Painkiller

by Aeryn Leigh

  Through the stone archway at the courtyard wall, gas rolled through.

  Fuck. Fuck. Beowulf leapt for the grenade and in a single motion picked it up and threw it high into the air toward the approaching gas. The grenade didn't even land, exploding midair with a savage bang.

  Laurie snarled. He pumped the primer with his left hand. "Light me." Griffin flicked his Zippo and the end of the flame thrower stick burned with a bluish-orange flame. He held two fingers up at Andrew. Nodded at Mick. Took a breath. Whistled.

  Mick shoved the front of his MP 40 into the hole and emptied the clip, pulling it out and now Laurie stepped forward and into the hole placed the barrel and with a silent prayer depressed the trigger, one-thousand and one, two-thousand and two, and released as a huge rush of air sucked through the hole and fed the conflagration within.

  "Andrew." With the two wooden handles together, he twisted and for the second time pushed both grenades through.

  The roar of flames and screaming. Tinkling. Detonations. Laurie poked his head through and twisted it around expecting any moment to get a bullet in the cranium and in the firelight and shadows and half-darkness saw the single wooden beam barring entry across both doors.

  He whipped his head back out but not before he got the merest glimpse of the entryway full of mangled and burning soldiers and the tunnel sloping upward.

  Laurie smacked his right hand hard against the wood two feet above the hole and dived flat against the ground as Griffin unleashed the last of the 20mm rounds manufactured halfway across the galaxy in Manchester and bought them entrance.

  The courtyard wall could barely be seen in the yellow mist.

  With a creak and snap of remaining timbers they pushed the door open and fell upon the enemy.

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Drafted

  General Sarah Marietta Versetti lifted her head. Muffled explosions. Tiny little bangs. No louder than the plops of falling water, teardrops from the damp rocks high overhead, landing in shallow pools of water. Their drinking water.

  With one hand, she moved matted brown hair from her face, and stood, listening.

  Nothing but her heart for long moments, and the shuffling, odd sounds of moaning from three-thousand odd men and women, imprisoned in this large, quarter-mile open pit. The soft clinks of chains rubbing together. The occasional clang as also high overhead the crude wooden elevator bumped into the rock face in the underground currents, as its sibling sat just out of arms reach above the muck-covered floor.

  The only way in or out. Food, or what passed for it came in. In exchange for a half dozen soldiers at a time. Food went down. Bodies went up. Only the living ones.

  The only light source, a single oil lamp far overhead, mounted next to the platform nesting the elevator. A tug on her sleeve.

  "General." The voice was granite, indomitable. Male.

  Sarah held up a finger. Further small pops, the sound waves echoing in the amphitheatre. She turned and regarded the scar-covered face of her best friend, the man she'd gone to Hell with, and might just come back out with. "Major Brutowsky. Assemble the First and Proud." What's left of it.

  "Yes ma'am," he replied, saluting then limping away, barking commands.

  General Versetti, mother of Marietta, devoted patriot of the Republic, stared up at the small, twinkling light.

  "Okay," said Merrion, "let's go," as the rest of the team stormed through the entrance, guns chattering. "You and you, pick up those boxes. You two, those. Quickly, get a move on, or I'll leave you here for the gas."

  The Inquisition scientists, hands bound in front of them, picked up the collection of confiscated material and staggered toward the mountain door, passing Griffin and Hilda each dragging a gun behind them, not wanting the Inquisition to get hold of such advanced weaponry, not intact at least.

  The yellow fog crept lazily across the courtyard, across a battalion of dead bodies, over the burning gliders, advancing ever toward them.

  The last of them passed under the wooden doorway, inside the mountain. Merrion broke concentration just for a second, and one scientist made a run for it, back out the door and straight for the fog.

  Merrion swore, as he got help in covering the scientists. Griffin and Beowulf shut the door, and everybody that could started the process of replacing the cross-beam, and plugging the two holes with uniforms ripped from the dead as in the near distance a man screamed then gurgled before mercifully falling silent.

  With increased vigour, they tried to repair the door in the light of flaming torches lining the entrance walls until no outside light shone through.

  The assorted links of wood they'd managed to scavenge wouldn't be enough to make an effective crossmember.

  "Ah hell," said Griffin, kneeling by the Hispano-Suiza and pulling open the breech cover, tearing out as many mechanical parts as he could before he lifted the autocannon up and onto the metal U-hooks and seven feet of metal became the new crossmember barrier.

  Mick stooped over and picked up the metal gun pieces by Griffin's feet, and all as one retreated backward over the dozens of corpses down the stone passageway which ran slightly uphill and straight for the next couple hundred feet before yet another door.

  Laurie held up a hand halfway up the corridor. Sssh. He looked up at oil lanterns mounted every dozen yards. The flames flickered slightly, in the direction of the main door. Behind them, distant shouting. And screaming.

  Laurie grinned without mirth. Air was flowing somewhere from inside to outside, it could be enough to halt the gas making its way in. He turned to the group of prisoners. "How long does the gas take to disperse?"

  "A little while," they said, fighting amongst each other to answer first. With the shape of the open courtyard outside and rock face on three sides, the upper section would be a bowl of gas for some time yet.

  "Beauty," he said. He pointed at one of the boxes, and kicked the lid off with his boot. Inside laid Inquisition MP 40's neatly stacked in straw.

  Laurie thought hard. No way could they cover the prisoners and continue on their mission at the same time. What was the saying? Keep your friends close and your enemies even closer? Arm the scientists, make sure their guns are facing in the opposite direction, make an example of one or two if they show the slightest thought of resisting. Proverbial two birds with one MP 40. Even though you want to murder every single bloody one of them. The scientists backed away slightly as they watched Laurie’s grin show even more teeth.

  "Take one. You're now drafted into Laurie's Penitents. Divide into two squads. All except you." He looked at the fellow who'd spoken first back at the building, the second-in-command scientist. Reginald Lynch. "You don't leave my side."

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  How Unfortunate

  The group made their way up the corridor, scientists up front, their guns slung over shoulders, dragging the piles of equipment, loot, and supplies, and the two Brownings. A small satchel hung on Merrion's back, full of research notes and papers. The sounds of metal scraping on stone. Footfalls bouncing off the corridor.

  At the rear, Laurie walked backward, keeping both the scientist and the receding main door in his sights. The gas hadn't penetrated. Yet. "Do you know what gas masks are?"

  "Yes," said Reginald, looking at his hands. Not only were they bound, but covered in canvas strips, making improvised mittens. "A few came through on the Purity. Remarkable inventions."

  "Are they effective against that gas?"

  "All the test subjects wearing those masks failed performance markers." He noticed the captain's expression. "Ah, they died. Ninety-four I believe to date." His eyes flickered down to the sword hilt next to him.

  "Right. How . . . unfortunate." The voice full of acid.

  They reached the end of the passageway. A smaller door than the ones at the entrance, yet still huge.

  It was ajar. Marginally brighter light shone through the gap. The faint smell of shit and decay and cooking foodstuffs.

  Wide enough
for a body to slip through. Upfront, Beowulf and Mick stood either side, submachine guns ready. Laurie sidled up to them, and pulled out his little stick with the mirror on one end.

  He poked it around the door.

  A short distance down the hallway, more stairs.

  "Moss, barricade that door." Laurie looked back down the corridor, then changed his mind. The long corridor was a natural kill zone. "Never mind, Moss. Set up the working .50 here and cover that corridor. Hilda, you've split the remaining .50 rounds into half like I asked?" Hilda nodded. "Right, give half to Griffin. You stay here as well. Everyone else, after Merrion."

  The stairs rose at least a hundred feet, chiselled and hammered out of the very bedrock.

  And at the very top, lit lanterns.

  Merrion started up the steps, hugging the left wall, crouched over until only a half-dozen steps remained. On hands and knees, he climbed those last steps until tentatively he raised his head over the lip of the last stone.

  He lowered his head and shuffled quietly backward, and with his back against the stone, looking down into the semi-darkness, waited for his companions.

  Laurie reached the top of the stairs, as to a man, Reginald included, the scientists dropped to their knees and started praying.

  "Christ," said Mick. The party walked through the bowed prisoners bowing up and down and entered the cathedral, a space so huge Laurie could have landed his Lancaster along its length, and three, line abreast, across its width. A row of white statues one-hundred and twenty feet tall lined the far side, and a golden throne came to their waists, right in the centre of the wall.

  The light was dazzling. Hundreds upon countless hundreds of torches lined the walls as every surface reflected light, covered in gold and silver.

  It could have been beautiful. Should have been beautiful. But every mural as far as the eye could see contained tortures and torments illustrated in such graphic detail only the psychotic could enjoy.

  Beowulf whistled. "Their past emperors," he said, pointing at the row of statues, each holding a gigantic cross and their foreheads ringed with thorns. Overhead, on a roof so high you could barely make out details, sections of the roofs cavern between wide fissures glinted with engraved gold sheeting.

  And running along each side, a single balcony, with only two sets of spiral stairs, one at each end.

  "Get up," said Laurie, suddenly angry. The prisoners stopped praying and rose to their feet. "Where is the battalion? Where are they? Where's the Republican army?" The prisoners looked at each other.

  "They should be here." Reginald spoke quickly. "This is as far as we were ever allowed to go. But the subjects — ahh captured soldiers — would be down there." He pointed at the base of the golden throne.

  "Right then. Penitents". Laurie strode over to them, to the first squad, and with his knife cut each of their bonds. "Guns out. Lead the way."

  The group walked through the cathedral, alongside a single piece of woven tapestry, until they reached the foot of the golden throne. It took thirteen minutes to walk, Andrew consulting his wristwatch. At its base, a sunken staircase, ringed with a mural of suffering. The air coming up was rank. "Down you go," said Laurie. "And don't do anything stupid. If you want to live, you will fire upon our enemy."

  The group of scientists started down the steps, followed by Merrion, then Beowulf and the others in a single file. The stairs spiralled around and around, still wide enough for six men abreast, until they reached another wide corridor telescoping into the far distance.

  Captain John halted them on the last few steps, poked the mirror stick around the bend. Makeshift defensive positions, two, maybe three squads of Inquisition Marines forty yards down the tunnel. Wooden tables tipped onto their side, blocking the whole corridor

  "Andrew, cover our friend Reg here. Now you lot. Two options. Charge that position and take your chances, or cop a sword in the gut. Which is it?"

  To a man they gripped the submachine guns. "Excellent choice. Right, Griffin. Cover their advance from up here, couple of dozen rounds, no more. Everyone else, suppressing fire when you can. Mick, grenade please. Ta. On my mark. Go."

  The penitent squad, the terror of what awaited down the dark hallway the lesser evil of knowing exactly what the tall heathen would do to their stomachs, darted from the cover of the stone staircase and into the rain of MP 40 fire. A few forgot or didn’t know to remove the safeties, and went down.

  Behind them, Laurie counted to himself. One. Two. Then launched himself, stooping low to the ground as in that moment he saw the prisoners emptying their clips and giving a good old bloodthirsty wail.

  Four were on the ground. Then the Browning M2 ripped overhead, Griffin right on the mark and the twelve rounds swept left to right, tearing into flesh and wood and making the Marines duck, just long enough for him to twist the handle of the potato masher and fling it underarm. He dived behind the corpse of the nearest scientist, just lifting his head enough to see the remaining Inquisition prisoners not stop as the grenade tumbled over their heads and kept running, out of terror, or panic, or fear, discharging the last of their magazines, and the grenade landing behind the tables.

  They were still running right at the tables when the Inquisition Marines rose from cover and raised their guns and boom it detonated. Laurie started to rise as Beowulf and two Vikings leapt overhead roaring ‘Row, Row, Row Your Boat’ and closed the distance at full sprint, jumping over the shocked and dazed Penitent Squad and over what remained of the tables, battle-axes swinging.

  Not a single Marine stood. In one piece at least, Mick noted, as they caught up at the barricade, a pair of legs still in boots standing upright, the rest of the body smeared across the stone wall. He half expected to see wisps of smoke rising from the stumps.

  Laurie addressed the surviving scientists. "Well done. You might just live to die another day." The men smiled sheepishly. "Merrion? Scout further down the corridor. Merrion?"

  Merrion was already gone.

  The group made their way down the corridor, Beowulf and Griffin leading, before a few hundred yards further the corridor opened wide.

  An entrance hall, filled with tables, benches, and racks of food stretched into the distance, the main source of light seeming to be the pair of huge cooking pits in the centre, still burning with deep-red and orange embers, sending faint wisps of smoke into small fissures within the mountain ceiling dozens and dozens of feet above.

  But still empty.

  No battalion.

  "Merrion?" Merrion tilted his head, shouldered his MP 40, and crossbow in hand, advanced into the hall, as Beowulf and Mick followed, then the rest of them, the mood as silent as a tomb.

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  A Vast, Deep Pit

  The room was a mess hall, a space to feed one-thousand troops. Small rooms branched off from the main space, each full of bunks, bedding, and storage lockers. Barracks. Merrion trod lightly past them, until he'd done a full perimeter sweep and confirmed no further exits led from the barrack rooms. No enemy for that matter either. He stopped by a table at the rear of the hall, directly opposite where they had come in. On it, like the rest, plates and cups half eaten, half drunk. The liquid seemed cold but . . . he pulled off his left glove, and stuck his index finger into the nearest bowl of beef stew. The middle was warm. Body temperature.

  Inquisition forces had been here till very recently. Breaching the main doors recently.

  Merrion's brow furrowed. He wiped his finger clean on an unused napkin and pulled on the glove, readying his crossbow. The rest of the party reached the centre of the room. He continued to the rear exit and passed under the threshold, not as many oil lanterns lighting the smaller corridors back here. An intersection. A short passageway led off to his right. He walked silently down it, and stopped at the entrance.

  Medium-sized iron pots bubbled with boiling water over the rear firepit, and massive tubs full of dirty dishes. Merrion backtracked down the corridor and continued forward, keep
ing tight against the wall as the corridor sloped downward then upward, until he reached the next large room.

  Weapons.

  All the weapons. Swords, pikes, axes, longbows, crossbows, in rows of tall columns. All behind a wall-to-wall metal grille, with a central door slap bang in the middle. Exits either side. He chose the right doorway and discovered it met the other exit on the other side and creeping along, found himself in yet another long, snaking, passageway.

  Two thirds the way down it, Merrion halted at the guard post, unmanned. Too easy. All too easy. He stared down the corridor. Took his glove off again, put two fingers into his mouth, and issued a bird call, loud, clear, and strong. The sound reverberated along the enclosed, stone passageway, echoing repeatedly until it faded.

  A songbird whistled back.

  Merrion broke past the Inquisition scientists and ran up the corridor, the others struggling to keep up, and reached the end. Gears and chain set to one side of the stone outcrop, and a wooden elevator platform.

  And from the stone outcrop, a vast, deep pit, hundreds of yards across. And in that pit, into the sea of faces gazing up, they looked down on the First and Proud.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Vale The First And Proud

  In the middle of the night, the Inquisition warships at the mouth of the bay vanished. At dawn, Marietta summoned Lucius, and a short while afterward, the three remaining aircraft of the Republican Air Force began their reconnaissance mission, first over the bay, then onto the chain of islands, and a wide sweep out into the ocean before heading back to base.

  Their island aerodromes and supply depots laid empty, the aircraft gone, supply ships too. Not a single soldier could be seen. On the last banking turn before heading back for Fairholm, fuel running low, Inger caught a glimpse of the armada, the entire invasion force, on the edge of the horizon, sailing themselves straight back home.