by Andy Remic
Carter kissed his son on the forehead, picturing the young face with its broad cheeky grin and sparkling bright excited eyes from earlier that day; a face which held the ghost of Natasha.
Natasha.
Her face swam at the forefront of his mind. He could feel her lips brush his neck. He could taste her sweet honey. He could smell the autumn breeze of her musk.
All gone, he thought. All dead and gone.
Carter drank. The powerful flavour caressed his lips, burned his throat and warmed him from oesophagus to belly. His head swam a little and as sleep claimed him, tiny flickers of a twisted, deformed face haunted his slowly sinking conscience. Carter curled into a ball then, wound himself into an embryo and Samson put his big grizzled head on Carter’s feet and together they dropped tumbling into a deep well of sleep where Durell waited, where a savage history waited. Carter flowed unwillingly back to the Syndicate HQ in New York and stood there, could still feel the cold trigger of the Steyr under his merciless finger and oblivion blowing a Harmattan in his soul.
Bullets sprayed from the gun, pounding at Durell’s merged insect flesh as the gathered Nex turned automatic weaponry towards him and bullets hissed and spat past Carter’s face. The Spiral agent turned, leaping a low alloy bench and racing for the door. Bullets chewed alloy in his wake, hot shavings stinging his skin, and he slammed into the stairwell and pounded up the stairs.
Outside, New York had been obliterated and a hot wind blew. Carter had stood on top of the world surveying the destruction of a nuclear warhead; the destruction of Man.
Jets roared, and Mongrel’s Manta howled into view and a cable hissed through the brittle baked air; Carter’s gloves had caught this umbilical, this lifeline, and as Nex spilled out onto the roof behind him with fire-spitting guns Mongrel had pulled Carter’s bleak-eyed hollow carcass to safety ...
All gone.
All dead and gone.
Carter stirred uneasily in his sleep. Outside the fireworks gradually died, the yacht glided across the inky black waters and was lost in the swallowing maw of the darkness.
Carter kick-started the 699cc KTM in a burst of LVA fumes. The motor roared harshly for a moment and then fell to a rough fast idle. He revved the bike hard, grinning for a moment like a child with a new toy.
Joe was staying in a nearby local village, a modest gathering of five white-walled houses surrounding an ancient, crumbling stone well; his nanny was a tiny, twisted old lady named Mrs Fickle. Mrs Fickle was a widow, small in stature but gnarled and powerful—like a stunted old oak. In a heavily lined face sat sparkling blue eyes, a vivid contrast to the surrounding results of decades of dermatological abuse by the sun. Carter trusted her wholly with his son. With his life. Not just because of her squat iron strength which had surprised many a larger man, and not just because of her mule-like stubbornness; but because of her unquestionable ability with a double-barrelled sawn-off shotgun. Like the one she kept under her bed. And the one behind the settee. And the one mounted above the fireplace.
Mrs Fickle was Spiral. Retired.
Carter gently eased the bike across the ground, which was still damp from the previous night’s drifting light rainfall; he wheel-spun the powerful machine up the rise, out onto the rough dirt and the broken tarmac track beyond. He cruised through the cool air, bike rumbling and shocks pounding beneath him as he rode over ruts and rocks.
Cyprus, Carter’s new port of exile, had suffered somewhat during Durell’s rise to world domination. It had been attacked—during the height of the Nex onslaught—mainly because it boasted a number of British troops and a harbour filled with British Royal Navy warcraft. But the island had taken no nuclear or biological strikes, being reckoned a low-priority target despite the ships and soldiers stationed there.
However, the town of Paphos on the coast did have a Nex garrison, housed in a smaller version of a Sentinel Corporation tower, and as a result Nex patrols roamed the island, sometimes together with the savage JT8s, police murder squads. They were continually searching for anti-Nex military personnel, REB Squads or Spiral sympathisers—although the quiet island of Cyprus gave the Nex little cause for concern.
Carter rode with the utmost care, constantly on the lookout for the black FukTruks and 4x4 vehicles favoured by the Nex and JT8s. His mission was to scout the Nex, keep track of their patrols and monitor them for any changes to patterns; and he regularly called to check on his friends, Ed the Sniper, old Tomas and Mary, and, of course, the indomitable Mrs Fickle. All supplied him with Spiral goodies that no ex-Spiral operative could do without ... ammunition, updated ECube codes and complex HPG internals.
He rode for an hour, and with the sun hiding behind heavy bunched fists of cloud, Carter felt chilled. Keeping off the main roads, and away from any obvious Nex waypoints, Carter’s bike growled its way through heavy woodland and rolling rocky hills near to Tomas and Mary’s farm; he rode until he reached an off-road vantage point where he parked up the bike beneath the spreading branches of an olive tree. Dismounting, Carter moved to the edge of the skyline and lay flat, easing himself up until he was looking down over the distant slopes which fell away to the small town of Paphos and the heavily built-up district by the harbour. The Nex Sentinel Tower stood apart, in a hundred-metre concrete square, its flanks a mixture of cool white and glass which Carter knew from personal experience was not only TNT—or HighJ-protected, but could also withstand the effects of a low-yield nuclear blast. On the outside, at least; an interesting engineering brief, he mused, still picturing the leaked Spiral plans in his mind. Carter was a DemolSquad member—a demolition expert. And he could see the flaws in the blueprints he had pored over one evening at Ed’s small cottage.
Carter initiated his digital scope and peered down its barrel. The Sentinel tower sprang into focus and Carter stepped the range back, allowing his gaze to fall on the doors of the building. As usual, the portals were flanked by eight heavily armed Nex. Carter watched as a truck drew near, engine huge and belching, to disgorge another Nex squad who entered the building through smoothly sliding electric doors.
Carter watched the Nex for a while. Several JT8s appeared, roaring off in a 4x4. Carter timed the exit and entry of patrols and watched for anything out of the ordinary, any individuals he might recognise, any activity that he found out of character. After all, the Nex were creatures of habit. They had the predictability of insects; of machines.
He watched for an hour as the sun emerged from behind towering white clouds and the temperature began to rise. He was just about to withdraw and call it a day, when something—a commotion—caught his attention. He moved the scope’s sight to the nearby harbour-side. Five Nex had surrounded two people—a man and a woman. One of the Nex struck out, its Steyr TMP submachine gun butt smashing into the man’s head and dropping him instantly. The woman was kicked to the ground and the five Nex set about the couple, pounding them into bloody heaps as a group of JT8s arrived with huge black shaggy dogs on TitaniumIII leashes. The beasts, drooling and straining to reach the two civilians lying broken by the white harbour walls, heaved so hard against their leashes that even the heavily muscled JT8s struggled to restrain them.
He swept the scope from side to side. No crowds had gathered—because to gather in a crowd was to incite further suspicion. People hurried by, heads down, eyes averted, just hoping to hell that they would not become involved.
The whole incident left a sour taste in Carter’s mouth. He withdrew with care and moved towards the shade of the olive trees. As he approached the KTM, something slid into his soul, like a bad injection of heroin. His head tilted. Over towards the farm of Tomas and Mary, he heard the powerful rumble of a distant FukTruck engine.
Carter moved on up the slope. As he reached the top of the gentle ridge he dropped to a crouch so as not to reveal his position against the skyline; then he angled to the left between a small copse of olive trees and stopped. Again, his head tilted. He could hear the shrill young voices of two girls. Children. He coul
d not hear what they said, only identify the panic in their hysterical tone.
Feeling cold inside, Carter crested the rise and crawled between low scrub bushes. The landscape fell away ahead of him, rolling down into cultivated fields before climbing again to distant conifer forests. A stream ran glittering from the far slopes of a steep hill, and below, nestling in the valley, sat the sprawling farm that he had visited on many occasions. The main building—old and white and fallen into disrepair—was a long low farmhouse with white walls, grey in places where painted rendering had dropped away. The roof was red-tiled, but with several broken tiles gaping rudely; many had been replaced with grey mismatches.
Beside the old white farmhouse was a more modern addition: a big three-storey brick house—obviously destined to become the replacement dwelling, joined directly to the old farmhouse and still without a roof or even joists. Holes squatted where window frames had yet to be fixed, and the doorways were shadowed rectangles of rough-edged brick. Carter could still see marks on the ground where footings had been laid, and the project was far from complete.
To one side of the white farmhouse stood several small wooden buildings with thatched roofs and open fronts—one was a wood store filled with hunks of axe-chopped timber. And to the far right there was a large barn with double wooden doors. Outside, hung against the wall, was an old worn leather saddle; Carter knew this building was used as a stable, but he had never been inside.
A winding dirt track led through scattered trees and fields, climbing a rise to meet with the front of the farmhouse. An old bicycle was propped against the wall, its deflated tyres dusty as they rested on an ancient wooden porch beside two pairs of battered boots.
All this information was absorbed in a sweeping glance, but Carter’s mouth went dry as his gaze locked on the large black Mercedes 8x8 which sat outside the farmhouse.
Three Nex stood levelling Steyr sub-machine guns at the heads of the five subdued people. Tomas was an old man. His lined and ancient face was filled with fear. Mary was kneeling, physically shaking, beside her husband, hair a neat grey bun, her arms wrapped around the smallest of the three little girls, Alice, Georgina and Freya stood in flower-painted dresses, weeping.
The Nex were ignoring the family; they were talking among themselves, and then turned their attention to Tomas. Carter’s eyes focused on the back of the FukTruk. How many in there? It could hold perhaps fifty Nex ...
Too many, he thought.
Carter started to crawl forward through the scrub. Much of the Nex conversation was lost to him because of the distance. All he managed to pick out was, ‘Where are they?’ and the old man’s reply, ‘... don’t have answers to your questions.’ Gestures were made, and the old woman climbed wearily to her feet and was escorted by one of the Nex towards the stable ... leaving two Nex alone with old Tomas.
Bad, thought Carter sombrely.
There came another exchange, angrier this time, and the butt of a Steyr TMP smashed into Tomas’s skull. He toppled sideways, blood spraying from a jagged head wound, to lie stunned in the dirt in front of his home—as Carter increased his pace.
So you want to play rough? he hissed inwardly. Well, we can play rough if you like. We can play real nasty.
The two Nex spoke together for a moment. Then they both started to kick the old man, boots smashing into his face and body. They quickly tired of the game and, hefting their guns, followed their comrade and the old woman and crying children into the stable.
‘Come on. You going to be the Big Man?’ Kade mocked. ‘You going in to give them a taste of your bullets? What are you waiting for—a personal invitation? Go on, Butcher, do the right thing, my boy, you know those children deserve a better future ...’
‘For a change, Kade, I agree with you.’ Carter’s voice was low, his tone deadly as his boots trod the long grass. He moved silently from tree to tree, his gaze swimming between the approaching barn and the sinister black Mercedes truck. The Nex did not reappear.
‘Yeah? Well, I’m bored, Carter, bored of this fucking life, bored of this fucking world. Come on, let‘s do the right thing ... let me out to play so we can see some precious fucking blood flow.’
Carter withdrew his battered matt-black Browning 9mm HiPower. He stared hard at the squat weapon—his trusted companion. And grimly, moving with as much speed as he dared, Carter approached the farmhouse.
The Merc’s engine was still clicking loudly as it cooled, and Carter crouched beside the vehicle. In the dusty road, Tomas was groaning softly and trying feebly to wipe pools of blood from his face.
Carter, the Browning gripped in his fist, crawled to the old man, keeping his stare locked on the buckled timber walls and warped doors of the ancient stable-barn. Up close now, he could make out the ravaged face of Tomas—lined by the passage of time and the Cypriot sun. Anger flared in Carter’s breast.
When Tomas saw Carter, his rheumy old eyes widened. ‘Thank God ...’ he began, but Carter shushed him into silence.
‘The Nex have taken Mary and the girls into the stable,’ said Carter softly. ‘Tell me the layout inside.’
The old man shook his head slowly. ‘You have great honour, coming like this to help,’ he spoke softly, his voice heavily accented, ‘and I thank you for that, Carter—I really do. But they will kill us all. They will kill you, as well.’
Carter stared at the old man’s wrinkled face, seeing the resolve that had finally been betrayed by the weakness of age.
Something clicked inside Carter. He smiled.
‘What would you have done? In your Spiral days?’
The old man smiled back. They both knew the answer.
‘Do you still have the Skoda?’
‘It’s behind the house.’
‘And there are three Nex?’
Between the coughing and wheezing, the bright-eyed old man managed, ‘Three, yes, that I have seen. There are no others in the back of the truck.’
‘Tell me about the layout inside,’ said Carter again, pulling free an HPG and turning the timer dial with tiny metallic clicks. ‘I’m going to bring the girls out.’
The stable housed six horses. There were six large stalls against the back wall, and the right-hand side of the stable housed a workshop for the working of wood; the old man had been a great carpenter in his day.
Behind the barn at ground level, amidst a clump of low bushes, there was the mouth of a narrow tunnel, a sluice exhaust for when the stables were hosed down and swept out. It was beside this square-section portal that Carter now crouched, staring down through a galvanised grid into the deep pit which contained a slurry of ancient horse-manure in a deep grey slop.
‘Great. Just fucking great.’
Carter climbed into the narrow confines of the sluice pipe, wrinkling his nose at the stench of years of accumulated excrement; immediately a thick slime coated his hands and knees, the back of his head and his shoulders. He pushed himself along the narrow tunnel, which travelled for perhaps fifteen feet on a gentle incline before taking a sharp upward turn. Carter eased round the bend, sliding a little and fighting for a grip. Then he pressed his face up against the grille recessed into the floor of the actual stable building—and listened.
He could hear the Nex. One was pacing, one was toying with his TMP (Tactical Machine Pistol)—Carter could hear the rub of leather on alloy—and the girls were still sobbing into their grandmother’s protective embrace. There was also another sound—the clacking of heavy hooves on the concrete floor, the occasional whinny of the nervous, skittish geldings.
Carter realised there was no talking between the old woman and the Nex; and this worried him. The time for talking was done ... which could only mean the time for slaughter was about to begin. He checked his watch. Fifteen seconds.
Carter tried not to breathe, so bad was the stench in the narrow pipe.
The sounds of the stamping horses seemed to increase. They were extremely nervous, one pawing at the concrete surface and making a curious whinnyi
ng growl like nothing Carter had ever heard before.
Carter’s mind took on an ethereal calm.
Five seconds, four, three ...
Carter sensed rather than heard the ignition click of the HPG planted on the underside of the beautiful gloss-black Mercedes 8x8 FukTruk. There came a concussive crack followed by a scream of fire, a rush of igniting LVA, a screech of twisting, wrenching steel panels and chassis and then the sudden boom of detonation as the Merc was kicked up into the air, spinning slowly in a bubble of gas and fire, then stomping back against the earth as colourful streamers of fire and smoke billowed.
Carter heard the Nex run outside. Slowly, he eased up the grid and peered into the stable. It was gloomy after the bright sunlight outside, but Carter had had time for his eyes to adjust. He was positioned in the far corner of the barn, by the workshop—which was divided from the main compartment of the stable by a low, three-foot-high wall made of wooden beams and rough-cut timber panelling—a waist-high divide. The stable stalls were to his right, set against the back wall of the barn and leading across dusty concrete to large double doors whose buckled antique timbers allowed streamers of sunlight to illuminate dancing motes of dust. Beside the end stall by the doors stood a single Nex guarding the woman and girls. The Nex was staring towards the door, presumably sniffing after its comrades who had gone to investigate the explosion.
Carter rose to a crouch, using the wall of the horse’s stall beside him as cover, and crept forward towards the sparkling shafts of sunlight illuminating the matted straw and dung-covered floor. His Browning was pressed against his cheek. His breathing had descended into a spiral of concentration as—
