El Sombra

by Al Ewing

  The telephone clicked. The clatter and howl of the machine voice was replaced by silence. Gingerly, the General replaced the receiver in its crook, then leant back to once again contemplate the great ceiling fan as it swept in its measured circle. The blades of the fan no longer seemed to cutting the air of the room like a sword. Now, they seemed like four hands, extended, saluting in all directions. An endless salute, on and on forever.

  Eisenberg was unaware he was smiling.

  "I see you've got a new look."

  A week had passed; the sun was again beginning its slow climb across the arc of the sky. In Jesus Santiago's cellar, El Sombra was eating a meal he had not had to skin himself, and eating it from a plate. The novelty of this situation was still so distracting to him that he barely heard the comment. He reached to run the tips of his fingers across his chin, the stubble scratching. All that was left of the wild tangle of beard was a rough moustache that stretched above his lips and down past the sides of his mouth. Similarly, the mass of hair above his temples had been chopped down to a manageable level. "The hair is getting into my eyes when I fight."

  "It makes you look a bit less like a mountain man, you know? What's your next move?"

  "I have no idea, amigo. Probably lots of stabbing. Is this lizard?"

  The old priest smiled and shook his head. "Salt pork. You've been out a lot lately - I take it you're trying to draw some attention to yourself?"

  The masked man was already tearing into the thin strip of meat hanging between his fingers. "Make a lot of noise and draw out the ones who killed my people - who killed me - who built this abomination on the bones of my home. When I meet them, they die, and this monster - this 'Aldea' - dies with them."

  Jesus blinked. "That is... quite possibly the least well thought-out plan I have ever heard, my friend." He leaned over the table. "Do you know what will happen if you just charge in waving your sword?"

  El Sombra was concentrating on a fried egg. "I'll kill the baby-faced bastard who murdered my brother, then I'll cut off his father's head and there'll be a parade."

  The old priest chuckled humourlessly. "The only parade they'll hold in this town is for your corpse. The good men who watch over us from above will have killed the dangerous radical, the unmutualist with the mask and the sword, the serial killer, you know? You don't understand the power of the press around here. Besides, even if you do manage to kill ten wingmen, twenty, the General himself - there'll be another just like him here within the week, doing exactly the same thing. Also, you're going to need a knife and a fork to eat that."

  El Sombra took hold of the egg, lifting it up like a wobbling white curtain, before biting into the yolk as it hung. It was a messy operation. Finally he spoke.

  "Okay. Then I need to build a revolution. Drive those winged killers out and have an army ready if they come back. And for that I need the people on my side."

  Jesus nodded. "That's more like it. Would you like another egg?"

  "I couldn't possibly. You only have so many, and you're about to help me bring down an army of bastards. If the people are going to be on my side, I have to give them something. Something they don't have."

  "Freedom."

  El Sombra cocked his head. "A giant box of freedom? Where do I find one of those? I was thinking more of guns or medicine or strong drink, amigo. Start small. Is there some kind of storage depot or something the soldiers use?"

  The old priest nodded again, taking a mason jug and uncorking it with his teeth. "Something better, my friend. Something much better."

  Ewald Schenker had been in the Luftwaffe for twenty-two years, seven months, twenty-eight days and five hours. He had been inspired by stories of men who flew like birds, of honourable combat in the air, of modern-day Siegfrieds ruling the very skies. The recruiting officer who'd shaken his hand and led him away from his mother had promised him a world of action and adventure and the thrill of conquest, a life of opera and majesty. The reality had been a crushing disappointment.

  Ewald Schenker drove the Traction Engine.

  Oh, it was impressive enough. The Engine was an immense beast, fully forty feet long and sixteen across, with a crew of eleven. In appearance it looked much like an immense beetle. Twin treads at the side ran the length of the craft - the front ends raised to tackle obstacles - and a wide slit ran in front for the drivers to see out of. There were two levers, one for each tread, but in an emergency it was possible for one man to handle both, running back and forth between the massive.

  Half of the space inside the beast was devoted to storage - this machine was first and foremost a transport for cargo and troops, though there were rumours that the Führer had considered mass-producing armed versions. Two men were tasked with guarding the cargo. It was an unenviable duty. They were allowed no distractions and simply stood to attention in the crushing heat. Were they even to engage in conversation - even look at each other - they would be taken off guard duty and made to work the firebox.

  The firebox connected to a long chimney that rose from the centre of the roof and belched a never-ending torrent of thick black smoke into the sky, making the Engine visible for miles. Three strong men tended this furnace hour after hour, shovelling in coal and venting excess steam when necessary through pipes in the side of the craft. It was hot work - heat that made this chamber of the Engine resemble the fires of Hell. Working the firebox was a punishment detail.

  The most pleasant job on the Engine was to be one of the four men riding up top, hanging onto the rails that ran around the outside of the roof. In the early days of the occupation, the Engine had been a target for rebels, but the roof guards, with their higher vantage point, were in a position to pick off any approaching raider from almost a mile away. Two of them carried sniping rifles for this very purpose - the others were armed with pistols. Up on the roof, they were free to hold conversations, and the burning heat of the desert sun was comfortable compared to the agonies endured by the men in the belly of the behemoth, men such as Ewald Schenker.

  Ewald grimaced as he wiped more sweat from his brow and glanced over at his co-pilot. Bruckner seemed not to have a care in the world. Didn't he feel this accursed heat? Ewald felt a sudden wave of hatred for the chubby little wretch. How much longer would he be in this iron tomb, blasted by searing heat, chained to the odious Herr Bruckner? Herr Bruckner who had never read a book, who stuffed himself with day-old bratwurst and then farted the hours away in their confinement, who could not speak of a woman without giving a description of her imagined performance in the bedroom. Herr Bruckner, this oafish boor who was fifteen years younger than he, who had all his teeth and a full head of hair! Herr Bruckner, who joined the Luftwaffe only last year and would be his superior before this year was out! Herr Bruckner, who was constantly there, Herr Bruckner, Herr Bruckner, may the devil take Herr Bruckner! Ewald Schenker spat.

  "This intolerable heat!"

  Bruckner looked over with an amused grin. "There's nothing we can do about it, so we may as well ignore it." It was just the kind of mindless platitude that became him.

  "We can take the route through the canyons again. That will give us some shade - the men up top will thank us for that, at least."

  Bruckner frowned. "We shouldn't take the same route too many times. We could go around the mesa and be back at base in good time."

  "Or we could go through the canyons and have an hour to spare. Perhaps even time to crack open one of those beers we're carrying when we get home, eh?" Ewald hated the wheedling tone in his own voice. Had it come to this? Begging Herr Bruckner for a moment's shade? For the illusion of shade - inside the guts of the engine, staring through the viewing slit, it would make little difference.

  "Oh, very well." Bruckner sighed theatrically and tugged the lever, slowing his tread, forcing the machine to describe a slight arc that pointed it towards the distant canyons. "Why you want shade when you're already stuck inside a damned metal coffin is beyond me."

  Ewald's face was crimson. He fe
lt like a child. He stared straight ahead, watching the canyons slowly coming into view, and quite suddenly he wished Heinrich Bruckner dead. The thought was quite clear and distinct, almost as though it had been placed in his mind by another - I wish Herr Bruckner were dead. I would not mind dying myself today, if I could first see him dead with my own eyes.

  Had he known his wish would come true within the hour, he may have thought differently.

  For the most part, the rock walls of the canyon were high and steep, but in places they were only twelve feet off the ground. At those points it would be possible for a man to leap onto something passing below with only slight risk of injury. El Sombra waited patiently, pressed flat against the rock, listening for the unmistakable sound of the Engine as it chugged closer.

  "You were right, they're going to come through this canyon."

  Jesus nodded, taking a swig from a hip flask. "Mmm. When all this started, people used to try to attack the Engine, but anyone who attempted that died before they got close. They have sniper rifles on top, so they can pick..."

  El Sombra smiled tightly. "Doesn't matter, amigo. This is close-up work. They aren't even wearing wings."

  "I think they have some of their special flying-metal in the frame of the thing. To make it lighter, you know? Otherwise it couldn't move with the cargo in it. The guards on top used to have wings, but they probably figured they could cut corners. That's what it's all about - over time, they've got used to having no resistance. It's made them sloppy. Six, seven years ago, their routes were still all out in the open. They'd take the long way through the desert, so they could see for miles, pick off anybody they saw. Now they want to take shortcuts, get a little shade for the guys on top of the thing, you know? They've forgotten why they did it any other way."

  "Let's remind them."

  Georg Weber held the rail in his hands, enjoying the sudden cool as the engine passed into the shade of the canyon. It would be sausage tonight - sausage and potato and one of the beers that were down below, nestled between the bullets and the grenades. And then a patrol about the streets, watching the drones doing their work. And then - a letter to Gerda. He would tell her how much he was missing her, stuck in this backwater, and how he would be applying for a month's leave in the winter. He could take some work with old man Holtz and make them both a little money for extra fuel. They could sit together in her little apartment in Bremen and eat canned oysters, as they had done on their first night together, naked in the single bed, curled up with each other like a couple of playful kittens. Perhaps they could be married if her father had changed his mind. Best not to write of such things. It would only make it harder. Georg Weber glanced up as the shadow fell across him.

  The point of the sword entered through his right eye, bursting it, diving into the soft tissue of the frontal lobe. Georg would think no more of Gerda now. His body hit the metal of the roof at the same time as El Sombra, his pistol clattering from its holster and over the side. The masked man stood, lifting the bloody tip of his sword from the corpse beneath.

  "Good afternoon, gentlemen. Jump over the side and you might survive."

  Rolff Waldschmidt was the first to react. Like lightning, he reached down to the holster in his belt, like one of the gangsters he used to watch every week at the old Kinema-house in Munich, bringing his pistol up to fire. El Sombra was faster, hurling his sword like a javelin, the point passing through the younger man's throat. Rolff pulled the trigger, but by that time he was falling backward in a spray of blood. The bullet soared into the sky.

  Below, Bruckner looked up, one hand on the lever. "What are they doing up there? Was that a gunshot?"

  Ewald shrugged. "Probably just horsing around, shooting at vultures. You know what Rolff's like. He's been warned about it before. This time tomorrow he'll be working the firebox instead of playing at gangsters, you mark my words." He looked sideways at the plump little man. "If you're so worried, go up and check, or get Stammler or Altmann to go."

  "Stammler and Altmann have to guard the cargo - God in heaven!" There had been another heavy crash on the roof, followed by another crack of gunfire. "Damn it, I can't leave the steering until we're out of these canyons! I'm not trusting you to keep us from crashing. There'll be hell to pay for these idiots, I tell you now!"

  Ewald gritted his teeth.

  The loud crash had come from Klaus Mehlinger, a tall, reedy Austrian, who'd brought his sniper rifle up to bear before Jesus landed on his back, breaking his own fall by slamming the other man down into the metal. The two men immediately began rolling around the roof, attempting to trade punches and kicks, as the other sniper brought his gun up to his hip and fired at the unarmed El Sombra. Gunther Nagel was trained for long distances, and used to aiming from the shoulder, and so the bullet missed, passing within an inch of the masked man's cheek before smacking into the rock wall. The next shot would not miss.

  As the engine swung out from the canyon exit, the sun blazed down on the roof of the craft, flashing into Gunther's eyes as his finger tightened on the trigger a second time. El Sombra lunged forward, the bullet passing harmlessly through the space where he had been one moment ago. His flat palms smacked against the hot metal of the roof and he flipped up, driving the ball of one foot against Gunther Nagel's forehead, smashing his head back into the chimney. The sound of Gunther's skull cracking mixed with the loud clang as the chimney buckled.

  "Another gunshot! My God, what in hell is going on up there? I'm going to see what the matter is, Ewald. Try not to kill us all, will you?" Bruckner stood and moved to the small door that separated them from the firebox. As he opened it, clouds of black smoke swept into the steering chamber. "What in heaven..." Bruckner looked through, one arm in front of his face, ignoring Ewald choking and spluttering behind him. The smoke was backing up in the firebox! Two of the men continued to shovel, hacking up their guts - one had already vomited. "What in dear heaven's name is going on?"

  Klaus Mehlinger, who was twenty-eight years old and whose fondest desire was to one day meet his four-year-old son, had managed to get his hands around Jesus' throat and was now pushing him back against the rail, attempting to tip him over onto the treads. Jesus attempted several ineffective punches into the larger man's gut, but this only made Klaus push harder. He had only been stationed here for two years, and when he'd made the long trip to Mexico, Aldea had a reputation as one of the safest postings in the Luftwaffe, and duty on the Traction Engine was the safest posting in Aldea. Klaus had never been in a situation like this in his entire life.

  His uniform was soaked with sweat as he struggled, and his jaw was aching from where the priest has managed to get in a lucky punch. A priest! Lord, this was madness! What was a priest doing here, doing this? The unreality of it all made his head spin for a moment. He gritted his teeth. A filthy Mexican priest. Push him onto the treads to join his subhuman God. There was a noise behind him like someone sliding a butcher's knife through a cut of meat, but he did not dare to turn away - the priest was struggling too hard.

  Klaus barely felt the sword as it sliced through the flesh and muscle of his throat, barely saw the spray of blood drenching the man he was fighting with, before strong hands had gripped his shoulders and hurled him onto the rushing treads. Suddenly he was moving very fast towards the front of the Engine. He tried to reach for the guard rail but his arms wouldn't move. In another moment there was a heavy thud and he was lying on desert rock and something was blocking out the sun. He tried to summon the breath to scream but could not. As his bones splintered, the memory of a cockroach being crushed underneath his father's shoe flashed in his mind - and then there was nothing at all.

  The left-hand tread skidded suddenly on something wet, losing traction, the engine turning slightly as the opposite tread dug in. "Damn it, Bruckner! I can barely see! Bruckner!" Ewald shouted, eyes watering from the smoke, but there was no response. The clamour inside the Engine was too loud to shout through anyway. How long would he be expected to drive the mac
hine by himself? He lunged over to the right-hand control, slowing it until the left-hand tread could dig in again. The sweat was pouring down his back, and he could feel a tightness in his chest. He was too old for this.

  Bruckner was busy screaming at the men working on the firebox, doing everything short of whipping their hides to get them shovelling coal again despite the choking smoke. If the Engine ground to a halt in the middle of the desert, they were all dead. That ridiculous old windbag Schenker would have to suffer the indignity of doing his bloody job for a few more minutes - somebody had to take charge of this chaos, and that somebody was Heinrich Bruckner. His face was a mask of wrath as he began to undo the hatch leading to the roof.

  El Sombra smiled. "Are you okay, amigo? For a moment it looked like you might be going overboard."

  "I'll be fine, my friend. I just need to catch my breath." Jesus winced, shaking his head, his fingers feeling his throat. "That Nazi had a strong grip. I'm lucky to still have breath to catch - are we turning south?"

  The masked man shook his head. "I don't think so. There's nothing to the south of us but a sheer cliff... ah, it's turning back again. Listen, amigo, you're not made for this kind of fight. You could get killed."

  "And you can't?"

  "Stay here. Leave the rest to me. In fact, you'd better take the sword. Both the pistols have gone over the side and I think we proved that these rifles aren't so helpful at close range."

  Jesus opened his mouth to protest as El Sombra thrust the sword into his hand. The man was insane. God only knew what kind of hell they'd unleashed on themselves and he wanted to face it without a weapon! "You - you can't just give me your sword..."

  The masked man smiled and shook his head. "It's okay, amigo. I trust you."