Grenades exploded left and right, thanks to Scruff, and Nassim began picking off bandits as they crouched behind wheels. Someone had started the trike and was attempting to drive out of the valley, but Afiz dashed to a rocky mound where he’d hidden the RPG. White smoke exploded from his shoulder, sending a rocket into the engine of the machine, and it exploded in a monstrous ball of flame.
“Hooray!” cried the twins and tossed a grenade for fun.
Stuck between an immovable wreck and a barrage of fire, one of the bandits dangled a dirty white rag from a window. “We surrender!” he shouted and threw a gun onto the dirt. Nassim stopped shooting and the rifles ceased too. The man ventured out, his hands in the air and stepped forward gingerly. A second followed and soon a motley crew of bandits spilled out, nervously eyeing the hills.
“Lay on the ground with your hands on your heads!” shouted Afiz and to Nassim’s surprise they complied. Afiz advanced slowly. He was draped with a sash of bullets and cradled the machine gun in his arms. Scruff appeared next, pointing a revolver at the men.
But it was trap. From behind the wagons a shape caught Nassim’s eye as a bandit leaned out and discharged a shotgun, knocking Scruff off his feet and sending Afiz sprawling for cover. Nassim spun the barrel of her mounted gun and showered bullets down on the man, his arms flailing as they tore through his black robe and ricocheted from the wagons around him. Two more bandits appeared shooting at Afiz and Scruff but Nassim was like a god, raining vengeance down from on high, and they too were splayed onto the sand, bleeding and broken. The valley was a battlefield, with bodies strewn on the dirt and smoke rising from the wreckage of the bike. Nassim felt a thrill of satisfaction.
“This is justice,” she said.
Lifting the heavy machine from its cradle she sloped down the hill to the group of men who were now cowering on their stomachs.
“Please, don’t kill us,” one pleaded, his one eye glistening with fright.
“Shut up, Cyclops,” she barked and edged backwards to Scruff, her weapon aimed at the men.
“I’m okay,” he grimaced, holding up a bleeding hand. In his good hand he still held the revolver.
“Does it work?” she asked.
“No idea. It’s your uncle’s. Looks cool, though,” he smiled.
“Keep an eye on this lot. I’m going to get the twins.”
She almost shot Afiz when they met on the other side of the trucks. A young bandit was on his knees pleading for his life. “Found him in the back seat of the Jeep,” explained Afiz. “Otherwise it seems clear.”
“And the twins?” Screams from behind answered.
“Hey Nassim, Nassim! That was awesome!” they shouted as they bounded down the scree and wrapped their arms around her waist.
The wagons yielded more people, except these were prisoners, children to be sold to the Metricians. Filthy and frightened they cowered in the shadows as she and Afiz broke open the locks. It was the twins who eventually coaxed them out and they stood blinking in the light, amazed at the carnage. All told, nine bandits were dead, their bloodstained corpses laid out like trophies. Another eight sat huddled, their hands bound in rough knots that no one really knew how to tie. And nine children had been rescued, five boys and four girls, some injured but all euphoric at the ambush.
The caravan yielded bounty too: stacks of old-tek guns and the odd Metrician laser; vehicles filled with fuel and ammunition and a mobile kitchen stocked with ingredients, plus a terrified and half-frozen cook who was hiding in an ice-box. They let him out on the promise of a victory banquet.
That night they held a trial, appointing Nassim as the judge to determine the fate of the last bandits. The children told sad stories of their capture, most weeping as they recalled the murder of their parents and families. They were disorientated and traumatised and the little ones clung to scrappy items they’d kept from their home. But Nassim was surprised when they unanimously accused only two men of murder. The rest, they said, were merely thieves – and almost children themselves.
And so at sunset Nassim lead the entire contingent, an army of lost children and their captives, to the edge of the desert where the two men, their heads covered with black cloths, were told to kneel and a pistol put to their foreheads by Afiz. Nassim condemned them for “crimes against children and betrayal to our enemies the Metricians”, then in fury snatched the revolver from Afiz hands, whipped off the black hood from the first man and executed him with a single shot that snapped his head back and splattered the jelly of his brains against the rocky ground.
No one spoke. Even Afiz was amazed at Nassim’s wrath.
She yanked off the second man’s hood and jammed the barrel to his head and was about to shoot when he spoke.
“I know where your brother is.”
Nassim hesitated. “What did you say?”
“I know where your brother is,” he said with a low, gravelly voice.
“You’re a liar. You don’t know anything!”
“I remember you. This was your village.” He turned his head slightly and she could see he had a narrow, good-looking face, made leathery by years in the desert. His eyes were narrow. “Your brother, he hid in the wagon. But he’s not here now which means he’s still with the Metricians. I know where they’re keeping him.”
“Yeah, well, so do we. But we escaped,” spat Nassim.
“They won’t let that happen again. But I can take you there. My name is Silas Kabar, and I was the general of Manchester Jones’ army. I know the way. I know many things about Abaddon.”
“I don’t care who you are. You’re a liar!” and she cocked the gun with trembling fingers.
“Kill me, I don’t care,” said Silas casually. “My life was a living hell anyway. But you, you still have your brother. They will never let you in, and you and your brother will die with all the others.”
Nassim grimaced and drew her finger around the trigger but Afiz intervened. “Wait. What do you mean all the others?”
“Do you think you were the only prisoners?” the man laughed roughly. “They have many of your brothers. And sisters. Dozens. Hundreds. All trapped in the bowels of that dungeon.”
“Don’t talk to him,” snapped Nassim.
“No wait. He’s right. We’ve all lost brothers and sisters and friends. Where have they been going? We just thought they were killed. But he’s saying they’re still alive.”
“Of course he’s saying that because he doesn’t want me to put a bullet through his head!”
Afiz grabbed Nassim by the elbow. “What have we got to lose? If he can get us in to Abaddon then you can kill him and you’ll have Wadid and maybe we’ll have our families. If he fails, you can still kill him. You seem pretty good at it.” Afiz smiled and she was momentarily caught off guard. But she shook him off and pointed the pistol at the man’s face.
“You’re a filthy murderer and a liar to boot. I’m going to kill you now like you deserve.”
But a child’s voice broke her resolve. “Do you know where my mummy is?” It was Jasmine.
“Yes, yes, do you know mister?” said Hannah.
“And my father, do you know him, his name is Caleb,” said a dark-haired boy of about thirteen. Nassim’s loaded pistol was pushed aside as children swamped the man and peppered him with questions of missing parents and cousins and sisters and brothers. Furious, Nassim held the gun aloft and fired a shot into the air, startling the children. The noise echoed off the rocks.
“Enough!” she shouted. “This man has been condemned to death.”
The crowd melted and the twins clutched each other. Nassim once again raised the gun to the man’s forehead but the sight of the twins’ pleading faces made her waver. His words about Wadid repeated in her head. The gun hovered menacingly and she noticed sweat dribbling down his temple.
“If what you say is true and if you can get us in and out of Abaddon, then your life will be spared.” An audible sigh rose from the group. “But if you fail, you will most
certainly die. Do you understand?” she touched the tip of the revolver to his temple and traced the line of sweat down to his neck. She leaned in and whispered: “I will do it without warning, because the fact is, I don’t believe you.”
She stood back and announced to the group. “This man is under arrest and remains condemned to death. You are not to talk to him because he will fill your mind with lies. Do not help him in any way or you too will be condemned. He lives only because I say he can.”
With her eyes ablaze she turned the gun on the remaining bandits and made them kneel on the rocks and one by one recant their crimes and submit to her leadership, which they did with great enthusiasm. Then she forced them to dig graves for their dead colleagues and she and Afiz marched the condemned man to the wagons where she locked him in with three padlocks on the door.
By the time she returned to camp, the cook had started a bonfire that lit the rock walls with a warm glow and laid out a banquet, or as best as he could muster, which the children fell upon, gorging themselves because they hadn’t eaten for days. Scruff, his arm in a rough sling, dragged out a pot of wine and they screwed up their faces but drank it anyway, out of relief or fear or whatever tangle of emotions they felt about the last few hours. Eventually the six bandits were invited to join in, under the careful watch of Afiz. Together with the children the bandits exchanged their own versions of the battle, each story getting more far-fetched, with Afiz emerging as the genius commander and Nassim, returning with vengeance like a dark angel.
Afiz winked at Nassim who smiled, slightly embarrassed and she left the party to stand on the hill where her gun-mount sat forlornly. Looking north, she suddenly saw the sky light up with fireworks, flashes of white reflecting off the clouds, followed by a low rumble – a Metrician attack on some poor settlement no doubt, she thought.
Nassim felt as if the glow of Abaddon was beckoning. The words of the bandit resounded in her head and as much as she resisted it, she could already feel herself giving in to the hope he’d dangled in front of them. If it was a trap then she was falling head first.
“I’m coming, brothers,” she whispered. “I’m coming for you all.”
Chapter 22 - The mystery in the mountains
Jonah shivered and pulled the heavy fur coat over his shoulders. He’d never felt cold like this. It made his skin hurt.
“Come,” instructed the woman, who stood at the door of a hut that was as sparse as the one in Atlantica but had stone walls and a slate floor. She’s given him the coat, fluffy boots and leather gloves. Outside it was blindingly white.
“Where am I?” he asked. “Am I dead?”
“No,” she chortled and gestured for him to come outside.
The cold bit into his face and he had to squint to deal with the glare. The hut was perched on a mountainside that fell dramatically into a misty valley of greens and browns. To his right, it rose into a thick blanket of grey cloud. We must be high, really high, to be so near the cloud-line, he thought.
The cottage was just one of many buildings that were joined by a network of paths cut into the mountain rock. Where the paths stopped, rope bridges swung between wooden posts, and people walked, carrying bundles on their shoulders or driving small trains of donkeys and carts. The whole mountain-side was white. And it was so very cold. How could such an inhospitable place be so busy?
As he stepped off the porch he plunged knee-deep into the white powder. The shock of it tripped him and he fell, face first. The cold fluff stuck to his eyelids and went up his nose. He flapped pathetically, trying to regain his footing.
A group of children nearby saw him and laughed, and began to toss handfuls of the powder at him like bombs. An explosion hit his chest. And then another. At first, he felt annoyed and yelled at them to stop. But they just laughed and threw more.
But then he got it. Snowballs! They were throwing snowballs!
Jonah had only seen pictures of snow. He didn’t even know there was any left in the world. He staggered up, formed a ball and let it loose. The snowball hit a boy square on the head and he staggered backwards, surprised at Jonah’s accuracy. More balls came back but Jonah dodged the attack and advanced bravely. He soon had the children cowering for cover.
The cold air invigorated him. The muscles in his cheeks felt weird. He wanted to play but the old woman was now standing with three others, all wrapped in furs. She was pointing up the hill impatiently. So Jonah waved goodbye and ploughed his way back to the path, his heart pumping warmly in his chest.
The group set a fast pace. It was hard going. Drifts of snow covered the path and Jonah’s lungs felt strangely empty, despite his deep breaths. He knew that air got thinner the higher you climbed; it was one of the reasons aerotropolis cities were encased in a man-made bubble to emulate the warm, rich air of the sea. But here the oxygen was sparse and he wheezed like an asthmatic.
A gap soon grew between the two ahead of him and those behind. Jonah felt self-conscious but his legs were weak and he was forced to stop every few steps and rest, sucking in what air he could and holding down his rumbling guts. Rounding a bend, the road opened to reveal a vast slope ahead and a large building about a kilometre away. The distance was too great and he sunk to his knees, vomited and passed out.
◆◆◆
A girl with a sweet smile placed a tray of food on the table beside him and slipped from the room. Jonah was in a soft, warm bed and alone. The wooden room had a burner for heat and a single, ice-encrusted window. He slipped out of the bed and walked to it. Outside was a broad slope he recognised as the area he’d stumbled along before he fainted. Since then, more snow had blown up the mountain, forming ramps against the grey stone.
Jonah shivered and rubbed his arms. Only a few hours ago he’d been wading through warm pools in Atlantica, sent by Commander Agassi to join the special-ops team. He was expecting Metrician-like sophistication: military equipment, soldiers and computers and drones and bots. But thanks to the embrace of an old, tattooed woman he was now perched on a frozen mountainside in goodness-knows where. It was surreal.
But his hunger wasn’t. Jonah sat on the bed and scoffed the bread and fruit. Goodness knows where they got fruit on a mountain like this, he thought. “Probably came from that valley. I don’t suppose they have any Mets, though.” He said it out loud and was startled by the sound of his voice. He felt wide awake. And curious.
He dressed in the heavy trousers and thick jumper that lay on the end of his bed and slid out of the room into a long corridor lined with timber doors and a balustrade that overlooked a large dining hall, two stories below. On the opposite wall, tall banners with the familiar interwoven circles hung majestically from a high ceiling and, in between, daylight shone through stained-glass windows. In one, a barefoot man stood in a deep hole with his hand on a lion’s head. In another, a huge fish rose majestically from the ocean, its mouth open, ready to receive someone being thrown off a ship.
“Looks familiar,” Jonah muttered.
The clanking of table-setting echoed around the hall and masked Jonah’s footsteps as he followed the balustrade down a flight of wooden stairs to reach large doors. He pushed hard and icy air blew in.
He emerged onto a large courtyard, surrounded by a stone wall with three open doorways. The flagstones were covered in a light dusting of fresh snow and a group of men stood warming their hands by a brazier with a roaring fire. They all turned to look at the boy.
“Ah, the traveller awakes,” said one and beckoned Jonah to the fire. He wore a knee-length suede coat with duffle-buttons and a hood, which he tossed back to reveal a round face and two missing teeth.
Jonah moved cautiously down the steps and shook the man’s extended mitten.
“My name is Mikhail. I’m your host. Did you eat?”
“Yes, thank you. A girl, she brought me some fruit.”
“Ursula, my daughter. She serves here at the Citadel,” and he nodded towards the building. “We don’t often have fruit. We don’t often h
ave guests, come to think of it. You must be an important person.” Several of the men chuckled.
Jonah regarded the group warily. Their fur-lined hoods, pulled against the cold, hid their faces. But he could see they were smoking old-fashioned cigarettes, like Jonah had seen in the old holofilms.
“I’m not important, I’m just ...” began Jonah, but Mikhail cut him off with a chuckle and held up his hand.
“It’s okay. It doesn’t matter who you are. You’re a guest and we treat our guests well here on Ararat.”
“Ararat?” Jonah said, startled.
“Yes, Mount Ararat, you know the mountain in Turkey. Well, what used to be Turkey. It’s all bit different these days.”
Jonah must have looked puzzled because Mikhail laughed heartily again and slapped him on the shoulder.
“I’m a bit confused,” admitted Jonah and warmed his hands against the fire.
“I can see that. But then it is confusing the first time.”
“The first time?” said Jonah.
“Yes, the first time you leap.”
“Leap?”
“Yes, you know, L.E.A.P. You do know what a Leap is don’t you?”
“Um, no, I’m sorry but ...”
Mikhail sighed and shook his massive head. “Why do they never tell you poor devils? L.E.A.P: Longitudinal Extrapolation and Attenuated Positioning.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Oh dear. Much to learn it seems, Jonah. Luckily for you I’m not the one to explain it. I don’t have enough patience to be a teacher.”
Some of the men sniggered again, as if they knew too well about Mikhail’s impatience.
“Hmmm,” he growled at the group and turned back to Jonah. “But I do know someone who can. The padras is an expert in such lofty matters.”
Road to Abaddon Page 18
