by Darren Shan
As we drain the final bottle of the night, I bid Cafran and Ama farewell. Ama rises to see me out, but I tell her not to. Win or lose, she might never again sit with the man who was once her father. These minutes are precious and shouldn’t be wasted on a bum like me. “See you later,” I mutter, and she echoes the adieu, slipping me a pointed look to confirm our arrangement while Cafran smiles and sips his wine.
On the street I stand by my bike, savoring the night, putting off the time when I have to shed the disguise and become Paucar Wami again. People rarely realize how well off they are. A fine meal, a good bottle of wine, charming company… who needs anything more? I’d happily trade the Snakes—hell, the whole city—for Cafran Reed’s restaurant and peace of mind.
Monday. Day of decisions. Day of destiny.
Sard and his dozen arrive precisely at midday. I greet them as their Sapa Inca in a tiny office—they only just squeeze in—and treat them to an abbreviated version of my plan. They’re confused and uneasy, but I impress on them the importance of their mission, how our future depends on it.
“It’s time to choose. Either you serve your people or you serve the villacs. You can’t have it both ways. I know they recruited and trained you, but they did so in order to use you. If you trust me, I’ll try to grant you the power you seek, as well as the freedom to enjoy it.”
Eventually I talk them around. The priests did too good a job of building me up. The Snakes think I’m infallible. They pledged their hearts and souls to Paucar Wami. They’ll do as I command, paradoxical as it seems to them.
I dismiss the Snakes with orders to carry on as usual if the day doesn’t go as planned, then return to my post at the burned-out police station where various Cobras await my instructions. It’s difficult to act as if this is a day like any other, but I focus on their reports and send them about their duties, marshaling them as they expect, taking a few minutes to “commend” the Snakes who carried out the attacks on the rest of the city.
It’s minutes shy of 16:00 when I learn of Ford Tasso’s decision. I’m in the van when a Snake on the border of our territory makes the call. “We’re under attack!” he shouts, the sound of heavy gunfire muffling his words. “It’s the Troops, repeat, the Troops! The bastards are invading!”
All eyes snap to me. I keep my face impassive, masking my emotions.
“Sapa Inca?” a Snake asks. “Should I tell the others in that area to move against the enemy?”
“No,” I sigh. “Sound a retreat. Tell them to back off slowly, to make the Troops fight for every block, but not to make a stand. And they’re to advise civilians to seek shelter. I don’t want innocents getting caught in the cross fire.”
The Snake nods obediently and sets about alerting the Cobras. I spend the time it takes to spread the word in silent contemplation, considering the attack, what it means, where it might lead.
As the afternoon progresses, it becomes evident that the Troops have divided into four platoons and are marching on us from the west and south. They haven’t been sighted in the north and east. My Cobras think they’re lying in wait there, in case we make a break for freedom.
As the four platoons of Troops advance on Cockerel Square—their target was apparent early on, but I haven’t withdrawn the Snakes who are there—word breaks that Eugene Davern’s Kluxers have smashed through in the north.
“Are you certain?” I bark at the scout who reports over the crackle of a cheap cell phone.
“Fuck yes!” he yells. “There’s maybe a hundred of the fuckers, shooting everything in their path, leaving a trail of burning buildings and cars behind them.”
“Get out,” I snap. “Head for Cockerel Square.”
“Don’t you want us to fight them?”
“Negative. Rendezvous with the others in the Square and await further orders.”
I meet the worried gazes of those in the van and muster a smile. “Heads up. We aren’t beaten yet. Bring me every Cobra that you can. And send a couple of runners to the villacs—I’d love to hear what they have to say about this.”
As I wait for the Cobras and priests, another band of Kluxers is reported, moving parallel to the first. They’re leaving a trail of fiery devastation, and right about now I’d imagine most people are more concerned about Davern’s forces than Tasso’s. But the Troops will be at Cockerel Square first. They can dig in and set themselves up as the leading force in the east. I assign two phalanxes the task of slowing the Troops, then break to meet with the first of the arriving Cobras.
It’s almost 20:00 before all the Cobras and three representatives of the villacs are sitting or standing in the room where Hyde Wornton and Frank Weld met their end. I cast a quick glance around as I enter. The seven Cobras are anxious, but regard me trustingly, banking on me to figure a way out of this mess.
“Seems to me we have three options,” I begin bluntly. “We focus on either the Troops or the Kluxers and throw everything we have against one of them, then worry about the other lot later. We divide our forces and fight a war on two fronts. Or we stick our heads down and get the fuck out of here.”
The Cobras chuckle—they think I’m joking—but the laughter dies when a priest who speaks English nods and says, “We would advise a retreat, Sapa Inca.”
“Are you crazy?” a Cobra called Peddar roars. “Give ground to those bastards? I’d rather kill myself!”
The others nod and agree, except Sard, who gazes darkly at me but holds his tongue. I let them express their feelings, then clear my throat for silence. “Let us hear him out. I want to know why he is so eager to fold.”
“A withdrawal is not surrender,” the villac says, smiling blindly. “The invaders come to fight. They won’t leave until they shed blood. If we are not here, they will clash with each other. We wait until that battle is over, then strike at the weary survivors.”
“And if they don’t pause?” I ask. “If they track us down the tunnels?”
“They will not find us,” the priest says confidently. “The tunnels are ours. We will repel them.”
“This is bullshit,” Peddar shouts, looking pleadingly to his fellow Cobras. “If we pull back now, they’ll massacre our people. I didn’t get into this to make promises to my friends and family, then leave them in the shit when—”
“Soldier,” I interrupt quietly, “you are relieved of command. Find your second, tell him he has been promoted, and ask him to join us. You will return to your phalanx and await further orders.”
Peddar stares at me hatefully, his whole body trembling. Then he remembers who I am and the pledge he made to obey me. He turns to leave, angry tears in his eyes. “Peddar,” I stop him. “We do this for the community. We all got into this because we cared. We won’t leave them high and dry. You have my word.”
He smiles weakly. “Thank you, Sapa Inca.”
When he’s gone, I face the villac. “They expect resistance in Cockerel Square. We should leave a couple of phalanxes to put up a fight. They need not battle to the death, just hold the Troops for half an hour, then ‘quit’ when the pressure gets too much. The Troops will hopefully stop to draw breath and secure the Square. Next thing they know, the Kluxers will be upon them. The two of them can fight all they want after that.”
“Agreed,” the villac says. “In the meantime you can lead the retreat.”
“Not me. I’ll be in Cockerel Square with my men.”
“Is that wise?” he frowns.
“The Troops will expect me. The leader of the Snakes wouldn’t desert his men at a time like this. I’ll put in an appearance, make it look genuine. Don’t worry, I have no intention of letting the Troops take me. I plan to be around when we move back in to pick up the pieces. I’ve a score or two to settle with Ford Tasso.”
“Very well,” the priest says. “We will arrange the retreat.”
“Sard,” I bark, heading for the door, “choose two of your phalanxes and join me. Make sure your soldiers are prepared for death. We want to make this look as
real as possible. Some of us will have to die.”
“We’ll do what is required, Sapa Inca,” he vows, and follows me out into the night, leaving the other agitated Cobras to break the news to their Snakes.
It’s after midnight when the Troops hit Cockerel Square. Apart from myself, Sard and his phalanxes, approximately sixty gang members are here to greet them. I tried to deter the others—told them this was a smoke screen, that we would retreat, that they should disband—but although most heeded my warnings, these sixty-odd refused to give ground. They’re determined to hold off the Troops for as long as possible and inflict as much damage as they can. Cockerel Square is theirs and they’d rather die than concede it. I tell them they will die, that we’ll quit before the Troops take us, but their hearts are set on a glorious confrontation with a vastly superior foe. You can’t save those who don’t want saving.
Watching the Troops maneuver into position is a sobering sight. Three of the four platoons converge on the Square—they must be holding the fourth in reserve—blocking it off on all sides, throwing up a net of death from which there can be no escape. Their commanders deploy them expertly, covering every exit.
“We were crazy to think we could take these fuckers,” Sard says beside me. “Even if they suffered heavy losses in the fight with Davern, they’d still be too much for us.”
“Not if we hit them as guerrillas,” I disagree. “Picking at them from the sides, surprising a squadron in the dark, booby-trapping roads and buildings… we could demoralize them to the point where they’d have to strike a deal. That’s the villacs’ plan. They don’t want to replace the Troops, merely complement them.”
Without warning, someone fires a bazooka or something similarly heavyweight. Those of us at the walls scatter as the shell hits. Some aren’t quick enough and the screams of dying men are added to the shrieks of more shells and the exploding thuds of bricks and plaster.
They focus on the exterior of the Square for five long minutes, demolishing the barricades and most of the walls. They don’t lob shells into the center—they want to keep the interior intact, to use once they’ve driven us out—so that’s where we group, a hundred or so men and women, waiting for the bombs to stop and the one-on-one combat to commence.
There’s a pause when silence descends, while the forces outside mass around the new openings, awaiting the order to advance. We hurry to what’s left of the walls and prepare our defense, laying mines, picking targets, stacking rifles and pistols by our sides. I look for the commander in chief of the Troops (not to take a shot, just curious to know who Tasso replaced Frank with) and spot the distant figure of Jerry Falstaff, running the show with admirable coolness.
A minute passes. Two. The tension should be mounting but it isn’t. The Snakes are safe in the knowledge that we’ll slip away before the finish, while the others have resigned themselves to a bloody finale. Looking around, I see only warriors smiling grimly in anticipation of battle, eager for it to begin, not fearful of the deaths to come.
No trumpets or whistles sound the attack. One moment the Troops are standing to attention, the next they’re surging forward, firing as they run. We hold off the first wave, forcing them to break and retreat, but a second wave forms immediately and they rush us. We’ve no choice but to fall back, although a few sturdier—dumber—souls hold their position. They succumb to the Troops within seconds, but take a hefty number of the enemy with them.
As the Troops mount the rubble, they hit the mines we planted. The air fills with bloody, fleshy scraps of human meat and bone. They lose twenty or thirty men in the charge, but push on regardless. Seconds later the first of them clear the mines and tackle those waiting within the boundaries of the Square.
The fighting is brutal and merciless. Three or four Troops fall for every one of ours, but their commanders have allowed for that and the soldiers press on without slowing. They could have arranged a clinical takeover, subjected us to sniper fire and short, concentrated jabs, but they’re after a quick victory, perhaps motivated by the threat of the Kluxers—they’d rather not face Davern’s forces in the open.
I remain close to Sard and the Snakes, guarding the access to the underground tunnels we’ve carved out over the last few days, the holes in the net through which we’ll wriggle free. I take little part in the bloodshed. I fire off a few rounds, felling at least one soldier, but my heart isn’t in this. I have no wish to kill any of the Troops, many of whom I once served with.
I decide we’ve had enough—I’ve just seen two of my men obliterated by a grenade—and signal the retreat. Sixty seconds later, not one Snake stands in the Square, apart from myself, last to leave. I catch the eye of a surviving gangster—there can’t be more than twenty left—and bellow at him. “You can come with us if you’ve changed your mind!”
“Nah,” he laughs, waving me away. “The party’s just warming up.”
I salute him, spare the others one last glance—they’re surrounded by Troops, damned for sure—then slip down the hole. I crawl at a sharp angle until I come to a larger tunnel where I can stand. Sard is waiting for me. Once I’m clear, he sets the timer on the explosives we strung up earlier—all the entrances to the underworld are primed to blow—and we hurry to join the others.
Five minutes later we’re standing in a small room deep under Cockerel Square. The last of the bombs has detonated. We’ve staged a successful escape. I count heads—twenty-three, including myself and Sard, though two are critically injured and may not live to see the dawn. It could have been far worse.
“How many of the dozen you picked for the mission made it through?” I ask Sard quietly.
“All of them,” he answers. “I didn’t use them in the Square. I left them with orders to meet me later.”
“Good thinking. When are you meeting them?”
He checks his watch. “They should be in place already. It’ll take me half an hour to get there.”
“Everything’s set? You’ve run tests on the equipment?”
“Yes, Sapa Inca.”
I take his right hand and squeeze hard. “Luck to you, Cobra.”
“Luck,” he replies and slips away to do his reluctant duty.
I disperse the rest of the Snakes, with orders to tell the villacs that I’m waiting here in case any survivors make it through. They go without question, spirits low, not because of the battering we’ve endured, but because they had to run. I hope I live to see those spirits raised again, though I doubt I will.
Alone in the darkness, I wait a while, listening to the faint sounds of the Troops overhead as they consolidate their stronghold in the Square. Then I set off through the series of tunnels I mapped out earlier, moving swiftly, encountering no one, a ghost in the machine.
The area around the police station is deserted. It’s 02:12, the Snakes have slipped away and the locals are wisely keeping a low profile. I’ve been striding around the rooftops for twenty minutes in search of my father. No sign so far. I’ll give him until half past, then leave without him if I have to.
When my deadline expires, I head down to the street. I’m disappointed he isn’t coming but I won’t cry about it. For ten years I did a damn fine job of pretending to be Paucar Wami. I can masquerade as him for a few hours more.
As my feet touch ground, a voice speaks from the shadows. “Leaving your poor ol’ pappy behind, Al m’boy?”
I smile at the wall, then replace the smile with a scowl and spin to face him. “How long have you been following me?”
“A while. I was waiting to see if you would spot me. You are not as alert as you should be. Perhaps the Troops and Kluxers unnerved you.”
“I’ve had a lot on my mind,” I admit, “but they’re not first in my thoughts. I’m ready to take the fight to the priests. Are you in?”
“You have a plan?” he asks eagerly, stepping out of the shadows. The front of his T-shirt’s flecked with blood—looks like he’s been enjoying himself.
“I decided to keep things
simple. We find a priest who talks English—a few can—and get him to lead us to Capac Raimi. We grab Raimi, bust through anyone who gets in our way, and escape.”
He frowns. “That is not much of a plan.”
“There’s more,” I grin. “I’ll tell you the rest later. Ama’s waiting for us.”
“The lady you met in Cafran’s?”
“You’ve been keeping a close eye on me,” I note sourly.
“Only because I care about you,” he smirks. “Where does she fit in with this?”
“I’ll explain as we go. Where’s your jacket?”
“In an apartment I’ve been using.”
“Then we’ll pick up another on our way.”
“I need one?”
“Yeah.”
“May I ask why?”
“To hide the bulge of your vest.”
In response to his raised eyebrow, I fill him in on the finer details as we pad the several blocks to where Ama’s waiting with all we’ll hopefully need to give us a fighting chance against the accursed villacs.
5
the cleansing
Ama and my father both know their way around the upper levels of the tunnels, so we make quick time, avoiding the milling Snakes and villacs, circling around them through smaller, seldom-used passages. Usually these tunnels would be guarded at some point along the line, but in all the confusion they’ve been left unprotected.
The temperature drops as we descend and torches become scarce. Often we have to navigate through pitch-blackness, linking hands, Ama or Wami leading the way, relying on instinct and memory. When I ask during a pause if they’re sure of our direction, they insist they are, though neither knows how. I ask how much farther they can take us, but they can’t say. They can only look ahead to the end of any given tunnel.
As we progress, Ama comes more into command, her knowledge of the tunnels sharper than Wami’s. We move steadily lower, down countless sets of stairs and steeply angled corridors. The priests must have been working on this system for hundreds of years. I’m stunned the city hasn’t collapsed in on itself, built on such riddled soil. They must be incredible architects to carve out and maintain all this.