by Adam Baker
‘It wasn’t personal, boss.’
‘Open ground. I could drop you in a heartbeat. I’ve got you in my sights right now.’
No response.
‘Well? Don’t you want to live?’
‘What do you want me to say, bokkie?’
‘Help us get out of this valley, and maybe I will let you live. Can Gaunt hear us? Is he wearing his wire?’
‘No.’
‘The moment you guys hook up the fuel line, we whack him.’
‘We need Gaunt to drive the locomotive. We need him alive.’
‘Fuck him. We’ll figure out the controls.’
Lucy pulled the earpiece from her ear.
‘You want to let Voss off the hook?’ asked Amanda. ‘After what he did to us?’
‘Let’s get out the valley. After that, if you still want to snuff the guy, be my guest.’
The vehicles reached the locomotive. Voss checked out the carriage windows, trying to work out if Lucy and Amanda were hidden inside.
Gaunt jumped from the cab.
Voss climbed an iron ladder to the tanker roof. He swung the boom arm towards the locomotive. Six-inch transfer hose swung like an elephant’s trunk.
Gaunt grabbed the hose and pulled it to the walkway. He pulled a ring-latch and lifted a section of grating. He unscrewed the heavy fuel cap. He grabbed the swinging hose. Male to female. Twist to engage. Flip cam locks to clamp the coupling in position.
Voss crouched on the tanker roof and examined the pump. A 14V Dynavolt battery. An electric compressor in a mesh safety cage. He checked connections and flipped a power switch. Green light. The pump began to hum. The fuel pipe trembled. He leant forward and put his ear to the pipe. Gulp and gush.
‘We’re in business. She’s fuelling.’
Voss descended the ladder. Gaunt jumped from the locomotive. They faced each other.
Gaunt gestured towards the convoy. They could see creatures, twisted by strange cankerous growths, weaving between burned-out vehicles.
‘Think we can hold them off?’ asked Gaunt.
‘Smart fire. Clean medulla shots. Let’s not waste a single bullet.’
‘Okay.’
Gaunt fetched a backpack full of ammo from the truck cab.
‘Better get ourselves a fire position.’
He headed for the carriage. Voss held back.
Gaunt reached up and gripped the door handle.
‘What’s up with you?’
‘Nothing,’ said Voss.
Gaunt took the locomotive ignition key from his pocket and held it up.
‘Don’t forget. You still need me. You want to get home? You want to get rich? Then you need me alive.’
Gaunt pulled open the carriage door and hauled himself up into the carriage. Gunshot. Windows momentarily lit by muzzle flare like a camera flash. Gaunt was hurled from the coach. He rolled in the dust.
Lucy and Amanda climbed from the carriage. Smoke curled from the barrel of Lucy’s AK.
Gaunt was shot in the hip, just beneath the hem of his flak jacket. He crawled, dragging his injured leg, blood soaking into the sand. He gripped the side of the carriage and slowly pulled himself upright.
Lucy picked up the locomotive key and put it in her pocket. She hoisted Gaunt’s backpack from where it lay and slung it over one shoulder. She raised the AK and took aim.
Gaunt popped an ammo pouch on his chest rig and held the virus cylinder above his head.
‘You want to shoot? Want to crack this baby open, see what happens?’
He backed away, sliding along the side of the carriage, dragging his injured leg.
‘Back up. Back the fuck up.’
Lucy lowered the gun.
‘You’ve got nowhere to go, Gaunt. This place is going to burn.’
Gaunt began to limp away across the sand, still holding the virus cylinder.
Amanda took a couple of steps but Lucy held her back.
‘Leave him,’ said Lucy. ‘Better this way. Let him piss in fear as the bomb drops.’
‘What about the virus?’
‘Let the firestorm do its job.’
They watched Gaunt reach the valley wall. Dripping sweat, dripping blood, dragging his useless leg.
‘How long can he last?’ asked Amanda.
Lucy shrugged.
‘I’ve seen Talib last a whole day with their guts hanging out.’
Gaunt struggled to climb. A slow scramble. Behind him a cadaverous soldier clawed upward in slow pursuit. Fingers raked dirt. Boots gouged loose an avalanche of scree.
‘Tempted to shoot him as mercy.’
‘No,’ said Lucy. ‘He brought this on himself.’
A skeletal hand locked round Gaunt’s ankle. He screamed. A thin, girlish wail. He tried to kick himself free.
The creature gripped his legs. It dug fingers and teeth into the wound at his hip, like it was drawn by the scent of blood.
Gaunt pounded the revenant’s head with a rock. He was too weak to shatter the creature’s skull.
They rolled down the slope in a stone-chip landslide. The soldier pinned Gaunt’s chest and tore at his shoulder and neck.
‘Adios, fucker,’ murmured Lucy. She turned away, ignored the shrill screams that echoed round the valley wall.
She turned to Voss. ‘How long will it take to fill the tank?’ she asked.
‘Couple of hours. She’s pumping at thirty-five, maybe forty gallons a minute.’
‘We don’t have much time. We pump for one hour, then unhitch and haul arse no matter what. She’ll get us part the way home. Get us halfway across the desert if we are lucky. After that, we walk.’
‘All right,’ said Voss.
‘You want to live? Then earn it. Get up on that carriage roof and give us cover fire. Let’s hold off these fucks as long as we can.’
Voss shouldered an assault rifle and climbed an iron ladder to the coach roof. He sat cross-legged on hot sheet-metal.
‘Watch your fire,’ shouted Lucy. ‘If you put tracer in that fuel tank, you’ll blow us all to hell.’
Voss lowered the brim of his baseball cap to shield his eyes from the merciless sun. He hooked his radio earpiece to his ear.
‘Bastards are massing. They’re moving out the citadel, heading this way. Looks like we stirred the hornets’ nest.’
Lucy’s voice:
‘I guess we sit tight long as we can, then get the hell out of here.’
‘We should leave. Right now. I got a bird’s-eye view where I’m sitting. Dozens of the fuckers moving through that convoy. Won’t take them long to cross open ground and reach us.’
‘We’ve got to keep our nerve. Every minute that pump is running we put more fuel in the tank and get closer to home.’
Voss swigged from his canteen. He took off his baseball cap and wiped sweat from his brow.
‘Christ. Bastard fucking place.’
Lucy upturned Gaunt’s backpack. Ammunition spilt across the floor. Pistol clips and rifle magazines.
‘Back in business,’ said Amanda.
They slid knives into belt sheaths. They slotted fresh magazines into their Glocks, and dropped them into hip holsters. They tucked STANAG clips into ammunition pouches strapped to their chest-rigs. They slapped mags into their carbines, racked the charging handles and each chambered a round.
‘Like it?’
‘Love it.’
They smashed out windows. They set up fire positions.
Amanda shunted an ornate Queen Anne table beneath the window and laid out the SAW.
Lucy pulled a couple of chairs to the window. She sat and rested her rifle on the sill. She stacked STANAG clips on the chair beside her.
They took aim at the convoy, waited for incoming soldiers, waited for a clear shot.
Radio crackle. The sat phone lying on a nearby table. The winking red light of an open channel.
‘…Roger, Papa One. Maintain at sixteen…’
Lucy pulled a map from her pocket and shook i
t open.
‘Papa One. That’s the QTAC call sign for Baghdad International.’
‘Shit,’ said Amanda. ‘I didn’t think they had reached the coast.’
‘Puts them about three hundred miles south-east of here,’ said Lucy. ‘A cargo plane, hauling a heavy load. Flying between one-fifty, two hundred knots. A straight run across the desert. I reckon they’ll be overhead in ninety minutes.’
‘Be lucky to live that long,’ said Amanda. She looked towards the convoy. Soldiers, dozens of them, weaving between cars.
Lucy focused her binoculars. Soldiers slithered from the turret hatches of APCs, crawled from beneath trucks, tumbled from the trunks of wrecked sedans.
‘We’re starting to pull a serious crowd.’
Movement from waste ground in front of the convoy. The sand crust began to ripple and bulge. Skeletal hands broke from the dirt. Dozens of naked, half-dissected creatures squirmed upward into daylight.
‘My God,’ murmured Lucy. ‘Must be some kind of mass grave.’
The vivisected soldiers climbed to their feet, trailing shroud-sheets. Skin half-melted by caustic lime. Their chest cavities were wired open. Their scalps were peeled back. Their skulls were drilled.
The skeletal army began to stagger and crawl towards the locomotive.
‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ murmured Amanda.
Lucy aimed her rifle. Amanda pressed the butt of the SAW to her shoulder. They both opened fire. Muzzle roar and flame.
The Bomb
One hundred miles from target
Tomasz descended the cockpit ladder to the cargo bay.
Ribbed girders. The bullet-pocked skin of the plane patched like the sail fabric of an old ship.
The exterior fuselage still bore the insignia of 302 Tactical Airlift Wing. Paint had been scoured from the side door, but the aluminium retained a shadow impression like a fading tattoo. A relic of the plane’s glory years. Fresh out the Fairchild plant, shipped to Bien Hoa to fly defoliation missions along the banks of the Mekong. Skimming the treeline, taking small-arm dings as it vented Agent Orange into the jungle canopy.
This would be the plane’s last mission. As soon as the Provider returned to the staging base at Sharjah it would be issued with a fresh tail number and fresh registration. It would be flown to Thailand or the Philippines. It would be discreetly gutted and scrapped. Or maybe parked, strung with speakers and lights, and finish its days as a beach bar.
Unchained Melody.
A big, black cylinder. Riveted plate, like a ship’s boiler.
Tomasz used a wrench to unscrew lock-nuts and remove a side panel.
He flicked a couple of toggle switches. Batt Test Green power light.
He pulled a high-impact Peli case from beneath a bench seat. Four rods packed in foam. The fuses. High-explosive cores.
He removed safety caps and slotted each of the igniters into the primer panel. He screwed them in place. Quadruple failsafe: baro switch, radar proximity, hydrostatic pressure, interval timer. A button above each fuse. Test. He got green Go lights from each arming circuit.
He adjusted the mechanical altimeter. Set for airburst at nine hundred feet.
He took three brown envelopes from the lid pocket of the case, and tore them open. Three numbered keys. He inserted the keys into the fire panel. PALs. Permissive Action Links. Three safing lock-outs to prevented premature detonation of the weapon.
A final visual inspection of the drogue chutes packed in a canvas sling at the nose of the bomb. Rip-cord clipped to a hundred-metre tether.
He returned to the cockpit.
‘All set?’ asked Jakub.
‘Flick the switch and we are ready to rock and roll.’
A voice from the sat com. A woman. Tired, desperate.
‘Hello? Hello? Can you hear us? This is Lucy Whyte. There are British and American citizens at your target site. Do you copy?’
‘I don’t like it,’ said Jakub. ‘She’s English. No fucking camel jockey, that’s for sure.’
‘There are wounded personnel at your target site requesting urgent evacuation, over.’
‘Mercs,’ said Tomasz. ‘Stateless scum blocking a lawful military target.’
‘Hello? Incoming plane, do you copy?’
‘Put it from your mind. Fly straight and do your fucking job.’
Fallback
Lucy dropped the spent clip from her rifle and slapped home a fresh magazine. She gulped from her canteen. She poured water over her head.
Two soldiers, a hundred yards distant. She fired. She missed.
‘Fuck.’
She wiped sweat from her eyes. She took aim and fired again.
Amanda clipped a fresh ammunition belt into the smoking breach of the SAW and slammed the receiver closed.
The window was framed by a shredded, muzzle-scorched velvet curtain. She tore it loose and stamped out embers.
‘Got any more Codeine?’ she asked.
Lucy passed her a foil blister-strip.
Amanda knocked back a pill. She swigged mineral water and sprayed a mouthful over the SAW barrel. Droplets steamed and fizzled, like spit on a hot plate.
She chewed balls of paper, moulded them into plugs and twisted them into her ears.
She gripped the SAW. Burst fire. She trembled with fierce recoil.
A line of advancing soldiers hurled backward by heavy. 50 cal rounds. Five men, chests ripped open, spines broken, heads split.
Some lay dead, clothes burning. Some struggled to stand. They trailed viscera. They dragged useless legs.
A second sweep of machine-gunfire shattered skulls and reduced the soldiers to rags and splintered, bloody bone.
Amanda pulled off Nomex gloves and wrapped surgical tape round her red-raw trigger finger.
A thud. She pulled the plugs from her ears. A second thud.
‘Shit. They’re hitting us from all sides. I think they’re under the train.’
A cadaverous figure gripped the sill and tried to pull himself inside. Skull face. Gleaming chrome erupting through flesh.
Amanda unsheathed the knife from her webbing and stabbed the deformed soldier through the eye. She twisted the blade. The creature released its grip, toppled backward and fell dead in the dirt.
Voss crouched on the carriage roof. Steady fire. The killing ground between the convoy and locomotive littered with bodies like a battlefield.
He exhausted six mags of tungsten carbide penetrators. He shook cramp from his trigger hand. He flexed his shoulder.
Skeletal creatures stumbled between burned-out vehicles. Seething movement.
Lucy’s voice:
‘Swarming like bugs.’
A couple of soldiers crawled along the Pullman roof towards Voss.
‘Chrome motherfuckers flanked us. Circled our fire avenue and reached the train. Still got some residual smarts.’
He took aim. Neat headshots. The skeletal creatures fell dead, slid from the carriage roof and landed in the dirt.
‘Time to get radical.’
He climbed down the ladder and jumped to the ground. He opened the carriage door and climbed inside.
‘How you doing?’ he asked.
‘Sweet,’ said Amanda. ‘Don’t worry about us.’
Voss snatched a bandolier of rifle grenades. He slung the belt over his shoulder: 40mm pepper-pot rounds in leather loops, like elephantine shotgun shells.
He jumped from the carriage. He ran across open ground towards the convoy.
Lucy and Amanda on over-watch. Soldiers lumbered towards Voss. They cut them down. Skull-shattering impacts.
Voss pushed a grenade from a belt loop. Gold tip, high explosive. He slotted the grenade into the breach of the launcher slung beneath his rifle and snapped it shut.
Voss aimed the launcher and fired. Thud. Whistle-whine. Rotted troops blasted to fragments. It rained rocks and scraps of flesh.
He advanced. He stepped over cratered ground and smoking limbs. He could see soldiers massing among t
he wrecked vehicles of the convoy.
Voss grew up in Bloemfontein. A dilapidated house. A pile of wrecked furniture in the backyard. ‘Put a match to it,’ his father said. Voss slopped gasoline and threw a burning rag. Rats streamed from the woodpile as smashed cupboards and chairs started to smoke and burn.
He thought of rats as he watched rotted soldiers swarm and teem among burned-out vehicles.
He slotted a fresh grenade into the launcher and fired. Thud. Streak of efflux. Thunderous concussion. Eruption of sand and smoke. Trucks rolled. Sedans flipped and burned.
Amanda fed a fresh belt into the SAW. She locked the receiver closed.
‘This is it. Last chain. Two hundred rounds, then she’s done.’
‘Make them count,’ said Lucy.
Two half-dissolved Republican Guard stumbled towards Voss. Skin hung in strips. They tried to flank him from the right as he fragged the convoy. Amanda cut them down. The SAW spat brass. The soldiers were ripped apart.
Nearby sound of smashing glass. Amanda pulled plugs from her ears.
‘Shit. They hit us from the rear. They got in.’
She opened the connecting door to the second carriage. The dining car. A banquet table. Upturned chairs. Cobwebbed dereliction.
A rotted figure squirmed through a broken window. He hauled himself over the sill, shredding clothes and flesh on jagged shards.
More soldiers crowding outside the coach. Hands slapped glass. Windows cracked and broke.
Amanda grabbed the SAW. She slung the strap over her shoulder and lifted the weapon. She stood in the doorway of the dining car.
The man-thing fell to the floor of the coach. He struggled to his feet. His right arm was a mess of metallic spines.
He saw Amanda and hissed.
She braced her legs and pulled the trigger. The heavy machine gun ejected a stream of links and smoking brass. The soldier burst apart. He was hurled backward. He hit wall panels and slid to the floor. Another burst from the gun obliterated his head.
Windows shattered. Three Republican Guard began to haul themselves into the carriage. Amanda opened fire. The creatures were pulverised and flung from the train.
The SAW ran dry. Amanda unhitched the strap and dropped the smoking weapon at her feet. She unholstered her Glock and backed out the carriage. The floor was carpeted with spent shell casings. Her boots kicked scorched brass.
