“Mr Pot asked me to tell you to meet up with him when the first wave of attacks is complete.” He said, with a hint of a smile.
“Tell me? He asked you to tell me?” The Russian licked his fingers.
“Well, he said to order you, actually, but I thought-“
“ORDER! ME?” He began to lumber to his feet.
“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.” Marcel raised his hands to placate the big man, and backed a way a couple of steps.
“That’s precisely what I do.” Ivan roared.
“Yes, well. He says just be there, alright? “ Marcel turned and walked quickly away, leaving the Russian fulminating over the message. From a safe distance, he watched as the big man kicked an unsuspecting member of his own staff, his lips working as he muttered his disgust at the content of the message.
Marcel thought he’d get the big bears out of the way first, and wandered over to Nikolai Yezkov, who had managed to secure a pair of binoculars with which to observe the progress of his soldiers on the opposite side of the valley. Marcel nodded to him, but not being a recognisable face, was granted no response.
“Why do you think they’re going to make you work for Ivan when this is over?” asked Marcel, casually, joining Yezkov in peering to the far hillsides. Nikolai removed the binoculars from his eyes for a moment and glanced at the stylish figure.
“What makes you think that?”
“Well, I work for Pot, and he’s in charge, of course-“
“He’s not in charge. It’s a Worker’s Co-operative. We have equality.”
Marcel allowed himself a small snigger.
“Well, yeah. But he said that in Cambodia, didn’t he? And, with respect, so did your lot in Russia, but it was you who lived in the palaces and dachas, wasn’t it?”
The binoculars were now at waist level, the glance a fiery stare.
“We agreed.”
“Did you? Was it ever really discussed? Anyway, that’s the way it is.”
“Even if it was, why would I be working for Ivan? “
“He says you’re not really a Russian.”
“I so am.”
“He says you’re Lithuanian.”
“Only by birth! I’m not having this. Bastards, plotting against me. It’s immoral.” The mass murderer was ranting, spittle flying from his lips. When he looked around again, the Frenchman had gone. In a fury, he beckoned one of his flunkies over and, true to form, threw him off the cliff.
Leopold II looked much older than his forty-four years, his fulsome beard wiry and greying. Without the benefit of his usual military uniform and medal array he looked rather like a benign grandfather, which would have been no comfort to the millions who died in the Congo as a result of his actions. He was now visibly excited by the scene before him. The thousands of tiny figures around the arena were on their feet to welcome the teams onto the pitch, and the cheering filled the air. This was the prelude to what he hoped would be a bloody victory and a new era of dominance.
He first ignored the smartly dressed man who came to share the view. He was a little surprised when the man told him he had to go to see the Russians as soon as the fighting stopped, and more so when informed that Pot had said he would be working for them.
“What do you mean working?”
“Running errands, that kind of thing. Some cooking.”
The Belgian was stunned. He had never run an errand or cooked and wasn’t inclined to do so now. The Frenchman let him know that the Russians were going to be running things and he had better get used to it, and left him fuming.
Elizabeth Bathony was a similarly easy target. She had been promised, she said, the pick of the young girls to torture when the people were enslaved, but by the time Marcel left her, was convinced that she was a victim of tokenism doomed to a future as some kind of cross between a geisha and a scullery maid.
The match was just kicking off when Pol Pot was treated to Marcel’s intrigue.
“Who the hell are you?” said the small man.
“The Russians sent me. Straight after the fight they want a vote on who’s going to be the leader.”
“A vote? Are they mad? Who has votes? In any case, we’ve got a leader.”
“Elizabeth thinks it’s her. She’s slept with both of them.”
“When?” said Pot, incredulously.
“All the time. Whenever your back’s turned, they’re at it like knives. Mind you, Leopold’s planning to do you in anyway. Says Orientals are inferior.”
“But that’s racist!” Pot spluttered
“And he doesn’t like short people.” When Marcel began to make his way down the hill Pol Pot was incandescent, almost bouncing on the spot in his anger. Blue touch paper lit, Marcel was retiring to what he hoped would be a safe distance.
As the opening exchanges of the Final began in time-honoured cagey fashion, the advance assault troop of Fiends Reunited commenced its mission to remove from the watching crowd any semblance of leadership. Surprisingly, not least to the irate dictators on the bluff opposite, they had adopted a formation never before seen in military history. The Conga.
The effect of the marijuana cocktail Marcel had brought back from London had taken a while to seep into the bloodstream of Benito and his troops. As the stew digested, however, the angry, violent, and mean-spirited gaggle slowly transformed into something like flower children. Now, they breasted the hill in line astern of Mussolini, his gleaming boots kicking out on either side as he led the snaking platoon into the fray.
Had the Visigoths not been hiding in the woods when the main assault started, they would have seen the German team strike first to take the lead in the Afterworld Cup Final. It was a curious goal, almost certainly the first brought about by the disappearance of a goalkeeper in the act of picking up a back pass. One moment he was there, and the next there was a quiver in the air and the ball, unobstructed, rolled half-heartedly over the line.
At virtually the same moment as the crowd realised a goal had been scored and began to voice acclaim, Guntrick and his men saw the confident advance of a couple of hundred heavily armed malcontents. It may have been the waiting, over-confidence, or the uplifting effect of the crowd’s roar that caused the attackers to break into a trot, but that was all to the good for the defenders. When the ground opened up under their feet, so industriously excavated by teams of helpers, so craftily disguised by a crew of horticulturalists, the first waves plummeted downwards into the earth.
The plunging fall opened up a volley of fire as the guns they carried sparked into life, creating an orgy of screaming and pain as collateral damage ensued. Those immediately behind teetered on the edge of the pit, and many failed to keep their balance or were hit by the bullets whistling randomly from their comrades’ weapons.
The remainder were in disarray. Having begun the assault at pace, confident of their superior numbers and firepower against an unsuspecting crowd, they had seen more than half of their number disappear into the ground or suffer hits from the discharging guns. Guntrick peered from his concealment at the confused attackers.
For days he and his men had practised restraint, waiting weapons in hand to conduct a rearguard action. Now he could feel eyes upon him, and glancing round could see smiling faces, looking from him to the milling attackers. Adrael and Sturm grinned and jerked their heads towards the foe expectantly.
Oh, sod it, he thought. “Chaaarge!” The Visigoths needed no second bidding.
The Fiends, having seen their comrades disappear before their eyes, were now confronted by the sight of huge, straggly-haired warlike creatures emerging from the undergrowth, screaming to chill the blood. Their dark forms filled the gaps between the trees, and after a moment’s hesitation, rifles, pistols, and AK-47s thudded to the forest floor as their possessors turned tail and ran.
Similar scenes were taking place at other points of attack. Although the defenders were both outnumbered and less well-armed, they had used their time well in building defences. The full
frontal charge across the plain behind the grandstand was observed with some incredulity by a group of Masai standing splendid in red robes, spears held upright. The oncoming horde did not bother to fire at them, as they didn’t appear to be doing anything apart from the occasional bounce.
About a hundred metres in front of the Masai, who in turn were a hundred metres closer than the front of the crowd, was the area that had been systematically flooded for the last few days. Under the cool gaze of the African warriors, the invaders first slowed as if treading water and then began to collapse into the mire. They pitched sideways, forwards, and backwards, their legs grasped by the sucking mud; others could not move at all, and simply held their pose, visible only from the thigh up. Weapons were flung aside, and as quickly collected by the combined forces of the American Civil War, who rounded up both the immersed and the stragglers. The Masai disappointedly prodded one or two of them with the points of their spears just for the hell of it.
One of the pincer movement armies found themselves pinned under the heavy nets painstakingly woven from creepers and weighted with rocks. Again, their enthusiasm for running headlong towards their objective, without recourse to the safety catches on their weapons, led to a wriggling recreation of Chinese New Year, as volleys of fire cut through the imprisoned troops. Once the firing had died down anyone still moving was heartily pummelled by a coalition of resistance movements from the Macquis of France to Hungarian, Yugoslav, and Polish partisans. All of them had had enough in their lifetimes of tyranny without spending this waiting time hiding in the woods, in terror of imminent attack, eating voles.
Perhaps the most ingenious trap was set by the incongruous coalition of mathematicians led by Fermat, fresh from designing the Afterworld Cup draw, and a veritable army of carpenters and labourers led by the busy Vunu tribe of Burundi. Screened from the attackers by a long stand of poplars, they had constructed a maze of such complexity that a number of them were still trapped within it when the attack started. Whilst their comrades eventually rescued them, the attackers were less fortunate. Many shot each other assuming that they were the target, others slumped exhausted in culs de sac, but none made it through, and a good number were still there weeks later.
Satan, meanwhile, had thoroughly enjoyed the first half of the Final, which saw Germany (Excluding The Sudetenland) maintain its bizarrely earned lead until the interval. Even above the constant noise from the crowd he had heard the volleys of shots from all sides, and together with the German lead and the prospect of winning his bet, he was as close to a good mood as someone with his permanently angry disposition could get. During the half time break, enlivened by a rather tasty chicken fajita, he had gone so far as to double once again the bet with Iron-Crutch Li.
He had, from time, to time, lifted his gaze from the pitch to try to observe the activity directly opposite, where he was expecting Mussolini’s troops to decapitate the popular movement and usher in a reign of terror. It was a long way to the Committee Room, however, and his eyes weren’t what they were. In a way, this was actually a good thing; because it is unlikely he would have found much satisfaction in what was going on there.
The marauding conga of the First Fiend Stoned Battalion had snaked down the hill towards Ron and Ethel’s position, its chanting gradually drowned as it was enveloped by the noise from the crowd. When his troops reached the small building, Benito threw up a hand and stopped abruptly, the upshot being a calamitous concertina behind him. Soldiers piled into each other from behind and collapsed to the floor giggling uncontrollably. Their laughter increased when a man and woman, accompanied by a red panda, began to move amongst them and collect up the firearms.
“There he is! I told you he was a bear with a face!” yelled one of the Mexicans, thumping his compatriot on the shoulder.
“’S a panda.” Said the other. “Hey, hey!” he staggered to his feet and staggered over the strange beast, whose arms were now full of very dangerous equipment. The Mexican put his arm around Geoffrey’s shoulders, and guided him back to where his giggling friend was trying, and failing, to rise.
“Tell him what you are. Go on, tell him. Bear or panda?”
“Well, red panda actually.” Said Geoffrey.
“See! See! Like I said.”
“Talking red panda with a face.” Said his friend, grinning hugely.
“Heavily armed talking red panda with a face!” The Mexican clapped Geoffrey on the back, a dangerous move given the unsecured guns he was holding on to. “I love this place!”
Geoffrey eased himself free, leaving the Mexicans to look for Benito to tell him that they hadn’t been hallucinating. He took the guns to a hollow where a group of monks were removing the ammunition. Mary stood alongside him.
“Great job, Geoffrey. You were brilliant back there.”
Geoffrey smiled sheepishly. He was about to reply when there was an enormous noise. The crowd had risen to its feet and there was dancing, waving and cheering. Way below them, the Brazilian team had drawn level. Someone in the crowd had, a few minutes previously, started a rhythmic beat on a drum, which was picked up by thousands of others. It was if the South Americans were energised. Their passing gained snap and their movement flow. The ball was silkily progressed beyond statuesque German defenders to where a skinny boy had sprung into the air to head the ball into the net. Ten minutes to go, and all to play for.
“Let’s go and watch the end.” Said Geoffrey, and the pair gestured to Justin to join them and took up a position by Ron’s Committee Room.
The incapable attackers, who had raised barely an objection to the removal of their weapons, had reached a point in their mind-expanding experience where the compulsion to laugh was matched and then overtaken by the compulsion to eat. They fell upon a previously un-noticed doner kebab van (“ORGAN DONERS’), so appallingly located that even in a crowd of half a million it had barely had to carve a single slice of agglomerated gloop.
Theo Pancriades, who had been cursing his failure to turn up earlier and claim a good pitch for the best business opportunity of his life or death, was suddenly inundated with bleary-eyed punters desperate for semi-liquid gristle. The hillside around him was soon littered with somnolent brigands in a state of blissful euphoria, all thoughts of havoc forgotten in the ecstasy of the taste of compressed meat of multiple origin.
The drug had not so beneficially affected their leader, for whom the day had started with the promise of glory, domination, and promotion. After the initial joy, and the leadership of the dance, he had hit a downer of massive proportions. Even one of his followers touchingly providing him with a ketchup laden double doner (no salad) had failed to lift him.
He had, at least, almost achieved his objective of finding the leader, but he was far from decapitating the disorganised movement upon which his leaders had waged war. He stumbled into the Committee Room to discover Ron agonising over which coloured ribbons he would have to attach to the ‘trophy’, which was a military helmet.
“What do you want?” asked the small Englishman.
“It’s not fair.” Said the Italian, wiping a blade of grass from his highly polished boots.
“Talk to the ref.” Said Ron, who was much less interested in the actuality of the tournament than the completion of his wall chart. “I’m just the organiser. Ethel!”
“Should be Gold. Silver’s just not right.” This lost Ron completely, who was pretty sure he was colouring things correctly. He turned in desperation towards the door.
“Ethel!” His wife appeared in the doorway, taken aback by the presence in the box of a twentieth century dictator whose pictures she had seen many times.
“What’s he doing in here?”
“Get him out of here, love. I need to make sure I get the engraving on this trophy right.” Ethel sidled up to the lachrymose Generalissimo, hooked an arm into his and led him gently from the box.
“Come on,” she said warmly, “let’s go outside and talk about it.” Il Duce nestled to the bosom of t
he maternal figure and allowed himself to be guided out into the sunlight.
A little while later, the pudgy man was seated on the hillside with his shiny boots out far in front of him. His head was on Ethel’s shoulder, though she had taken the precaution of laying a handkerchief upon it as some kind of doner anti-macassar.
“They don’t understand me. I am a glorious leader.” He said, although all appearances suggested the contrary.
“Oh, it’ll be alright Benny.” Ethel rocked gently. “I’m sure everyone will know your strengths. None of that upside down from lamp-post stuff here, you know. No lamp-posts for a start.” The Italian sniffed, and snuggled closer to his comforter.
Mary, Justin, and Geoffrey were standing on the hillside, watching the Brazilian team dominate the match taking place far below them. Try as they might, they hadn’t managed to score the deciding goal, and the German team, staunch, threatened in the occasional breakaway. They had taken a place next to Jenkin, who had nodded to Mary and smiled, and Millie, who were cheering on the Brazilians in common with most of the crowd.
All the way across the hillside, and over the pitch, in the VIP grandstand, Satan had begun to receive reports about the fate of his supporters. Slaven had hovered just outside the grandstand in the hope of being the one to deliver the good tidings, and had managed to intercept a number of messengers. Each time he was told of the incompetence of one of the attacking armies he cursed, but still believed that their superior firepower must win through.
What he hadn’t noticed was that in a knot of spectators behind him was Marcel, flushed with the success of spreading unrest amongst the Gold Members of Fiends Reunited. As each piece of news arrived, he watched the tall thin man intervene, hang his head, and divert the messenger from taking the news to the ultimate leader. In the end, though, word got through, and the Devil, who had been watching the football with growing distaste, began to hear a litany of tales of nets, bear traps, mazes, and incontinent bullet management.
The Complete Afternet: All 3 Volumes In One Place (The Afternet) Page 58
