through the rumble of the Engine. "We're getting close to the edge! We need to jump now!"

  It was true. There was perhaps six feet of distance between the front of the treads and the edge of the cliff. More than one hundred feet below, the Engine would make its grave.

  El Sombra blinked blood out of his eyes as he somehow managed to redirect another hammer blow. His attacker's knuckles were smashed, fingers broken, and he had surely lost too much blood to stay alive, and yet here he was, readying another killing strike. El Sombra wondered if this was how he himself appeared to people, even as he saw the only opening he had and took it.

  He reached down to grip Stammler's crotch through the fabric of the uniform, and he squeezed until something burst.

  Stammler flinched.

  It was enough. El Sombra drove the heel of his palm up into Stammler's nose, driving shards of bone deep into the brain, then rolled the convulsing man off him. His sword had been inches from his hand the whole time - how long had it been? Five seconds? Four?

  The floor was beginning to tilt.

  Jesus realised that this was perhaps his last chance to escape. The Engine was slowing even as it reached the edge of the cliff, but it would not be enough. If he was to survive, he had to leap, to hurl himself from the back of the beast before it tipped. The fronts of the treads were already in empty space. Instead, he fell to the roof and thrust his good arm through the hatchway. "Grab my hand! Quickly!"

  El Sombra leapt upwards, feet on the rungs of the ladder, taking hold of the priest's arm as the older man used all the strength left in him to help haul his friend up through the hatchway. The angle of the roof was growing steeper.

  The Engine was going over the edge.

  El Sombra got to his feet, grabbed the old priest by the collar and hauled him up the slope, bare feet pounding the metal. The Engine should have tipped by now - but the cavorite in the frame of the machine was slowing things. Jesus was screaming something about dropping him - something self-sacrificing of that nature - but El Sombra was too busy making his legs move. It was like running up the side of a steel mountain.

  Dragging Jesus with him, the masked man vaulted the rail and leapt, as the back of the machine left the cliff's edge, the mobile coffin starting a lazy descent towards the rocks below, accelerating as the force of gravity overcame the ingrained cavorite. He stretched out his arm -

  And the point of the sword slammed into the sand, a foot from the edge of the cliff. He swung the priest up with his other arm, muscles straining and threatening to tear, and Jesus managed to catch the cliff's edge with his good hand. Slowly they began dragging themselves up onto solid ground.

  "Damn," panted Jesus as he flopped onto his back, his legs dangling off the edge. "My shoulder really hurts. We should... we should go find that medical kit."

  "Yes, we should." El Sombra spat a tooth out onto the desert sand. A molar.

  "We should go find the beer as well."

  "Oh yes, amigo. Most definitely."

  Eisenberg leant back in the leather chair and looked at the ceiling fan as it turned. There was a report on his desk detailing the loss of the Traction Engine, and how supplies would now have to be marched across the desert for the foreseeable future. This would create rationing problems and ammo shortages. Already there was open insubordination caused by the lack of beer in the mess hall.

  Curiously, there were rumours that curfew-breakers had been spotted with bottles of German beer in their hands, toasting to Old Pasito, and the gossip claimed that a man in a bloodstained mask had given them out to any bold enough to drink and toast openly. Eisenberg shut his eyes tightly and massaged his temples, attempting to disperse the oncoming headache.

  The red telephone began to ring.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  How It Had All Started

  The sun rose over the desert, on the man known as El Sombra. He sat cross-legged on a rocky outcrop, examining the small blisters that spotted the soles of his feet. His flesh ached and burns covered his arms and back. He still coughed occasionally, spitting out soot-coloured phlegm from the back of his throat. He was very lucky to be alive.

  He did not feel it.

  Drawing his sword, he examined the blade in the light of the dawn. He could still see the blood staining the metal, coating it in places. Normally he would have cleaned the sword by now - it was sacred to him, and he kept it as immaculate as he could. But this morning was different. He needed to be reminded of what he'd done the previous night, and whose blood was on the blade.

  He needed to punish himself.

  He remembered how it had all started.

  Who was the man known as El Sombra?

  He was a thousand different things in the clockwork-town, because there were a thousand different answers to the question. Since the raid on the Traction Engine the stories had been spreading like plague - even the most diligent worker, whose only thought was of the glory of the Reich, could not help hearing something on the matter. The stories fell on the ears and worked their way into the mind, past the conditioning and the programming and the thousand daily indignities designed to make human beings forget that they were alive. The stories brought back memories of how it was to live without the wingmen and their clattering metal wings, the guards and their guns, the jackboots. How it was to live without an alarm siren that woke you from your bed and forced you to march through blistering heat or freezing cold to do tasks without meaning for people who thought you less than human. For some, that was terrifying.

  "El Sombra is a monster, a lunatic, a psychopath, a murderer, a cannibal. He ought to be hung from a gallows in the great square, in front of the statue! His innards should be defecated in by dogs. Dogs with diseases."

  El Sombra looked up from the book he was reading - a copy of Teresa's Temptation, the latest from Dame Judith Cooper, a sizzling potboiler of sex, money, power, more money and sex set in the legendary fashion 'families' of Milan. He'd liberated it a couple of days before alo
ng with a few thousand rounds of ammunition, and had just reached the part where the beautiful fashionista was in the process of having it all, on top of her desk and in the company of the handsome chief designer who was secretly her brother.

  The book was a hard-won luxury, the first one he'd read in nine long years. It wasn't the best thing to be caught reading by a priest.

  "What did you say?"

  Jesus cleared his throat and began again. "El Sombra is a monster, a lunatic..."

  "I do have feelings, amigo. Is this about eating all your eggs?"

  Jesus leant against the doorway with a grin. "I'm only repeating what I heard today. You have an image problem, my friend. The general populace sees you as supernatural at best, some kind of demon at worst... they actually make these little wooden stick-men to hang on the door to ward against you coming into their homes and eating their children."

  The masked man shrugged, laying the book down open on the floor so as not to lose his place. "Supernatural I can live with, amigo. Besides, what can I do? I can't stop people talking about me."

  "So give them something to talk about. Right now, all they have is that you run around half-naked with a sword in your hand killing people and stealing things and you're completely out of your mind, you know? You think that's going to endear you to anybody?"

  El Sombra sighed, casting a glance down at the book. "So what can I do? Throw a street party? Maybe set up a puppet show for the little orphans?"

  "I hate to deny such eloquent sarcasm, my friend, but you're thinking along the right lines. Remember what you said about getting the people on your side? Guns, medicine, strong drink?"

  "It's harder to get anybody to take the guns than I thought. They're all terrified of getting caught and tortured. Same with the medicine - if I leave it for the people, it just goes back to the bastards. So I stash everything in little caches, places the bastards won't look, only it's no use to anybody there."

  "What about the drink?"

  "You drank it."

  "Ah, yes. Well, I'm in recovery, you know? It's medicinal. Hey, maybe one of the reasons the people won't take any risks for you is because you're not doing anything for them."

  "Guns, amigo! Strong drink!"

  "That's all for you. When you wave a gun in some poor man's face - some guy who's lived only for that damned statue for nine years, who's maybe seen his family taken away to the Palace and coming back without any arms and legs, repeating Arbeit Macht Frei over and over like gramophones - what's he going to think? 'Oh, I will immediately join the violent struggle for revolution and die for this crazy man who doesn't seem to like shirts'? Of course not! He's going to soil himself and run away."

  El Sombra blinked.

  Jesus barrelled on, warming to his theme. "But if you've been doing things for them - not going out on sorties to kill people and steal things, just going out looking for people in trouble and helping them, you know? - then maybe the guy would think 'Yes! Now I'm being handed a gun by my friend who helps people in need! Why of course I'll get myself shot in the face for you, oh mysterious ghost with no shirt!'"

  "I could wear a shirt if it would make you feel happier, amigo..."

  "No, no, you're obviously very proud of your nipples, I wouldn't like to take that away from you. What I'm saying is that you need to bring some hope to these people. Right now, all you are is a story for parents to tell their children to get them to eat their vegetables, you know? Right now people trust the Nazis, because they control everything - they control how people think. The more you do for them, the more they trust you."

  El Sombra looked at him.

  Jesus swallowed. "Or something. It's not an exact science, you know?"

  The masked man stood, stretched, and reached for his sword.

  "So what you're saying is that I should run around all night, not killing any bastards, but checking to see if any old ladies need helping across the street?" He hefted the blade, then slid it through his belt. "Fine." He scowled, the thick moustache bristling as his eyes glared.

  "But I don't promise to like it."

  And he didn't. As he stalked over the low roofs, jumping across the alleys, eyes looking around for something to do, the wasted time hung heavy on him. He was used to striking quickly, with a specific target in mind - such as a raid on one of the supply depots, already badly understocked since the demise of the Traction Engine, or an attack on a small group of guardsmen to put the fear of God into the rest. This 'patrol', as Jesus had called it, was ridiculous. The chances of him coming across anything that he could usefully prevent were thousands to one. The most he could achieve would be to find evidence of some atrocity after it had occurred.

  El Sombra was so fixed on his thoughts that he didn't notice the orange/yellow light flickering over the rooftops from the west. But he heard the screams. Changing course, he headed west, jumping across the rooftops, keeping to the shadows. The smell of the thick, black smoke hit him first, and beneath it another scent. A sickly sweet smell, like roasting pork.

  The schoolhouse was burning.

  The two-storey building had been deserted since the invasion. In the early days it had been used as a centre for administration by the Reich, but after the construction of the Red Dome, the schoolhouse had been abandoned. It was still occasionally useful, but for the most part it had been empty for eight years or more. There was no need for learning in Aldea. Every lesson of importance was taught as the children picked up their heavy stones for the first time, under the cracking whips of the overseers, struggling and hefting the rocks towards the great half-built statue.

  The first lesson in Aldea was: You do not matter. The second was: You will obey. Anything else was superfluous.

  El Sombra reached the conflagration, looking at it from the edge of a rooftop. It was like something out of Hell. The wooden schoolhouse was the wick of some terrible candle, burning and flickering, and around it was a circle of soldiers, armed with long metal batons, with their backs facing the blaze. As the masked man watched, one of the townspeople rushed forward with a tin bucket filled with water, screaming something he couldn't quite catch. The reaction was merciless. Two soldiers stepped forward and swung their sticks at the same instant, the riveted metal ends cracking hard into the man's ribcage. The sickening crack of snapping bone echoed through the night air as the bucket fell, the water spilling into the dirt.

  The masked man was already swinging off the roof. But the sound he heard as he fell to the ground added speed to his movement - and stoked a fire in his heart that matched the inferno in front of him.

  It was the scream of a child burning to death.

  He hit the ground like thunder and judgement.

  Roland Koch was a slightly tubby man of around forty years of age. Born in Bremen, he had never set foot outside that city until he'd boarded the zeppelin to Mexico and his post in Aldea. He was not one for zoos, and so had never come within fifty feet of a maddened tiger. But if he had, then the snarl of animal fury that met his ears - at the same time that a lashing foot kicked him ten feet backwards into the heart of the blaze - might have sounded familiar.

  Still, it's probable that even then he would be too concerned with his own burning flesh to make the connection.

  El Sombra was a whirlwind, a dervish, a demon of movement and motion and violence. His elbow cracked hard against the forehead of a new recruit and the young man crumpled dead to the earth. He spun without pausing and the heel of his foot slammed into the soft trachea of an eighteen-year-old who had joined the squadron the previous week and had, it was agreed by all, a glittering future in front of him. That glittering future was now two and a half minutes long and did not involve breathing. And now the sword - that terrible blood-tempered sword - slashed from the masked daredevil's belt with a terrible sound of razors and hate, plunging into the neck of a father of two who wrote letters to his family in Bonn every two days, leaving it a flapping, gushing ruin. A boy and a girl would not have their letter that weekend - i
nstead there would be a cold telegram from the Führer expressing regret, and their dreams forever after would be haunted by the clang of steel and the crash of thunder.

  Perhaps their names should be recorded for posterity, these doomed soldiers who only followed orders - but it is more fitting to leave them as ciphers. They were wheat in the thresher, sheep fed to the slaughterhouse. The sword flashed in the light of the flames, glinting red with the fire and the blood as it carved and chopped though the men as though they were kindling. He was a blur of speed - leaping over the swinging metal truncheons, spinning into kicks that cracked jaws and broke noses, a flurry of punches slamming into soft bellies. One by one, the soldiers fell back, unconscious or dead, bodies around the bonfire.

  It was a massacre.

  Climaco Aguilar lay on the ground, clutching his shattered rib, the empty bucket at his side, and he remembered how this had all started. For years, the old schoolhouse had lain empty and desolate and the children had gone without books, without learning, growing up as automatons for the glory of the Reich.

  Children of seven and eight, who should have been laughing and bubbling with joy and life, were walking in step, marching, their faces blank and empty, their eyes glazed and dead. The townsfolk had survived only through capitulation - those who resisted, in word or deed, were killed. But the sight of their own children reduced to shells, stumbling on little legs as they hauled stone blocks to the statue, passing out at the end of each day through sheer exhaustion while their skin turned sallow and grey, was enough to bring back those forgotten thoughts of rebellion.