Quake

by Andy Remic

  ‘Where?’ asked Mo. ‘I can’t see him.’

  Simmo cursed, spilling his tea over his combats as he lurched to his feet and sprinted forward, tea sloshing over his huge fist. A sound alerted him even as he reached for his holstered SigP7 9mm pistol strapped to the small of his back and he turned - into a heavy uppercut punch that rocked him back on his heels and sent stars spinning through his head ...

  Simmo staggered, dropping his tea.

  To see Kattenheim, fists raised, grinning at him with a mouth full of broken teeth. The huge German ex-para came forward slowly and there was a chorus of clicks as several of the TankSquad men cocked their weapons.

  Simmo grinned nastily, holding up his hand. ‘No, lads. The Sarge handle this.’ His fingers were covered with blood from his split lip. ‘You do well slipping the wire, Nex.’

  ‘Lots of practice,’ said Kattenheim, rolling his shoulders and then settling into a boxer’s stance. ‘You gonna fight me fairly this time, you ugly hunk of army meat?’ Sweat was rolling down his heavily scarred head and in the weak red light of the NightCubes he looked totally demonic. His red burned eyes seemed to glow - and within their depths shone the copper heart of the Nex warrior.

  Simmo cracked his knuckles by clenching his fists, then strode forward.

  ‘Lads - if he kills me, then you can fucking shoot him. But as long as I still live you will be disobeying direct order and The Sarge have you up on a charge!’ He squared up and looked down at the smaller man. Nex, he thought. It is not a man, it is a concoction. Either way, I pulp fucking face.

  Kattenheim attacked, a fast fluid combination of punches - straight right, right hook, left hook, left upper-right straight. Simmo found himself backing away under the flurry of heavy precise blows which he manned - just - to block with his forearms. Simmo returned with a thundering right straight but Kattenheim rolled smoothly to Simmo’s left under the punch and came up, hammering a right hook that caught Simmo on the side of his head and staggered him with the colossal impact. Another right straight shook Simmo’s head again, and then a front kick to the face sent the huge man stumbling down on his knees.

  Kattenheim stepped back, folded his arms, and waited.

  Slowly, Simmo climbed to his feet.

  He is too fast, realised the huge soldier. Just too fucking fast.

  Simmo approached warily, and Kattenheim still had his arms folded across his chest, a look of arrogance on his face. Simmo spat on the ground and around him he could feel the pressure of the TankSquad soldiers, of the Spiral agents who were watching and understanding and he knew that he had to kill this fucker with his bare hands - and rip out its spleen.

  The Sarge was a legend.

  To lose a fist fight?

  With a fucking Nex?

  ‘Better off dead! Sarge not let that happen!’ he said, unintentionally out loud, and then threw himself at Kattenheim. They exchanged a series of heavy blows at great speed, and Kattenheim tried another kick, but Simmo punched down on his opponent’s kneecap. The onlookers all heard the splintering of bone.

  The two fighters drew apart.

  ‘You move well, for such a big man,’ said Kattenheim. He displayed no obvious pain but had altered his stance, favouring his left leg instead of the right and moving so that the damaged limb was partially shielded by the one that was still sound.

  ‘And Sarge kill well for such big man - as you find out.’

  Simmo charged again, teeth glinting in the red light.

  They exchanged punches, and Kattenheim landed another right hook that shook Simmo. Growling, The Sarge launched himself on top of the smaller Nex warrior and gripped him in a tight bear-hug, lifting him from the ground and exerting a massive pressure on the Nex’s spine. Kattenheim growled, and slammed his head into Simmo’s face - but after the second blow Simmo twisted and shook the Nex like a rag doll ...

  Kattenheim continued to head-butt Simmo - in the neck, in the face - as tendons popped along his spine. Somehow he managed to free an arm and started raining down blow after heavy cracking blow until Simmo was forced to drop him. Kattenheim leapt high into the air and came down with the butt of his elbow on the crown of Simmo’s head. Simmo hit the jungle ground hard, stunned. Blood seeped in pulses from the wound and Kattenheim stood over Simmo, who was rocking and groaning, down and temporarily blinded and out of the fucking game ...

  Kattenheim glanced around, to see what stood between himself and freedom.

  And only then, in the dull jungle glow, did the TankSquad Spiral operatives suddenly realise that the Nex held Simmo’s matt black SigP7 gun.

  The pistol lifted and, as shots that sent bright muzzle-flashes piercing the gloom rang out, the men split up. They leapt for safety, their own weapons coming up but unable to fire because immediately in front of Kattenheim was Sergeant Simmo ...

  Simmo felt as if his skull had been cracked open. Pain pounded through the centre of his brain and pulsed like hammer beats as blood soaked his shaved scalp. A rage like nothing he had felt for years arose - a red tide engulfing him. He could not speak, scream, shout nor curse because this intense, and insane tidal wave of hatred consumed him and carried him to—

  Consciousness.

  His eyes flickered open.

  Kattenheim was firing his pistol at his men.

  ‘Cheeky motherfucker,’ Simmo snarled. He lifted back his boot and from his position on the ground kicked as heavily as he could at Kattenheim’s injured knee. This time a real crack echoed through the jungle as the knee folded in on itself and the leg collapsed, pitching the man to the ground as he howled through blood-speckled lips and clenched teeth. Simmo grabbed the wrist holding the gun and they both lay, locked for a moment, staring into one another’s eyes.

  Simmo slammed his head into Kattenheim’s nose. Then he released the hand that wasn’t gripping the gun and, reaching down, punched at the twisted broken knee - five times, six, seven, eight. Then he took the gun like a man taking an ice cream from a child, and climbed ponderously to his feet.

  Simmo levelled the SigP7 at Kattenheim’s face.

  ‘Say your prayers.’

  Kattenheim said nothing, merely glaring at Simmo with hatred.

  As something leapt from the darkness of the jungle, something huge, armoured and with a triangular head.

  Simmo’s gun came up as he spun round. A bullet smashed in the ScorpNex, which scooped Kattenheim from the ground and disappeared into the blackness. Submachine gun rounds ripped after the Nex, slicing through leaves, tree trunks and ferns and spitting soil from the ground. Ricochets whined all around as bullets bounced off hardwoods.

  ‘Cease fire!’ screamed Simmo.

  The gunfire stopped.

  The TankSquad men turned towards Simmo. Both Mo and Haggis had taken rounds from Kattenheim’s crazy erratic firing and Haggis was seated, nursing his stomach. Simmo glared around angrily. This wasn’t supposed to be how the game went.

  ‘Fuck. Get your shit together - we as compromised as a man fucking his brother’s wife in his brother’s bed as his brother walks in. In other words, we fucked from both sides - by exposure of our location and by Spiral.’

  ‘We going in, Sarge?’

  ‘Yeah, we’re fucking going in.’

  ‘I thought the order was to wait.’

  ‘They’re the enemy, aren’t they?’ snarled Simmo. ‘Hundreds of them tried to take us out back in Slovenia -tried to turn us into mincemeat. And now we supposed to sit by as fat-arsed politicians argue over who gets the rights to the LVA fields when all this over? Fuck ‘em. We do this Simmo way! That LVA installation guarded by Nex. Nex are outlawed. We have licence to kill.’

  The Sergeant’s eyes gleamed.

  All eyes were on his blood-encrusted shaved head, which was still pumping thick crimson that glistened in the red gloom.

  ‘So let’s kill,’ he growled huskily.

  Jam sat in the dark frost-filled cold, breathing slowly. He watched the clouds of vapour exhaling from his twisted j
aws and something pricked his memory; something was different. And then he realised, with a growing sense of horror, that his eyes had physically shifted. They were in a different place; his head had broadened, flattened, and his eyes had moved further apart, thus expanding his field of view - his predator’s vision.

  He considered Carter - and their exchange.

  He knew that he could kill Carter.

  Ultimately, he knew that he would kill the man ...

  But Carter’s words had disturbed him - somewhere deep down in his twisted soul. Jam had sensed the reluctance to fight. Carter had some long perverse connection with the past, some distant impulse of honour and friendship that Jam could understand in a cool and detached way. And Jam had been happy to slice the fucker in two, smash his bones into splinters and then piss on his grave. But the words ... the distant words from a warm and welcome deathbed ...

  ‘No, Jam ... stay here ... we need your help. Natasha is dying. Nicky is with her. We need the machine. The Avelach ... you know where it is ... it was used on you, Natasha will die—’

  Jam pictured Natasha’s face; her short dark spiked hair, her deep brown eyes and slim, athletic figure. Jam’s head tilted softly. He could see - see Carter and Natasha together, laughing, holding hands as they walked along the pier, kissing in the rain—

  The images flickered.

  And Nicky was there, her sweet oval face, piercing bright eyes filled with tears. Was she unhappy? he wondered. And if so, for what reason?

  Words drifted to him—

  Words from a million years ago—

  ‘It’s a war — Durell, and Feuchter — they brought us a war. They tried to wipe us out; now it’s time to give them a bullet up the arse.‘

  And Nicky; smiling weakly, standing there on the ... on the Kamus, the disused Spiral base in the Austrian alps. ‘Yeah. But ... not everybody is going to make it back.’ Reaching up, suddenly, she kissed him - and their lips lingered, tongues darting.

  Jam stared into her beautiful eyes.

  ‘I need some company tonight,’ she said, voice husky, and she led him by the hand inside the cold confines of the dark and dank mountain base ...

  Jam lowered his huge triangular armoured head.

  He stared at the floor, remembering their lovemaking.

  Something is wrong with me, he realised.

  I loved this woman. Loved her.

  And yet - yet now I feel... nothing?

  He spat, and lifted his head once more, breathing deeply, making strange rasping sounds. But a connection - from the man he wanted, needed to kill, this Carter and the two women who touched him in some strange way in his dreams, in his memories - something hard to grasp, something esoteric twisted inside his head. He could hear the whisper of deep voices he could not understand.

  And Durell?

  And Feuchter?

  Jam lowered his head again, and the deep coldness seeped into his limbs and into his brain. It soothed him. The cold calmed him, relaxed his mind. His worries bled away and his anxieties melted away and he rocked, on armoured heels that bit deep grooves in the stone cell floor.

  With tiny clicks his eyes closed.

  The World Investigation Committee central headquarters in Washington DC was in a turmoil. Voices rang around the huge vaulted ceiling of the chambers in a myriad different babbling languages. Human and electronic interpreters babbled, adding to the confusion; and Runners sped between benches and tables, in and out of doorways.

  Voices could be heard above the hubbub, rising shrill, borne on currents of anger, disbelief, outrage, frustration, incredulity—

  ‘I think he’s fucking insane ...’

  ‘But he’s got us by the balls ...’

  ‘Who is this man? I think it is one huge bluff!’

  ‘But haven’t you seen what he can do? The reports are flooding in from a thousand different media agencies - his is no insane dictator whom we can ignore ...’

  ‘The countries of the world should stand together, unite. We can mobilise millions of men and this Durell could not stand against such a tide of world strength—’

  ‘But who would lead the armies?’

  ‘Why, the USA, of course ...’

  ‘Why not the UN?’

  ‘I think China is the obvious choice ...’

  ‘We can crush this worm before he moves—’

  ‘Assassination would be more direct - a fucking sniper bullet in the back of the skull.’

  ‘Yeah, when we find him - but if he is controlling the earthquakes, then he can hit any central government, any capital city, any military installation in the world.’

  ‘It is a preposterous claim, impossible!’

  ‘Who is backing this lunatic? Which fucking countries? There must be some here who know of him. This is an outrage! It would spark a—’

  ‘World war.’

  The words hung like a storm cloud on a static-charged summer evening: heavy, ominous - and threatening.

  The wide oak doors at the head of the chamber slammed open, smashing against the walls with twin crashes. Slowly, the noise subsided as faces turned to peer at the man who stood in front of them, the man who -with his stern silence and bushy-eyed frown - commanded their attention.

  He was a huge barrel-chested man.

  He wore v-neck grey robes, with dangling rosary beads which bounced against his curly-haired chest as he walked.

  His sandals slapped against the floor as he moved to stand on the Central Podium. All attention focused on him. Many of the world leaders knew the face but could not name its owner.

  The Priest seemed to be angry.

  Furious.

  His face was red, lips curled back, beard damp with sweat. His intense gaze swept the gathered men and women in front of him, and he pointed, eyes bright and holding a glimmer of insanity. Then he pointed again, his mouth working spasmodically, and again and again and again until total silence descended on the chamber—

  ‘You argue!’ boomed The Priest at last. ‘You stand here, with the power of the world at your fingertips, and you - you bloody squabble like monkeys over a dead maggot. You whine at one another like spotty children in a playground arguing over a lollipop. You must decide ...’

  People began to shuffle their feet.

  Nobody spoke.

  The Priest began to rant, spittle flying from his lips and drenching his beard, ‘Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For ye are like unto whited sepulchres, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men’s sins, and all manner of uncleanness . .

  His stare roved.

  ‘I say,’ began one of the English delegates, ‘that seems a tad harsh, old chap ...’

  ‘Shut up!’ screamed The Priest with the fury of God dashing like lightning in his eyes.

  All eyes were on him now.

  And he felt—

  Filled. With the Power. With the Glory. With Divine Insight.

  ‘And almost all things are by the law purged with blood; and without shedding of blood there is no remission!’

  Faces were turned towards The Priest; no one spoke. Despite their power, despite their learning and wisdom, in this moment of greatest confusion the leaders of the world only did not know what to do ...

  ‘And I saw as it were a sea of glass mingled with fire: and them that had gotten the victory over the beast, and over his image, and over his mark, and over the number of his name, stand on the sea of glass, having the harps of God ...’

  ‘We should fight.’

  ‘No, he could destroy us. He has the power of the earthquakes at his fingertips ...’

  ‘How many infantry can you field? 80,000? 100,000?’ ‘Yes, but mobilisation takes time, and if he sees the armies of the world mobilising then he may attack first...’

  ‘May attack, will attack,’ boomed The Priest. ‘You have heard his demands, and you must here - and now -decide among yourselves whether this Durell is a threat to world peace. If you bow to his demands then dec
ide here and now - with a single voice before God! But if you choose to fight - and a hard fight it will be - then decide it now. You do not have the luxury of time. We do not have the luxury of time. Things move apace, my brothers and sisters, and I beg you, before the Holy Father—’

  Voices rose.

  Squabbles broke out.

  And The Priest looked down in despair at these, the most powerful people in the world, unable to decide upon the best course of action for the future of the whole planet.

  Politicians, he thought sourly.

  And slumped to the ground, listening to a hundred languages and a thousand dialects washing over him. People swarmed about him now, but The Priest ignored them. They shouted questions at him but he merely shook his head, clutching his Bible.

  And by the end of the day they had made a decision.

  The world leaders had finally made a decision.

  They had finally decided to meet again in three days’ time after lengthy discussions - to make the ultimate and final decision.

  Some countries wanted to fight.

  Some pressed for peace.

  Some would mobilise armies.

  Some would prepare talks.

  The unanimous agreement was disagreement.

  The undisputed choice was a non-choice.

  The definite decision was no true decision at all.

  ‘Chaos is finally here,’ muttered The Priest.

  SIU Transcript

  CLASSIFIED SR18/9257b/SPECIAL INVESTIGATIONS UNIT

  Cracked ECube transmission

  Date: October 2XXX

  Section WORLD SCALE MOBILISATION INFORMATION/

  Spiral Information Transcript

  Selection: Units 12-18, from total info units 2844

  -------------------------------------

  US Army Pacific:

  Hawaii - 35,300 troops mobilised from 2nd, 4th, 6”h and 9th Battalions and comprising 20th to 43rd Infantry Regiments; 400 soldiers from 30th through to 78th Aviation Battalions with UH-78 Black Hawk support; Paratroopers from 1-501st Parachute Infantry Regiment deployed; 3rd, 8th and 10th Battalion Field Artillery Regiments deployed. 16,000 troops from the 9th Theatre Support Command scrambled and put on High Alert, including USARJ at Camp Zama.