Abomination (The Pathfinders Book 1)

by Jane Dougherty

  “Oh, no,” Carla gasped. “It’s Flo!”

  Kat just grinned. “If she thinks it’s her Gouge friends out there, she’s in for a nasty surprise.”

  Flo was hurrying across what had once been a car park, stumbling around the burned out carcasses of cars, tripping over the cracks and jumping gracelessly over the rifts left by the earthquakes. Her arms were waving wildly, her hands vague white blurs as she signaled to the enemy warriors leaping to meet her.

  “Get back. It’s a trap! There’s Matonge and Kusha and Stranglers all around you. Ace wants them to wipe out the Gouge. He has it all planned.”

  “She walked straight into it. Betraying everyone, even Ace, did you hear?” Kat crowed with delight. “Just watch her. She must be able to see they’re not Gouge by now. Those Strangler cretins are dressed up like the Thief of flippin’ Baghdad!”

  They heard a faint cry, then a louder scream as Flo turned to run. They saw her ungainly silhouette floundering as she lost her footing on the shifting piles of rubble, as her clothes caught in loose strands of wire and stray car parts. She was ten yards from the group of Flay girls when she fell.

  The girls loosed arrows at the Strangler warriors, but one ignored the ill-aimed weapons and zigzagged his way in pursuit. He pounced on the prostrate form, a red bandana worn pirate fashion covering his head, a rope stretched tight between his hands. Carla turned away as Flo’s head was wrenched back and the rope slipped around her throat. Closing her eyes didn’t keep out the sound of the crack as Flo’s neck broke.

  “Serves her right, the evil cow.” Kat spat out the words and the others nodded in agreement. Carla had the impression that if Flo had come back from her attempted betrayal alive, the girls would have done the job themselves.

  “Tully knew that would happen, didn’t he?” she asked quietly. “That Flo would betray him to the Gouge.”

  “Knew she’d try. That’s why he lied to her about where the Gouge were, so she couldn’t.”

  “And if she did jump ship, she’d be jumping into a trap,” Carla said. “That’s despicable!”

  “But Carla,” Kat was emphatic. “Flo ran out there with the intention of getting us all killed. She died because she was a traitor, and you can’t blame Tully for that.”

  Carla turned away, confused. Maybe Kat was right. Maybe.

  “Come on.” Kat nudged her. “We have to cover Jim and Matt. The other tribes are fighting among themselves, but ours are going to have to keep them at it. Save me a few for when I get back. I just have to slip away for a moment.” She brandished a small key and shot Carla a quick smile before disappearing in the direction of the east side.

  “Never mind Kat.” Belle, the miniscule blonde girl tugged at Carla’s sleeve.” Let’s move up and see if we can do any harm.”

  Carla looked at her sideways, but did as she was told. When they were close enough to see the faces of the tribesmen, they took shelter behind a camping car. The barrier of flames was dying but still gave enough light to see a group of Stranglers milling about in confusion, caught between a band of Gouge warriors and Jim and Matt, backed up by what looked like another ten spearmen. That they were really spearwomen would never have crossed the Stranglers’ minds.

  “The rubbish mounds,” Belle whispered, and they crawled into the open, took up position, lit and fired their paraffin-doused arrows. They were gratified with another explosion as the bonfires went up, scattering their rockets and balls of colored fire into the ranks of the enemy warriors. One Gouge fell and Belle cheered. Immediately another Gouge spun around, searching for the source of the cry, took aim and fired. Gritting her teeth to stifle the scream of pain, Belle staggered, clutching her leg. Carla and the other girls dragged her behind the camping car as the Gouge took aim again. Out of the corner of her eye, Carla saw the Gouge’s head snap back as Jim’s boot kicked the barrel of the rifle up into his face.

  Matt charged over, his face white with shocked. As he got close to Carla and the girl lying on the ground before her, he let out a sigh of relief. Carla gave him a thin smile.

  “No, it’s not Dee. Help me get Belle inside, will you?”

  “A warrior’s job’s fighting, not playing nurse.” The sarcastic voice made Carla spin around. Her heart sank. She had been secretly hoping Ace would number among the illustrious dead.

  Matt snarled, “Fuck off, Ace. The girl’s bleeding to death!”

  The assault rifle swung around and hit him hard in the stomach. He doubled over as Seb and Max grabbed his arms.

  “This is still my tribe, and I’m still your leader,” Ace hissed. “So don’t you forget it. The place is crawling with assorted sub-humans. I want as many prisoners as you can round up. Now, get moving!”

  Ace’s two henchmen pushed Matt in the direction of the forecourt, where the last signs of fighting were turning into what looked more like a witches’ Sabbath. Jim arrived at a run, breathless.

  “I’m coming, Matt,” he called after the retreating band. “You touch him again, Ace, and—”

  “And what? Yeh little wuss,” Joe taunted, already at a safe distance.

  “Just you wait and see, rodent face,” Jim roared and thrust his middle finger in the air.

  “Don’t bother about me,” Belle said bravely through clenched teeth, one hand clutching her wounded calf. “If Carla puts a tourniquet on it, I think I can walk. You get after those nutters. If Ace can’t beat up Tully…” She didn’t need to say any more.

  “If he even thinks about touching Matt or…those girls, I’ll break his fucking back!” With an angry gesture Jim wrenched the balaclava off his head and pulled his old shapka firmly down around his ears. “No more army, no more tribe. No more orders from that little arsehole. See you later, girls.” With a grin that was more like a grimace, Jim launched himself after Matt.

  Carla was appalled at the wound. Her hands were wet and slippery with blood and she had no idea how to stop the hemorrhage. She supposed that they ought to clean it and see if the bullet was still inside, though it looked as if it had ripped right through the muscle and out the other side. Anyway, Belle couldn’t stay where she was. Carla cursed Kat for not being there. Of the other girls in their group, one had charged off with her spear, yelling like a banshee, into the thick of the fighting, such as it was now. The other seemed to have gone into a state of shock and just sat on the ground trembling.

  Without bothering to ask permission, Carla went through the girl’s pockets and pulled out what she suspected she’d find—a complete, unused archer’s kit of emblem tags, lengths of string and a spare length of cotton sheeting. Muttering the darkest, most diabolical Calabrian peasant swear words in her vocabulary, Carla set about inventing the Bellini tourniquet.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Ace’s return was greeted by a series of war whoops from the Flay tribesmen no longer kept in order by Matt and Jim. They had fed the fires with anything they could lay their hands on that would burn. Men danced around the fires, shrieking and brandishing their homemade weapons, their coats torn and flapping in the wind, their wild faces smeared with soot and blood. A forlorn group of prisoners from different tribes sat back to back, firmly attached with nylon clotheslines. The firelight flickered across fearful faces and the dirty, ash-streaked hair of those who slumped forward, unconscious or exhausted.

  Ace grinned broadly and called out to one of the Flay onlookers. A moon-faced boy with a slack mouth and jug ears came over at a lumbering trot.

  “The Generalissimo not here yet?”

  The boy shook his head. “Gouges still giving him shit.”

  Ace’s grin widened. Matt struggled to get free of the ferret twins until Joe elbowed him in the stomach and he doubled over with a grunt of pain. Jim pushed through the tribesmen, his face black with anger.

  “Let Matt go, Ace. He’s on our side, remember?” Jim glared from one to the other of the warriors flanking their chief.

  “Stop being such a fuckin’ wet nurse, Matt! I’m not going to
hurt him. Just might need him for a little job. That’s all.” Ace’s eyes glittered in the dancing firelight and he grinned.

  “So fuck off,” Joe roared and swung his fist. Jim caught it and punched him in the gut. Instantly two tribesmen grabbed his arms and pulled him back, struggling.

  “Get out of it, Jim,” Ace said in a thin voice. “You won’t get another warning.” He called to the tribesmen bunched in front of the prisoners. “Wheel the Holy Man out. It’s time he earned his keep.” The group of Flay warriors parted and pushed the Holy Man forward. “Go on, then, get your sermon out! I want to see the fear of all that’s unholy on the faces of these fuckers.”

  The Holy Man clung to his ceremonial spear, ring pulls and bottle tops rattling disconsolately in the Arctic wind. He cleared his throat. A thin line of spittle edged its way unchecked down his chin. “Flay tribe, you have been victorious. You have smitten your enemies and brought them low. But many of your brothers have fallen at the hands of the unclean. Mac, Lou, Ger, Cal and Al. The time has come for the blood price to be paid.”

  The Holy Man gave up the struggle against gravity, and his head sunk to his chest beneath the weight of the drac head mask. Ace rubbed his hands and his acolytes exchanged yellow-toothed grins.

  “To put it in a nutshell. You want to live? You got to fight. Well? Any of you poor, gutless bastards interested in having a go at saving your skins?”

  Ace was standing in front of one of the prisoners, a Matonge boy who was threshing about, trying to free his hands. The black boy’s eyes were wide, staring white in the flat darkness of his face. Foam flecked the corners of his mouth and he turned his head this way and that, seeing nothing. The war paint across his cheeks and forehead was smeared and darkened with soot and dried blood, the whorls and tribal designs carved into his close-curled hair, picked out by the gray dust.

  The boy’s body arched in a spasm that was almost beyond his adolescent strength. The ropes binding his hands loosened, and he slipped free. His chest heaved and he stared about with his uncertain gaze that suddenly seemed to focus on the spears that bristled around the prisoners, like fence pickets. Flay warriors grabbed him before he could leap at the weapons.

  “Looks like we have our first volunteer to try and save the honor of his Tribe.” Ace’s eyes narrowed. Without knowing what exactly the boy’s Holy Man had made him take to bring on the battle madness, Ace had already weighed him up. The rolling unfocused eyes, the uncoordinated movements, the slight dribbling from the mouth, the kid was a perfect candidate. He looked to be about fifteen. He turned to Jim. “Now fuck off.”

  The two men holding Jim knocked him to the ground and leaped into the noisy circle that had formed around Matt and the Matonge boy. The women stood, ill at ease and vulnerable at the back, as far from the firelight as possible. Zo and Dee detached themselves from the rest and ran toward Jim as he staggered to his feet. Before he knew what he was doing, he had his arms wrapped around both of them, fighting to control the trembling of his jaw.

  * * * *

  Carla saw the wild capering and heard the inarticulate cries of joy before she could make out what was happening. She had strapped Belle up as tightly as she dared and found her a piece of piping for a crutch. The two of them limped up to the fire in front of the main entrance, taking care to stay in the dark shadows beyond the leaping flames. Carla averted her eyes from the crumpled heap that she knew to be Flo’s body. Cavorting warriors leaped around the fire in a wide circle and in the gaps between, Carla saw Matt held firmly by Max and Seb, Ace’s ferrety-faced bodyguards. At the other side of the fire, half in shadow, Jim held Dee and Zo tightly, all three with an expression of horror on their faces.

  Ace snatched a javelin from one of the Flay tribesmen and shoved it at Matt. Matt chucked it into the fire. Ace shrugged and turned to the tribesmen holding down a black kid whose chest was heaving wildly, his face contorted with fury. Ace nodded and the tribesmen let the boy go, tossing him a javelin with a meat knife strapped to the tip. Carla couldn’t hear what Ace shouted. It was drowned by the roar of the Flay as they stamped their feet and jabbed their spears at the sky.

  Max and Seb pushed Matt toward the boy, who swayed, slight and unsteady on his feet. Matt was twice his size, but unlike the boy, immobile as a rock. The Flay tribesmen jeered and catcalled, and the black boy jerked into action. With a high-pitched scream, he lashed out at Matt, who sidestepped and pushed the javelin to one side. The boy whipped around and jabbed, hard and low. Matt staggered but kept his feet, refused to grab at his wounded leg, ready to snatch at the javelin again.

  The trussed up Matonge warriors were jabbering now in their deep, loud voices, but whether it was encouragement or curses, Carla couldn’t tell. She clenched her fists and glanced over at Jim. Someone was missing.

  Where the hell are you, Tully?

  Dee clutched at Jim’s coat, hiding her face. Zo stared, her face a white mask of incomprehension. Carla wondered how long it would be before Jim’s nerve broke and he plunged into the fight. A new roar of excitement leaped from the crowd, and Carla’s gaze flicked back in time to see the black boy, trousers flapping around his ankles, feet clad in army boots too big for him, pull back his arm, the point of his javelin dripping with blood.

  Matt swayed on his feet, one hand clutching his upper arm. The roaring became a chant, rhythmic and hypnotic. The black boy was chanting too now, echoed or egged on by the other Matonge prisoners. Loss of blood must have been making Matt lightheaded. He was beginning to stumble, not even trying to keep out of the way of the javelin.

  Carla couldn’t see, but she could imagine the haunted look in Matt’s eyes. In his place she would have felt dirty, forced to act like a fighting dog for Ace’s fun. She wanted to reach out to him, take up some of the awful burden of his shame. But the javelin jabbed, again and again and Matt staggered, his head jerking away from the lethal point that still managed to catch the exposed flesh of his throat.

  That was when Jim leaped out of the shadows.

  “Matt!” he screamed, just the one word, his friend’s name, and Matt turned. Jim tossed him something. Matt didn’t even seem to see it, his hand clutched automatically, automatically thrust, thrust away the mortal blade that kept jabbing at him like a maddened hornet, swept the javelin again in an angry arc, sweeping away the hornet blade, then back again, not meaning to, but not seeing. Matt’s blade slashed across the boy’s throat.

  The boy threw up his arms and spun a half turn, scattering red droplets in a bright arc. He spun, a rag doll, slight and frail, then crumpled, limp and lifeless. Matt gave a great cry, a string of incomprehensible obscenities poured from his throat, and Jim grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him, tears pouring down his own cheeks. Dee tried to push through the wild tribesmen but they closed ranks, pushed her back, wouldn’t let her pass. The little china doll disappeared in the mass until Zo crawled in and pulled her free.

  Matt was shouting now, struggling to get at Ace, but the tribal leader was nowhere to be seen, protected behind a hedge of henchmen and spears pointed at Matt’s heart.

  Belle moaned. Her face was ashen and her eyes half-closed. Beads of sweat stood out on her forehead, glistening in the flickering from the dying fire.

  Where are you, for Christ’s sake, Tully?

  Carla called for help. But there was no one. Just a mass of mindless bodies with makeshift spears in their fists and senseless words in their throats. She screwed up her eyes, hoping for a sight of Jim or Matt, but all she could see beyond the chortling, gurgling, dancing tribesmen was a dark shape stumbling off across the wilderness and another shape following desperately in its wake.

  Carla had just finished knotting one of the white rags onto a spare spear, and was preparing to stride out with it into the open, when a familiar voice made her heart leap.

  “Sweet Jesus, if it isn’t Florence Nightingale! Now, would you put that spear down, girl, before you do yourself an injury with it?”

  “Jack! Who let yo
u out?” Carla’s relief shone in a beaming smile.

  “Tully finally decided to come and visit,” he said. “He’s going witless with worry about you. Clucking like a right mother hen who’s lost her chicks.” He jerked his head in the direction of the bonfires. “Over there somewhere. I’ll get this young lady back to the field hospital if you want to round him up.”

  With another grin of gratitude, Carla turned and headed for the smoldering flames.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  A short while earlier

  Tully crouched down next to Jeff’s inert body, slid one arm beneath his shoulders, the other behind his knees and lifted. He was shocked at how little the boy weighed. That was what five years of under-nourishment and ill treatment did to you. Jeff’s head lolled over, and Tully shifted his weight so the boy’s cheek rested on his shoulder.

  With a pang of shame, Tully realized for the first time how sickly Jeff looked. He noticed the dark hollows beneath his eyes, the pallor of his skin beneath the dirt and all the bruises and scratches, new and old, that a mother would have cleaned up with antiseptic, smeared with arnica or covered with sticking plaster. He gave the thin little body a squeeze and picked his way back to the east side.

  “Tully,” a voice called out, sharp and anxious. Kat was running toward him, at her back the dying flames of the fuel barrier and the sprawling wire mess of the drac trap. Her hair had come down and flew around her face. “Is that Jeff?” Her voice was shrill now. Tully stopped and let her catch up. She stood and stared, her hands outstretched but not daring to touch him. She whispered, “Where’s he hurt?”

  “Apart from the wound on his head, I don’t know.”

  “I told you! He should never have been allowed to get near the fighting.” She glared furiously at Tully, who hung his head. “He’s just a child. Get him inside, out of this!” The rising anger of her voice betrayed her fear. Tully stumbled off in the direction of the wreckage of the east side entrance hall. “Not there, in here,” she said and took out the key to the bank manager’s office.