Kharon

by Wayne Marinovich

  'Sit the fuck down.'

  Lord Butler watched the beady eyes of the man who looked back at him, an uncomfortable smile across his round face. Dan glanced down to the empty bench alongside him and back across the table to the pistol on his lap.

  'Nice hardware, Francis. Should I be worried?' Dan asked, wiping his brow again.

  'Only friends and close acquaintances get to call me Francis,' Lord Butler said, placing his right hand on the table top. 'Now sit down. You are attracting unnecessary attention. They might make a move at any minute, and you are in my firing line.’

  Dan slid onto the bench, glancing back across the bar. 'I thought you were going to shoot me for being late.'

  'I have shot men for being late before, but I happen to need you right now. Where are we with my latest shipment?'

  'The cargo has been offloaded, but we lost two en route and five more in the harbour. Your man there stopped them getting out into the general population.'

  Lord Butler slammed his hand down on the table. 'I will not tolerate the failure of this project, Dan. These people cost a fortune to get across from the US and even more to ship across into the continent.'

  Dan fidgeted in his seat. 'I do realise that, Lord Butler, but Woolf was just following your orders. We cannot have them out in public, now can we?'

  Lord Butler grinned. 'No. Not until I given the word.'

  'Why do you hate the Europeans so much?'

  Lord Butler adjusted the small dagger that was on his right hip. 'The New European Government is going to pay for their previous treachery against me. They will pay for all my pain. Thieves who stole my estate and esteemed standing in the world. They took everything from me. And so, they will all be made to suffer. My plan is now in motion and cannot be stopped. Anyone getting in my way or causing its failure will be eliminated.'

  Lord Butler poured another whiskey and drained the glass, slamming it back down on the table. He sneered as he caught the American staring at the stump of his left arm, which had been amputated below the elbow.

  'They are all responsible for this,' he said, pointing to the people sitting at the bar. 'The pain I have suffered. The seeping gangrene, the scars to my face and body, shattered teeth from the beatings at the hands of the NEG minions. I cannot wait until all of these scavenging bastards die horrible deaths at the hands of Kharon. Our planet will be a better place without them all.'

  He looked at Dan who sat, wide-eyed, his mouth open.

  'Well, say something, Dan,' Lord Butler said. 'You Americans always have so much to say.'

  'Sorry, Lord Butler,' Dan said, tugging at his tight shirt collar. 'I was going to say that you are looking better than the last time I saw you. Dr Stubbs has done a great job.'

  'Dr Stubbs is a moron. A butcher at best. Next, are you going to tell me that he will be accompanying me to the US?'

  Dan shook his head and reached into his top shirt pocket for a piece of white paper. 'These are details for Dr Michael Turner, a British surgeon, and a man of questionable principles. For the right price, he will escort you to the US and complete the treatment of the arm.'

  Lord Butler grabbed the paper and placed it in his top waistcoat pocket. Movement at the furthest end of the bar caught his attention. 'Well, Dan, it's time you were leaving. Get out of here and drive across to Glasgow tonight. Call my man on the way and tell him to ready the ship.'

  Dan frowned until he saw Lord Butler's good hand move down to the weapon on his lap.

  'Good day to you, sir,' Dan said, slipping out off the bench. He walked past the three youths who were now standing at the bar.

  Lord Butler closed his eyes for a few seconds enjoying long, slow breaths. The darkness swirled around inside him like thick black molasses, permeating every corner of his mind. Peaceful dark molasses that filled him with strength. Floorboards creaked beneath the carpet in front of him. A sickly smell of cheap aftershave wafted towards him. The rubber grip of the Beretta felt warm in his grip.

  'Hey, mister? Give us your wallet, and that watch you’ve been hiding,' the young man said as he pulled a large dagger from his belt and flipped up the red hoodie of his tracksuit top. A new smell stung Lord Butler’s nostrils. The smell of sweat and bad ale.

  ‘It’s only good manners to say please, young man.’

  ‘Shut up and give me the money, or I’ll bleed you like a pig.’

  'Run along and play with the kiddies. You are picking a fight with the wrong man.'

  'What’s a fucking cripple like you going…?'

  The bullet entered through his left eye and exploded out the side of his head. Mouth gaping, his other eye rolled upwards. The second bullet smashed into the centre of his forehead, snapping his head backwards before the third ripped into his stomach, throwing his arms forwards like a falling puppet.

  The darkness roared within Lord Butler as he pushed up off his seat, toppling the table forwards in the alcove and sending the bottle of whiskey crashing to the floor.

  The fourth bullet took the second teen out as he grabbed at the hole over his heart, and sinking slowly to his knees, he rasped a breath and fell sideways. The last boy was the youngest. Lord Butler lowered his head slightly, as a smile appeared. The teen backed away, clutching at the knife which was tucked into his belt. The gun roared as the boy stifled a groan. Lord Butler walked to him as the teen held his throat, blood bubbling between his fingers.

  'I am sorry, young man. My aim is usually much better. I may be a little drunk,' he said as he pressed the Beretta to the kneeling teenager’s head and fired.

  Turning towards the bar, he smiled at the barman and felt a rush of adrenaline, the blood splattered on his face felt warm and comforting. The man behind the bar flicked longing glances at both doors of the pub. Lord Butler wiped his mouth with his right sleeve. The two old regulars had backtracked to the furthest door and were holding their hands out in front of them. A growl from the black Alsatian broke the silence, and it strained against the old hand that held him back.

  A confused yelp came from the dog as it jumped into the air, twisting backwards to try and bite at the chest hole the bullet had left. Landing on the floor again, its legs collapsed beneath a lifeless body. The old man groaned and moved towards his fallen companion when the bullet entered the top of his head and erupted in a red puff of blood as it thudded into the door. His tall friend’s hands fell to his side as he stared at the Beretta. A resignation washed over him before the gun’s last retort.

  The Beretta slide stayed back after the last shell had been expelled. Lord Butler's deft fingers dropped the empty mag to the floor, and he thrust the Beretta up under his left armpit. He grabbed another magazine from his jacket pocket and slipped it into the Beretta, forcing it in by banging it against his thigh.

  He walked over to the barman. 'A glass of water please, my good man,' he said.

  The man rushed over to the small sink and filled up a tall glass, the sound of glass tapping against the metal faucet as his hand shook. Lord Butler slipped the pistol into his belt then grabbed his hanky from his top pocket to wipe the blood and sweat from his face. The water was cold and offset the bitter aftertaste of whiskey in his mouth.

  'Thank you, innkeeper,' he said, walking towards the door.

  Lord Butler reached for the low door handle, his slim hand still shaking with excitement. He is taking you for a fool, the darkness mocked. Swinging around on the heels of his boots, he walked back. 'Some of these ignorant oafs might have thought the swill you sold me was real whiskey, but I could taste that you had watered it down. Didn't I tell you not to give me the cheap swill?'

  'I am sorry, sir,' the barman said, reaching for another bottle. 'It must have been the wrong bottle.'

  'Of course it was,' he replied and swung the shotgun out from under his jacket.

  Chapter 4

  Carshalton Estate, Surrey, England, UK - 2033

  Kyle Gibbs fought the old iron plough as it bucked against the dry ground and tried its best to snap hi
s wrists. The earthy smell of the parting soil filled his nostrils as dark brown dust swirled around him from the horses' hooves. With the long leather reins from the two black-and-white workhorses draped over his shoulder, he stepped to his right to try to look ahead past the large rumps of the side-by-side Cleveland Bay horses. Martha and Mavis, as they were named, were usually livelier to handle, but today they were behaving themselves.

  'Whoa,' Gibbs shouted as he slipped the reins off his shoulder and gave them a pull as he leant back. Streams of sweat dripped from his short dark hair, down onto his temples. As he wiped them away, the wet dust caused streaks down his muscular arms. One of the horses reared up and tried to bite the other. 'Stop it, Mavis,' he said, or maybe it was Martha. There was no telling the difference.

  'Want to take a break, old man?' a person shouted as another team of horses pulled up. The lean, shirtless Warren Smith tied the reins onto the iron plough he was working alongside.

  'Enough of that old man crap, you little squirt, or I'll have you working until midnight.'

  'I might be out here that long anyway,' Warren said. 'It's like ploughing through metal.'

  'Well at least your horses are behaving,' Gibbs said. He grabbed a recycled plastic bottle that was wedged into the back of the plough. The fresh borehole water slaked his thirst, washing the dust away.

  'They are like dogs and can sense that you don't like them.'

  'I'll swap you then,' Gibbs said.

  'No thanks,' Warren said. 'They are yours to have fun with today.'

  'Thanks.'

  'I was told they'd made some progress in getting the fusion engines right for tractors. I'm sure they'll cost an absolute fortune, though.'

  'Maybe we can trade with someone who eventually gets one.'

  'Well the only man wealthy enough is the Warlord of London,' Gibbs replied.

  'Luckily Tom is one of our old friends then,' Warren said. 'He could let us have one for a few days surely.'

  'Tom might be an old friend of ours, but he is still an old gang leader at heart. It will still cost us a lot to rent it from him.'

  'I guess we will be doing it manually then.'

  Gibbs smiled at him.

  A shrill whistle pierced the air from across the field. Martha whinnied loudly, setting off Mavis, who tried to bite her again.

  'Whoa, you two!' Gibbs yelled.

  Martha shook her head, flicking her black mane in the sun, then tried to bite Mavis on the neck causing her to rear up to get away. The long reins pulled loose as the plough swung to the right and was dragged along for a few feet.

  'Oh come on, Mavis!'

  The plough dug deeper into the dark soil and Gibbs stretched to reach the reins. Both the horses reared up, and the iron coupling from the harnesses to the plough snapped. A six-foot length of leather looped back and whipped Gibbs around his bare torso. 'Arrgh…Bastards!' he screamed and grabbed the straps before they slipped off him. 'Whoa!' he screamed, leaning back to pull the horses.

  'Let 'em go, Gibbs,' Warren shouted.

  Gibbs's head snapped back as the two large horses bolted across the field. Flying through the air for a few metres, he came back down to earth on his right side, a stinging pain spreading through his ribs. More pain pulsed from his wrists which the leather reins had wrapped around. Bumping along behind the two jostling horses, he groaned as patches of skin were grazed away. A hundred metres across the field they came to a stop in front of the waist-high wooden fence. 'Useless bloody animals,' he shouted.

  Standing behind the fence, grinning with her hand in front of her mouth was Christina Anderson, his common-law wife. Her long blonde hair was in a ponytail, and she lifted their son, Stuart, up onto the short fence to hand Mavis a handful of green grass he had picked. The four-year-old squealed with joy as the large horse took the grass and nuzzled him.

  'Did you have to bloody whistle like that, Christina,' Gibbs said as he stood up and looked at the blood on his elbows and side. 'They have destroyed another fucking harness.'

  'Gibbs. Not in front of Stuart.'

  Gibbs raised an eyebrow. 'How many times have I said not to bring him down when they are working? You know they are used to him feeding them.'

  Gibbs walked over and rubbed his hand through the white hair of his son.

  'Oh relax, grumpy pants,' Christina said. 'You'll make another.'

  'I have a thousand other things to finish on this commune without doing the same thing over and over again.'

  Christina turned to her son. 'Stuart, let's leave Daddy and go and see where Buster has gone.'

  'Have you lost that puppy again?'

  'Jeez, you are full of it today,' she said, leaning across the fence and kissing him. 'Do us all a favour. Go and have a few drinks with your old army buddies. I know that you miss the SAS lifestyle. All that adventure and camaraderie. So please take the van and go and reminisce about killing and blowing up things then come back to us when you are calm again.'

  ‘It’s not that simple.’

  ‘Yes, it is, Gibbs!’ Christin said. ‘I have known you for a long time, and I know that all this commune life is a big change from doing missions for the government, but it is what it is. Go and have a drink.’

  Gibbs was about to reply when she turned away and walked off. After five years of living together, she still looked great when she walked off. He leant on the fence post and watched his son holding her hand and looking over her shoulder as he walked.

  'Gibbs, the fields won't plough themselves you know,' Warren shouted.

  'One woman giving me orders is enough, thank you,' Gibbs shouted back.

  Yanking hard on the reins, he pulled Martha and Mavis away from the fence, glancing at his wife and son as they walked up the shaded lane towards the house, then he turned to walk the horses back across the field.

  Chapter 5

  The Willow Bar, Greenock, Scotland - 2033

  Woolf Egger ruffled his fingers through his short blond hair, shaking out the excess moisture from the continued grey sheets of water that many would call rain. In two weeks, he would be back in the warm and dry weather of the USA.

  The woman standing in front of him was in her mid-fifties, her wrinkled face twitching as she scowled up at him. 'You didn't have to lay him out like that.'

  'Mind your own business, woman,' he said, opening his raincoat to reveal the Beretta.

  'Guns don't scare me, you big bully. That boy was just begging for something to eat.'

  ‘I told him a few times to take that three-legged dog and get lost,' Woolf said. 'I will only tell you once.'

  The woman shook her head and walked up the street.

  'Only the strong survive, lady,' he shouted after her.

  The teen, dressed in tattered clothes, knelt a few meters from him, holding the cream-coloured Alsatian in one hand while he rubbed his bleeding nose with the other. ‘I should have let Toby take a bite out of you, mister.’

  ‘Run along, or I will shoot you both and laugh as the ravens pick at your carcases.’ The teen scowled and flipped him the finger before sauntering away, the dog hopping after him.

  Scanning up and down Inverkirk Street, Woolf fiddled with his pockets and buttoned up the jacket again. Boarded-up stone houses and windowless shops lined the wet street as scavengers moved about with their trolleys and barrows, trading the goods they had found. A long way up the street which rose up a gentle hill, a tall man stopped walking and turned to look into a shop window. Woolf focussed on the man’s features. Had he seen him somewhere before? NEG informants were everywhere.

  Apart from two old scavengers, who were struggling to push a wooden trailer filled with scrap up the street, no real threat showed itself. Woolf turned to the yellow wooden door of The Willow Pub and looked up at the windows of the granite-stoned apartments above the doorway. Sitting inside one of the open white-framed windows was a middle-aged woman with peroxide blonde hair, black roots and excess makeup. She flashed a toothless smile as she turned then grabbed her
ample breasts that were fighting to remain in the black lace bra.

  Woolf shook his head and shuddered, removing the Beretta from its shoulder holster beneath his beige overcoat he slipped it into the side pocket. With his left hand, he grabbed the door handle and pushed the door open.

  The interior was well lit for a small bar and directly in front of him was the wooden bar counter. Five brass beer taps were positioned in the middle of the counter with bottles of home-stilled spirits shelved behind the smiling bartender.

  'What can I get you, mate?' the young man said as he threw a dirty dishtowel to the side.

  'Pint of local ale, please.'

  'Sure thing. Can I offer you anything else? Drugs, maybe a lady thrown in too?'

  Woolf shook his head. He grabbed the warm jug of beer and took a long swig. The warm, bitter taste stung his dry mouth and throat. He did like the local brews.

  'Get me another.'

  The barman nodded and scurried to a small sink to wash another glass.

  'Hello, darling?' a gravelly voice said.

  Woolf watched the peroxide blonde approach from a side door in the bar. She had donned a pink see-through gown to cover the black underwear she wore. She had also placed her teeth in.

  'A girl could do with a stiff drink, you know.'

  Woolf looked up and down at her ageing body and then nodded to the barman.

  'Thank you, stranger. You're not a regular here, are you?'

  Woolf grabbed the pint of ale, which appeared, and drained half in one gulp.

  'You don't say very much, do you?' she said, taking a step closer, the sickening smell of cheap perfume and baby powder filling his nostrils. She stroked his muscular arm. 'Why don’t you take that jacket off and relax, big man?'

  She grabbed the small shot of what could have been whiskey and sank it in one go. 'You and I could go somewhere a little more private. Only five NEGs for the night.'

  Woolf looked into her mascara-caked eyes and scanned her powdered face. The Beretta clunked down on the bar counter in front of him.