by Scott Innes
Gerry looked back at us anxiously as Gary Barlow began to climb. Gerry had his arms around his neck, his wrists white from how tightly he was holding on. I would never tell him this, but Gerry looked badly out of shape. I remembered how a few years ago he’d absolutely packed the weight on, to the point that I even recommended he consider looking into gastric bands. He’d waved me away, saying that he ‘didn’t like that type of music’.
‘Well, all well and good for Gerry, but what are we supposed to do?’ Gillian asked, putting her hands on her hips. ‘I’ve never been rock-climbing in my life.’
‘PLEASE, ALLOW BARRINGTON12 TO BE OF ASSISTANCE IN THIS MATTER.’
Without waiting for a response, Barrington12 grabbed hold of the scruff of my jacket in one mighty metal hand and Gillian’s in the other, and hoisted us up onto either shoulder.
‘KEEP A TIGHT GRIP,’ he advised as he began his climb. ‘FALLING FROM A HEIGHT SUCH AS THIS WOULD CARRY A HIGH PROBABILITY OF DEATH.’
‘You don’t say,’ I whispered breathlessly, too afraid to look down. Barrington12 soon overtook the Watlaq warriors to the rear (a small group of them had remained at ground level to keep watch) and promptly drew level with Gerry and Gary Barlow, the latter of whom looked very miffed about it.
‘Meet you at the top, I guess!’ I called over to Gerry, who had his head buried in the back of Gary Barlow’s neck, fighting the urge to spew.
My stomach was doing somersaults but I forced myself to keep looking up. Beyond the Watlaq vanguard, of which Akplatak was the most advanced, there was a deep black ridge cut into the side of Great Strombago. Sticks and vines poked out into the outside world – there was no doubt that this was the nest. We just had to hope it would be the right one. I did not fancy climbing up every side of the volcano hoping for the best, I was shattered enough as it was.
As we climbed and as my stomach began to settle, I chanced a look around us. We were high above ground level now and the sprawling majesty of Palangonia stretched all around us. The trees of the forest beyond the marsh, which had towered so unfathomably high above us while we trekked through it, now looked like mere weeds. The bog itself seemed almost beautiful from up there, the surface glittering in the dull sunlight, with no indication of the water wyrm horrors that lurked below. I tilted my head up higher and beyond the forest I fancied I could just about make out a concrete speck on the horizon: the Compound. Our home. Here, scaling the side of a volcano, it seemed impossibly far away.
The nearer we got to the dark gash in the side of the mountain, the louder the fluttering sound became. I quickly shouted into Barrington12’s ear to slow down a little – there was no way I wanted us to be the first to poke our heads in if they were in there primed and waiting for us. It was far more advisable to let one of the Watlaq go first – no disrespect to them, but I had a spy to catch and a football club to save. Whichever way you looked at it, I was not as expendable.
Barrington12 did as he was told and slowed to a halt just below the rim. Akplatak had no such inhibitions, and no sooner had we overtaken him during the climb than he and his first responders were past us again, clambering in through the slit with not a moment’s hesitation. Almost immediately, there was a gut-wrenching squeal followed by the noise from what sounded like a ferocious skirmish. The Watlaq screamed battle cries and several more of them shot past us and into the nest to join the fray. Only Gary Barlow hung back, wisely deciding not to take their beloved god into harm’s way.
‘We need to see what’s going on in there,’ I said. ‘Barrington12, subtly does it, but creep up a bit so we can peek in.’ He obliged without a word.
It was carnage. Utter chaos. There were mangled bodies of the Watlaq strewn all over the dank cave. It was surprisingly wide inside, high ceilings covered in a strange moss-like substance, and the ground looked squelchy and gooey under the Watlaq’s bare feet. In the dim light afforded by the quickly darkening sky outside, I could discern six Winged Terrors, swarming about the heads of the warriors, clawing at them and, in the case of one poor fellow, flying straight at him and knocking him flying back past us, plummeting to his death far below. I had eyes for only one thing – but I couldn’t see him anywhere.
‘Damn,’ Gillian muttered, clinging to Barrington12’s other shoulder and straining to see inside the nest. ‘Kevin, I don’t see him.’
‘Nor me,’ I said, bashing Barrington12 in frustration. ‘This could all be for nothing.’
But soon, the tide of the battle began to turn in the Watlaq’s favour. Two of them brought down the fiercest-looking of the Winged Terror pack, stabbing him savagely with their spears, and this seemed to send the remaining five into disarray and panic. They were picked off one by one, Akplatak himself striking the finishing blow to one of them as it bobbed about just above the floor of the nest with one of its wings already shredded by arrows. He picked up a large boulder and dropped it on the creature’s head, squishing it with a sickly crunching sound. Bit unnecessary, actually.
Soon, the fight was over. If anything, it had seemed almost too easy. The Watlaq had sustained a number of casualties, many fatal, but they had won the day. This had been a victory that their Mullet God could be proud of, though I could see from the pained look on Gerry’s face that he felt queasy about such acts of violence, no matter their cause, being performed in his name. As the victory cheers went up, I urged Barrington12 to carry us inside; Gary Barlow and Gerry followed just behind.
‘Kwaff!’ Akplatak announced, looking extremely fired up. ‘Sewi trik tok slamami!’
‘Absolutely,’ I agreed, hurrying past him. I had no time to celebrate – I had to search every corner of that cave for Rodway. This simply could not have all been for nothing.
‘I’ll help,’ Gillian said, starting from the opposite end. There were piles of bracken and bones strewn all over the shop.
‘I’ll check over here,’ Gerry said, but was instantly surrounded by the Watlaq, who looked to him for some kind of victory speech. He looked hopelessly lost but tried to improvise something, as Barrington12 translated for him. ‘Erm… we have won a great battle here today. Many lives were lost but in the serving of a great cause. Um… and may the… the spirit of White Hart Lane live on inside us all, forever.’
They looked a little nonplussed but after a moment’s hesitation, cheered him like he’d just won the match ball. Once again, they were so very easily pleased. Gerry could have said anything and they’d have held him aloft over their shoulders.
‘Any joy?’ I asked Gillian, scooping up debris with both hands, desperately hoping to lift some to find Rodway underneath, preferably still breathing.
‘Nothing,’ she said grimly – and then, ‘Oh.’
She held something up and I hurried over to her. It was a Compound-issue ID badge. Not Rodway, but one of the guards who had been killed before Rodway was captured. I felt a twinge of guilt – had I not called them over to the stadium, they’d never have suffered so terrible a fate. If I hadn’t deluded myself into believing that Gillian had been the spy… Well, it wasn’t the time for stewing over my own regrets. That would have to come later. However, finding this accreditation here in the nest at least meant that we were in the right place. Now the only question was whether Rodway had survived this long.
‘Keep looking,’ I told Gillian urgently. ‘He’s here, I know it.’
We resumed our search while Gerry stood by the nest entrance, still surrounded by the adoring Watlaq, who seemed content now just to stare at him for no reason.
We had scoured pretty much every corner of the nest-cave with no signs of life. It was clear – we had been too late. Rodway was gone. I had failed him.
‘Damn it!’ I cried in anguished fury, leaning back against the wall in despair. ‘Damn it all to bloody hell!’ I tugged angrily on a grass-like covering on the wall, stuck there like some kind of tapestry. It pulled loose in my hand and, frowning, I heaved it free of the wall and tossed it aside, my eyes bulging in astonishment. Behind i
t was a large nook, chock-full of trinkets and other souvenirs that the Winged Terrors had clearly pilfered during their years of scavenging – there were gold coins and jewels, broken weapons not dissimilar to those wielded by the Watlaq (no doubt seized during previous attacks on the tribe), and there were even some modern gadgets and treasures that must have come from those they had snatched from within the Compound walls during the past year, another condemnation of General Leigh’s failed scheme to machine gun them out of the sky whenever they approached.
And there, lying sprawled on top of it all, was our Rodway. He was battered, beaten and barely conscious – but he was alive. I almost wept at the sight of him. I hurried inside and dropped down beside him (sitting right on top of a broken sword handle – that could have been nasty) and gently tapped his cheeks to rouse him. He had a big crusty cut down the left side of his face and one of his eyes was black and bruised. I noticed to my dismay that one leg was sticking out at an unnatural angle and that the bone was poking through his trousers. It was all I could do to keep myself from being sick. Having said that, if we did indeed get the club back, he wasn’t going to be playing anytime soon – meaning there would be no way Gillian could refuse to release funds for a new striker now. I glanced over at her; she had followed me into the alcove and was now resting Rodway’s head in her lap. She nodded – she knew what I was thinking.
‘I’m glad he’s alive too,’ she smiled.
Oh.
‘Well, obviously,’ I agreed.
‘Rodway? Is that him, Kev? Is he alive?’
It was Gerry, calling over to us. He was unable to get over to the alcove himself (or at least, not without barrelling his worshippers to the ground) but was craning his neck for a glimpse.
‘He’s alive, Gerry!’ I cried. ‘We got him, son!’
I waved to Barrington12 frantically; he stomped over.
‘We’ll need you to carry him,’ I told the robot solemnly. ‘He can’t walk and even if he could, he’s had one hell of an ordeal. Christ, haven’t we all…’
I trailed off; I felt suddenly exhausted, like all the energy had been sapped from me. It had been a monumental effort to rescue Rodway and now all I craved was the comfort of my own bed. The sooner we began heading back, the better.
‘Actually, hang on a sec. Gerry!’ I said, as Gillian and I delicately carried Rodway out of the nook. ‘Shout down to the lads on lookout below, tell them we’re coming down! Barrington12, go with him, he’ll need you to translate.’
‘Will do, Kev!’ said Gerry, turning and peering over the edge of the cave entrance with Barrington12 in tow.
The message delivered, Gillian and I gently placed Rodway’s fragile frame into Barrington12’s arms.
‘Take him down to ground level first,’ I told him, ‘then come back up to fetch me and Gillian. Then we’re going home. It’s over.’
‘I AM SO PLEASED,’ said Barrington12 – and despite his monotone voice, he did sound it.
I looked at Rodway’s sleeping face. He seemed so at peace, entirely at odds with the cave around us, which was decaying with death and misery. I squeezed Rodway’s hand gently, and his eyes fluttered open.
‘G… gaffer?’ he asked, unable to believe what he was seeing. Now, I did weep.
‘That’s right, son,’ I said in a thick voice, completely choked up. ‘It’s me. We’re all here. We’ve come to take you home. You’re one heck of a fighter, I’ll tell you that.’
He smiled in delirious happiness and then groaned – the pain was already coming back to him. Aside from Gerry’s hay fever medication, we had nothing by way of medical supplies. He was going to have to tough it out until Dr Pebble-Mill was able to work his magic.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ I said, looking to the cave entrance. Gerry was still peering down at the foot of the volcano, a perplexed look on his face. ‘All okay, Gerry?’
He turned to me, scratching his head in bafflement.
‘It’s the lads on watch down below,’ he said. ‘They look like… Kev, I think they’re all dead.’
These words had barely left his lips before everything went completely to hell. What happened next is something I still cannot fully explain.
But it did happen.
IT IS NOT TODAY
Like Ryan Giggs in his prime, it was so damn fast. One minute I was standing there in the cave trying to take in what Gerry had said – how could the Watlaq on the ground all suddenly be dead? – the next, it was chaos.
Gerry was a silhouette in the diminishing light, looking at me with his back to the world beyond. Suddenly, the light was all but extinguished by three enormous shapes hovering in the air directly behind him. Akplatak shrieked in dismay and threw himself into Gerry’s path as a shield as the Winged Terror floating in the centre lunged for my best friend. The three beasts were larger than any of those the Watlaq had already vanquished. Akplatak was left with a deep gash in his shoulder as he sank to his knees beside Gerry, who had been knocked backwards as the Winged Terror swiped at the tribe leader.
‘Get away from the edge!’ I roared as the other two Winged Terrors knocked a couple of the Watlaq out of the cave entrance to the ground far below. Thankfully they didn’t require Barrington12’s translation of this instruction, they backed away quickly enough on their own. I ordered the robot to go and stand at the far end of the cave to protect Rodway from further harm – the lad had fainted in shock at the return of the foul creatures. I was about to tell Gillian to get back too, but she collected a spear from the cave floor, dropped by one of the fallen warriors, and threw it at the Winged Terror on the right. It struck right above the heart, a deep, piercing wound. It squawked in pain and fury and fluttered backwards away from the cave mouth, trying to grip the spear with its enormous claws to yank it free.
‘Heck of an arm you’ve got there!’ I cried, genuinely impressed. ‘I’ll take care of the bugger on the opposite side!’
I looked around for a discarded spear of my own but there were none to hand. I looked up at poor Akplatak, bleeding badly on the ground beside Gerry, who was just sitting pressed back against the wall of the cave, staring intently at the two remaining Winged Terrors (the third still ailing in the background) as they laid siege to the Watlaq. The tribespeople had won a famous victory first time around, but with this surprise attack they looked hideously unprepared and horrifically disorganised.
‘Gerry!’ I cried. ‘Throw me your man’s spear!’
He didn’t respond. Surely he hadn’t fallen asleep? That’d be just like him as well. Mind you, I’m hardly one to talk. I often used to nod off on the touchline during matches and on being startled awake, with the game still in progress, I’d have to ask the fourth official what the score was.
‘Gerry!’ I shouted, harsher in tone this time. ‘Akplatak’s out for the count, son, throw me his spear!’
Slowly, as though hypnotised, Gerry turned and looked at me and I was disturbed to see a completely vacant expression in his eyes. They weren’t even his eyes at all – they were milky white and glazed over and there was no recognition at all as he stared in my direction. I shuddered and forced myself to look away.
I didn’t have time to worry about Gerry having some kind of fit – the Winged Terrors were rapidly overpowering the depleted Watlaq warriors. Gillian had managed to give the middle Terror a bastard of a shiner by lobbing a rock at his head. She was really quite handy, it had to be said.
‘KEVIN KEEGAN,’ came Barrington12’s almost mournful voice, echoing from the back of the cave, ‘STATISTICALLY, THIS DOES NOT LOOK GOOD. I FEAR THIS BATTLE IS LOST. WE ARE UNLIKELY TO WIN AGAINST THESE CREATURES.’
‘Thanks for that, you ray of sunshine,’ I said bitterly. ‘And anyway, that’s what they said about my Man City side when we were 3–0 down at Spurs in the Cup. I’ve got two words for you, my friend: Jon Macken.’
Feeling fired up, I extended my arm to Akplatak at the other side of the cave.
‘Akkie!’ I roared. ‘Throw me y
our spear!’
His face creased up in agony, he looked at me with a complete lack of understanding – but when I pointed to his spear on the ground beside him and then to myself, he leaned forward with a grimace and rolled it across the cave floor towards me. I seized it and looked at the central Winged Terror, the one that had gone for my Gerry and banjaxed poor Akplatak, and I smiled grimly.
‘Hey, ugly,’ I cried. ‘Eat this!’
Not wishing to be outdone by Gillian, I threw the spear with all my might and it pierced right through the chest with a sickening crunch. The only downside was that it was, in fact, Akplatak’s chest.
The tribe leader screamed the place down in agony – honestly, I felt terrible. The only small mercy was that, in the melee, none of the other Watlaq seemed to have noticed it was me who had impaled their leader. Adrenaline pumping, Akkie grabbed hold of the spear handle and heaved the thing from his body. I was rooted to the spot in fear – was he going to lob it back at me as retribution?
Akplatak bellowed with righteous anger as he clutched the spear – I was crossing my fingers that it wouldn’t turn out to be one of the poison-tipped ones. I looked on in astonishment as, instead of throwing it back at me and flattening me against the wall, he aimed straight for the Winged Terror that had injured him and, with incredible power and distance given his slumped position on the floor, stuck the spear right into the centre of its skull. It fell dead from the sky before it even realised what had happened.
‘Great shot, Akkie!’ I shouted in encouragement – he glanced over at me with utter disdain before crumpling back down, his breathing ragged. Look, I know I’d just wounded him, perhaps mortally so, but I actually thought he was a bit out of order looking at me like that. I mean, how was that supposed to make me feel?
Enraged at seeing their comrade struck down in such a fashion, the remaining two Terrors renewed their attacks on the dwindling Watlaq forces with increased vigour. Before they were able to lose their arrows or lob their spears they were being struck down or toppled from the cave mouth to the distant ground below. I looked on desperately as the last fighter, Gary Barlow, though able to cut a gashing blow to one of the Terrors’ legs, was decapitated right there where he stood. Listen, I don’t care where you’re from, that’s a horrible way to go. I’ve always said that.