by Vance Huxley
“Don’t worry, I got that message.” Harold glanced at Casper and Patty, who both nodded minutely. “Tell your tenants to move into anything with a roof and bring food. Hopefully it’ll only be a few days, if the GOFS will join us and we hit the General from behind. I’ll try to persuade Hawkins to come as well. I hope you’ll come out to play, and not let us have all the fun?”
“We won’t sit tight while you fight. If you hit them we’ll join the party,then you’ll see just why we got our reputation.” Beetch relaxed, taking a long drink of her beer. “Thank God for that. Now if I could only be sure that bastard Caddi isn’t planning to team up with the General. Hopefully they are both too bloody greedy.”
“If Caddi gets too ambitious we’ve already got people waiting on the border. Not just for him, they’re ready to snip a bit off the Murphies when they go down. They will stop any sneak attack if he comes for Beth’s, and can retarget if he brings too many men this way. Oops, I shouldn’t tell you that.” Ski sniggered, completely unrepentant. “Except some of our idiots will have more or less told the barmaid or barman everything. It’s sort of traditional. Speaking of which, can we take a brewer back in case it turns into a siege?”
“Naughty.” Harold wagged a finger. “That needs a lot of thought, perhaps after Caddi gets done and all the dust has settled.”
“Hah, you’ll be too busy then, either screaming for mercy or pinning her down. Or both, she might go both ways. Want to borrow my handcuffs?” Ski grinned, putting a hand to her belt where she always carried them. “I’ll ask Mercedes the same if I ever see her.”
“No need, she’s already got a ring through his nose.” Patty shook her head in mock despair. “She seems as bad, so we’re issuing earplugs and stocking up on bedding to replace the ripped stuff.”
“Why don’t you lovely ladies go and have a beer in The Pub? Then at least you can slander me in the traditional way, behind my back.” Harold had started blushing, which just increased everyone else’s fun.
“Good idea, then you can catch up on the gossip.” Patty waved them towards the door. “I assume you’ll let us know any developments with the Pinkies, or their new lord and master?”
“Oh yes, I’m sure we can convince someone to pop over.” Ski smirked, heading for the door.
“Since Fergie is off duty,if you’re quick you might catch her in The Pub.” Patty smiled happily as Ski almost missed a step before walking a bit faster. Beetch paused to ask, with a gleam in her eye,when Logan came off duty. Casper promised to mention where she was having a pint.
While the Barbies relaxed, the squad leaders met with Liz in Harold’s house to talk the whole situation through. Casper promised to hurry his wall thickening, in case the General left a holding force to pin the Barbies and GOFS and struck for Orchard Close with a lorry ram. They all agreed to leave telling the rest of Orchard Close until the Barbies had solid information. After some back and forth,everyone agreed Wellington would hit the General, but only if he went straight for Orchard Close. That would be from pure military necessity. Unfortunately, Beetch might be right about Hawkins not helping the Barbies out.
Within a week, Ski, Beetch and Chandra all called by on different days to confirm the General had taken over the Pinkies. A man called Rhys, who claimed to be his diplomat, had asked the Barbies to join as allies. He’d hinted at consequences if they didn’t. The Barbies laughed at him, and explained that if he actually threatened them, only his picture would be going back to the General. They’d let him have pictures of some previous examples as a hint.
February
Precinct Nineteen:
While Orchard Close prepared to kill Bloods or Hot Rods, others were trying to save lives. TheZookeeperswere rushed off their feet dealing with pregnant animals. They’d even got the boa pregnant at last, a bonus given the prices they’d been offered for snakeskin and the number of rats available to feed the young. Oddly enough, the nearby gangs were just as interested in the pregnant animals. None of them made the slightest move to interfere, which might have had to do with their future chances of both milk and meat. By now, the neighbours all knew the Zookeepers needed the animals to have young to keep the milk flowing, but couldn’t raise all the piglets and calves. Most of them weresaving coupons to buy a couple of young, something that could be fattened up.
* *
Sutton Park:
The same type of work, and digging and planting, kept the allied gangs busy in Sutton Park. A little edge of worry ran through the leaders, because nobody had picked up any of Nosy’s messages so there must be another spy. The leaders looked at their own people, and the neighbours, and finally concluded it wasn’t one of the elite. After all, with one of them spying, the government—they all assumed it was the government—wouldn’t have needed Nosy. Eventually the gang bosses concluded that whoever it was saw Nosy being captured by Asif. They kept their plans secret from the rank and file and relaxed. Relaxation became easier when the Last Prophet seemed to run out of steam. He’d stopped spreading, content to harass his neighbours now and then, and those neighbours were well away from Sutton Park.
Asif and his friends didn’t relax at all, especially about the spy or spies. One of their number had spent years in deep cover to break a terrorist organisation, so they knew what was possible.
* *
Conan:
Elsewhere in the city, there wasn’t any waiting or planning. Conan led his men over a barricade, coughing as he got a lung full of fumes. This was the second easy enclave, barely fortified and without properly trained fighters. He hadn’t needed his spy or any fancy plans, the Barbarians had simply charged home under cover of a smoke screen. Conan’s axe swung and a man spun away, blood arcing across the wall nearby. “Keep going, finish them now!” A figure dived out of a window and got a knife into the big, bearded figure, but he hammered the fist holding a pistol down on the bastard’s head. The wound hurt like hell,but the plated jacket had stopped the knife before it did much damage. Conan plucked it out and blood gushed from the wound, too much blood! Conan stopped dead, trying to get his head round the fact some asshole had seriously injured him.Anger came to his rescue, got him back on balance. “I’ll kill that fucking armourer.”
Conan holstered his pistol and put a hand over the wound but blood trickled through his fingers. A man, a Barbarian, stared wide-eyed. “Keep going, kill any fucker that resists. It’s just a scratch.” The wound went much deeper than that, Conan knew, but he covered the blood and tried to hide the pain as he turned back from the battle. Where were the medics? He caught hold of a man as he ran past. “Where are the nuns?” The man pointed, wild-eyed, and Conan hoped the bloke actually understood the question. He strode quickly in the direction the hand had pointed, searching for the white van. He thought quickly. The men might panic if they thought he was down, or some twat might make a takeover bid while he was helpless. Conan called Garth on the radio, telling him to get to the medics but not mentioning a wound.
At least the ambulance stood out among the rubble and smoke, a bright white Luton van with big red crosses on the side. The nuns had sworn the defenders wouldn’t shoot at it and they’d been right. The stupid bitches had wanted to keep close to the fighting, to save lives. Now Conan was pleased he’d agreed. He reached up, hammering on the back door until it opened. “Fix this, quickly.”
The sister’s face had tightened when she saw him, but now she pressed the control to raise the tail lift. “Come inside, quickly. Take off your jacket.”
As the lift stopped for him to get off, Conan thought he saw a flash of calculation on the sister’s face. He turned, looking for a Barbarian. “Hey, you!” The man stopped, staring at the blood on Conan’s chest. “Get another three men, and be quick.” The Barbarian nodded, turning and shouting to others. Conan took off his plated jacket while he waited, pointing at his chest while glaring at the nun. “Stop that for now. I’ll lie down in a minute.” She almost objected, then tore his shirt open, picked up a dressing an
d pressed it into place. The Barbarian leader turned back to the four armed men now standing just outside the van. “Watch her, and the others. If they do anything iffy to me, or if I die, take all the nuns from here and the hospital and give them to the men. Tell Garth when he gets here.” He turned to the nun with a big smile. “That should encourage you.”
*
Half an hour later Conan sat with his legs hanging out of the back of the ambulance, a big dressing taped across his bare chest. Garth had been back twice, probably hoping he’d been promoted to gang boss. Conan grabbed hold of a young novice and pulled her over onto his knee.
“Sir? I need all our staff to tend your wounded.” Conan looked up at the sister, chuckling at her expression. The God-bothering bitch hated him but she stayed polite. Lamb of God or not, Conan reckoned she’d be first in line with a knife if she ever got the chance. Second in line, the Bitch would be first. Conan looked down at his wound, reassessing as he let the novice go back to her job. He’d better make sure he was out of danger before getting back to taming the Bitch. She’d stick her fingers in the wound and rip out his heart if she ever got the chance.
“Boss?” Conan looked up to find Garth waiting.
“Hard luck, I’ve survived.” Conan looked beyond his second, out over the captured enclave. “Have they finished yet?”
“More or less. The fighting is done, or it is in here because they broke as soon as we got inside. Attila reckons some survivors have reached the next place. He wants to keep going, chase them, because there’s fuck all defence facing this way. The place is like this one, easy meat, probably has no more than fifty or sixty fighters soit might be a good idea.Especially if we time it so our men are mixed in with runners from here?” Garth hesitated, because Conan sometimes reacted badly to anyone having an idea of their own. When the bearded man nodded, he pushed on. “If we force the serfs, especially women, to run in among our men it should work. The runners aren’t stopping for searches but the defenders aren’t shooting them.”
“Tell him yes, but you are in charge.” Conan beckoned, waiting until Garth bent close to him. “Tell Sylvester to shove his little pets in among them, and make sure some survivors escape to join the mob on at the other side.” He laughed at Garth’s curious look. “What you don’t know you can’t tell some bitch when you’re pissed. Tell him, but not on the radio.” Garth nodded, turning and trotting off to find the spy. He’d have to move fast to organise that because the Barbarians had to attack now, before the next enclave recovered. A little smile touched Garth’s face. If it was rushed he’d get a chance to see who these spies were. Another of Conan’s little secrets. One day, when he had enough of them….
*
When the time came, Garth didn’t have any trouble spotting Sylvester’s spies. A van had gone in almost with the fighters, pushing ahead of most of them, relying on the red crosses on the bonnet and sides. When Garth reached it the van only held a driver, one of Sylvester’s men. By the time Garth fought his way across the enclave to the opposite wall, four nuns and a priest were running along among the rest of the survivors. He turned back to finish off the fighters, which let a few harmless-looking types get past him and escape. A few minutes later Garth cursed as he heard the radio. “Keep going, do it again. The runners are trampling the next lot of defenders. Come on, the twats can’t shoot through the women.”
“Attila, pull back. You haven’t got the men. There’s too many wounded and the rest are scattered all over.” Even as he spoke Garth began to gather men, to try and stop the rest from following the idiot.
“Fuck off, you ain’t the boss. He’s out of action,and might be dying, so it’s time for someone else to show how it’s done. Come on boys, follow me. Three times the loot today!” Even from halfway across the captured enclave, Garth heard the cheer, so Attila had gathered enough to make a decent attempt. Garth switched to making sure this enclave was finished. There wasn’t much point backing the lunatic up, then getting shot in the back.
*
Two hours later, Garth felt much happier about the time it took him to reorganise his men. By then it had been too late, even if he’d pulled them all away from killing and looting. Unfortunately, Garth knew that Conan might see it differently, and decide that enough extra men might have got the job done. Garth glanced at the others, the top Barbarians, and none of them looked at ease. Not all that surprising, considering the sight in front of them. Attila had been nailed to a roughly made cross and beaten to death by inches, starting with his fingers and toes. Personally, Garth thought the dumb fuck deserved it for coming back with the survivors instead of staying and dying in the fighting.
“What did I tell you dumb fucks?” Conan might still be pale from the wound, but his temper had recovered. “I said run some survivors into the next enclave. Not fucking attack them. Not give the fuckers a shitload of weapons. Not show everyone the Barbarians can be stopped. Now every spineless bastard out there will think they can do the same!” Spittle flew as he rounded on Garth. “You were supposed to be in fucking charge!”
Garth thought fast, because the wrong answer could get him nailed to another cross. No it wouldn’t, he decided in a moment of cold clarity. If Conan told anyone to grab him, he’d empty his gun into the bastard and fuck the consequences. He fought back a smile at the thought that he should have loaded silver bullets. “I told Attila, and he told me to fuck off, said he’d show everyone how it’s done. Everyone heard him on the radio.” A few mutters of agreement from behind him surprised Garth, most Barbarians kept out of it when Conan started. He tried to pitch the explanation just right. Not an apology, because Conan pounced on any sign of weakness, but not a challenge. “I tried to get enough men together to stop him, but the stupid fucker attacked before I got the chance. We hadn’t finished taking this place, so I daren’t take everyone.” Garth gave Conan time to actually think about it for a couple of seconds, then pushed on before the asshole could get wound up again. “Who the fuck are those wogs?”
“Not wogs, Sikhs. Indians with turbans and nasty fuckers in a fight.” Garth tried not to heave a sigh of relief when the slim, fit-looking man stood just behind Conan interrupted. Sylvester might look cleaner and smarter than the other Barbarians, but he dressed as a fighter and he could handle himself. Better still, Conan usually listened to Sylvester. “That’s why Conan wanted to push the spies in there. I’d heard rumours about how well they can fight. Now Attila’s men have proved it.”
Ivan, another of the top Barbarians, knew Conan’s usual answer. “If we throw everyone at them, they’ll go under.”
“We’d lose too many men. There’s too many wounded after taking two enclaves and we’ve lost another fifty following that stupid fucker.” Conan hooked a thumb towards Attila’s body. “We’ll pick on someone else while Sylvester’s spies get to work. I want to capture the Sikh women and kids, then those nasty fuckers can fight for me.” The wounded gang boss turned to look back towards home, and hesitated.
Garth felt a moment’s exultation. At last, the mad bastard was actually frightened of something! Not exactly frightened, but the Bitch had made him wary enough to leave her alone while he’d got a wound like that. With a little smile, Garth turned and beckoned. Two of his men dragged a couple of women forward and threw them on the ground in front of Conan. Both were struggling and kicking, even hobbled and gagged with their wrists tied together. “Here you go boss. Some entertainment in case you aren’t up to travelling back home.” The Barbarian didn’t mention the Bitch, nobody did but everyone there knew Conan had sworn he’d break her before starting on another.
For a moment Conan hesitated, then he grinned, his mood switching in a moment. He eyed the women. “Two?” He took a long step forward and kicked one of them in the ribs, chuckling when she tried to kick back. “Yeah, why not. After that fucking mess I’m in just the right mood.” He bent, tangling his fingers in her hair and set off dragging her towards an undamaged house. “Keep the other one handy.”
Garth thought about his reply, a lot more carefully than he did when talking to anyone else but Conan. He couldn’t quite figure out Sylvester’s game, which worried Garth. Most of the Barbarians were in it for the killing, looting or rape, or all three, but Sylvester didn’t get involved in anything but a bit of fighting. “I won’t be telling, but the news might get out if I had a sudden fatal accident.”
“That doesn’t surprise me in the least, Garth. Just between us, if Conan ever does go down permanently, I’ve got your back.” Sylvester wandered off, stopping for a couple of words with a few of the others and exchanging a couple of jokes. Garth didn’t watch him, his eyes were on the house where Conan would be beating the fuck out of his latest toy. Was Sylvester suggesting it was time for Conan to go? Garth considered it carefully. Not yet. It would be best to wait until Conan finished off those Sikhs at least, because some of the men might not stay under a different leader. Then Garth knew exactly what to do. He’d make sure the Bitch found a gun, and he might put genuine silver bullets in the fucking thing. He wondered what the Bitch’s name had been, but only for a moment because it didn’t matteranymore.
* *
The General:
The General could have told the inhabitants of Sutton Park exactly why the Last Prophet had eased off, he had another job for the Children of Cain. Bloodsuckers with crosses, or that’s what Patton reported when he’d visited to check out if the fighters were worth hiring. Not exactly hiring, the man sat opposite the General had something more ambitious in mind. Rail thin, bald and dressed in a rough smock, he had a very modern hand gun and machete on his belt and an armoured vest. He spoke in a quiet, reasoned manner, but the General saw the occasional flash of bugnuts crazy in his eyes.
