Finally, he reached the switches. He skidded to a halt in front of them and stood upright. And now he felt like a rabbit caught right in the middle of crosshairs. It was a horrible feeling like he was naked, exposed, and that at any second his life would end…
He scanned the various buttons and switches, sweat now pouring off his forehead in buckets. There was a couple of green ones, a red, a dirty yellow. Some new, some old.
Which one was it, gamota?
His memory worked, all the while precious seconds ticking by.
Red, yellow, round, green… It was like Playschool, gamota!
That sound of rasping gunfire filled the air again and he ducked down. When he looked over his shoulder, he saw it was Shortbredd. He’d finally reloaded and was covering him nicely. Suddenly, he felt much better. And safer. It helped calm him down a touch so he could start thinking properly. Okay, he remembered a red button, a round button. And as there was thankfully only one of those, that was what he went for. He slammed it down, again and again just to make sure, ’cos he had no idea if it was working or not. When he thumped it the third time, something next to him abruptly exploded. He jumped back as if he’d just touched a live wire. When he looked to where the noise emanated, he saw a neat bullet hole in the wall next to him.
He stared at it with acute alarm. Where did that come from, gamota?
He spun round, taking the whole area in with wide, alert eyes. There was no one in sight. His eyes rolled upwards, and when they did, he saw that there was a gun pointing at him from a balcony that wasn’t there during the Top End Clothes days. It ran alongside the big tanks, telling him that Neocrema must’ve had it fitted.
His reflexes kicked in. He raised his own gun and fired, hoping to get him first. His bullet was way off though, hitting the wall behind the bod, but doing enough to make him duck back down. When he did, John could now see that he wasn’t alone. He was with another armed bomber jacket and someone else. Someone with big glass jars of chemicals on the ground by her feet. She was wearing a white lab coat; big goggles covered her eyes making her appear frog-like. But despite all that, John recognised the dyed-red, gelled hair with black horns sitting neatly on top no problem. It was Valeria Kolovski. No doubt about it. Preparing the amber for the day. Just before she was so rudely interrupted.
John’s stomach tweaked.
She was right where he wanted her. Trapped up high, cowering behind two bods, who he’d have to get through to get to her. There were no escape routes from up there, so they’d have to come back down to the factory floor if they wanted to leave. John followed the balcony round—it led to stairways both left and right that were both in enemy territory. He quickly realised that he’d need to block off both stairways before Valeria had a chance to reach either one of ’em, so he could keep her penned in up there.
He was suddenly rocking on his heels. At first he thought neither of the twins were inside, but one was definitely better than none as far as he was concerned.
Then from behind him there was an almighty roar. He whirled round and was more than happy to see the cavalry—Sagat and his unit—come flying through the front door and into the factory floor. They got straight to work wasting bullets on the far end of the factory like it was going out of fashion. Suddenly their numbers were now doubled.
They were halfway there.
Sagat spotted John and pumped his fist in the air. John returned the gesture with as much gusto as he could put into it. But a loud snap by his feet made him jump back, breaking his pose. He stared up at the balcony to see one of the bods aiming his gun at him again. John flipped his hand up and pulsed the trigger of his Glock. The blast made the bod fall backwards to safety. John tutted. He had to get up there to Valeria, but it was way too dangerous to go on his Jack Jones. Besides, he couldn’t do anything until the enemy at the back of the factory floor were taken out. First he had to somehow block off the balcony escape routes and trap her up there. He needed Dread I to enter the scene from the back door sharpish.
He raced back to their occupied ground to join Sagat and the others. By then, they were busy implementing the final stage of the operation. Kid was being readied for his mission. He stood there cyborg-like while some others strapped kneepads to his legs; elbow pads his arms. At the same time, a pair of retro Reebok Pumps were stuck on his feet and pumped up to max. Finally, they shoved the knight’s helmet from the cache down tight on his head. John watched on as Kid’s horns grew out the top of the helmet. Then he was all set.
John went straight to Sagat, who was ducked behind the conveyor belt, firing his shotgun sporadically into the other end of the factory floor. ‘Valeria’s up there!’ John shouted to him above the chaos, pointing up to the balcony.
Sagat let off a final round that reverberated in John’s ears before he looked up, clocking Valeria crouched down and backed up against the far wall, her two bodyguards scanning the factory floor, guns at the ready.
‘Marek’s not here. So, I need her alive!’ John informed him. ‘We gotta block those stairs off.’
Sagat glanced at the sets of stairs either end of the balcony and nodded his head in understanding. He went to call two of his boys over when a sudden girlish scream made all their heads snap round.
Kid had been wound up and released.
Two boys pulled him backwards like a slingshot, counted down from three, and then propelled him forwards on his suicidal mission. Kid screeched out loud—his voice yet to crack—as he raced across the warehouse floor like a miniature bull, his head bent down low. A mini human juggernaut. The cannonball fucking Kid. His little arms pumped furiously like pistons, his tiny legs taking rapid pigeon steps, his Reebok Pumps a blue and white blur. Shortbredd was splattering the shadows at the far end of the warehouse floor, clearing the path for Kid like Moses parting the Red Sea.
Kid made it halfway through no man’s land still in one piece—hurdling any women sprawled on the floor like he was Colin Jackson—when Shortbredd inexplicably ran out of juice again. Suddenly Kid was exposed in no man’s land, making him fair game. A bod stuck his head round the edge of a tank and took a potshot. A loud ding rang out, a big spark erupting off the top of the knight’s helmet on Kid’s head. John’s jaw dropped, but Kid was unfazed. He just carried on running without missing a stride. Running like Forrest motherfucking Gump jacked up on crystal meth.
John quickly turned to Shortbredd. ‘Get that fucking gun working again before they smoke him!’ he shouted.
They needed Kid to make it. Needed it badly. Shortbredd immediately clipped in another magazine and began firing again, sending the bods back into cover. Soon after, Kid disappeared between the two tanks and into the shadows at the far end of the factory. He’d made it into the end zone, behind enemy lines. John watched the horizon with baited breath, and hot, wired eyes, expecting (hoping) to see Dread I come storming in through the fire exit any second now.
Shortbredd unloaded his latest clip, and then everything became eerily silent.
John’s eyes rolled from side to side. Did he make it, gamota? Did they spot him? Nothing was happening yet. He should’ve got there by now! He should’ve got there…
Gunshots went off somewhere behind the tanks and John ducked. But, they weren’t bullets directed his way.
Then a horrible thought hit home—he didn’t make it. They fucking got him!
‘I dunno how much longer we gonna hold out,’ Sagat then said to him. ‘We running low on ammo.’
John kept watching the shadows, praying that at any moment, Dread I would bust in and save the day. Instead, to his intense chagrin, a bomber jacket bod came out of hiding and fired his gun in their direction, catching another one of their boys in the chest. The sudden shock made the rest of ’em dive for cover.
John peeked over the conveyor belt to now see three of ’em come out of the shadows and make their way forwards for an attack. They smelt blood, and that sweet aroma was raising their confidence. One of Sagat’s unit rashly jumped up in a
n attempt to surprise ’em, but was easily picked off before he had a chance. His body slammed into the cement floor. They were taking casualties again, and now the bods were building up a head of steam. They’d used up most of their ammo pushing the bods back and while covering each other. On the other side, not only were the bods packing more guns, they hadn’t used up as much ammo. More experience; less recklessness. The initiative was suddenly theirs.
John looked around him, assessing the situation. His boys were watching on anxiously, holding up their empty guns and shrugging their shoulders. They’d spent their juice too quickly in a spate of misguided enthusiasm, their inexperience hindering ’em from seeing through the long haul of an intense battle.
What are we gonna do now, re? Kid didn’t make it, we’re outnumbered, and our ammo’s nearly dried up!
His mind worked crazily.
From a quick head count, they were twelve strong at best and there were at least thirty of them. They’d make mincemeat out of what’s left. There was no other choice, everything had been banking on Kid making it, and he didn’t. The plan had gone tits up, there was no other choice—they’d have to retreat. Get the fuck out before they were shot to pieces.
And Valeria was up there for the taking as well, gamota…John thought with extreme frustration.
Forget her, right now, it’s all about survival, re…
A round of blasts went off. John watched another of his boys gunned down in the line of action as he bravely confronted the opposition with the few remaining bullets he had, deciding it was better to burn out than fade away. Marek’s boys had now formed two banks and were now advancing in heavy numbers, the original onslaught ridden out. They began firing in John’s direction, keeping him and the others penned in their side of the factory floor, reversing the roles from before. Now it was their turn to hide in the shadows.
John turned to face Sagat, who was staring at him through his one surviving eye while bullets peppered the wall above them.
John cocked his thumb behind him. ‘We gotta get out!’ he shouted at him.
Sagat reluctantly nodded in agreement. There was no other clear choice.
John got to his knees and looked to his crewmembers either side of him. He waved his hands over each other giving them all the ‘cut’ signal. ‘OUT!’ he shouted and cocked his thumb over his shoulder. He turned away to lead the retreat out of Neocrema, suddenly feeling like a coward. He hated having to back down, having to admit defeat, but there was nothing—
He was stopped in his tracks by a loud multilayered roar from behind him. And in the next instant, the bod’s gunfire switched direction. John hotly stared at the whitewashed wall ahead of him, trying to work out what was going on behind him. More gunfire went off, followed by loud shouting. There was a new fight going on back there, and it didn’t involve his and Sagat’s combined unit. He smiled to himself.
Kid done good…
He turned and crawled back up to the conveyor belt. He peeked over it. The first thing he laid eyes on was Dread I in all his violent glory storming through the factory floor, blasting his shotgun at any of Marek’s boys that were in his way as if this was nothing but a casual game of paintball. The malaka had no sense of danger or fear, gamota. He was out in the open, his life hanging by a thread, but from the way he was walking amongst the bullets like Keanu Reeves in The Matrix, anyone would think he was made of granite.
He feels like can’t die…John heard Shortbredd say in his mind. The little prick was right…
John watched him with a bizarre mix of awe, fear, and revulsion as he swung his shotgun round and blasted another bod out of existence, his snake dreads dancing like mad as if they were having the time of their lives. John shook his head in disbelief, laughing absently to himself even though what he was seeing wasn’t one bit funny. It was brutal, like he was watching an action film, like none of it was real, but the truth was, it was all real. Very fucking real.
Then, from nowhere, a stray one caught Dread I in the upper arm, stopping John’s laughter dead. Dread I grabbed the wound with his free hand and roared in agony.
He’s been hit! He’s been hit, gamota!
John could see the blood, could see the pain on his contorted face—even though his eyes remained dead—and a single thought erupted in his mind—he’s not invincible after all!
Dread I just took it like a man and returned the gesture, sending another bomber jacket down. By then, Dread I’s unit were also heavily involved. They’d already sent fresh ammo round to John and Sagat’s combined unit, and were attacking from their position at the back of the warehouse—as planned. Now Marek’s boys were pushed out into the middle of the factory floor, getting rained on from three angles. Shortbredd put in a fresh clip and started aiming low, hitting ’em in the legs to send ’em to the ground with the other bodies already there. It was carnage. Absolute carnage, gamota. Bullets, blood, violence. John never in his life thought he’d be happy to see skata like this, it was the reason why he left the strato, but in a sick way he was feeling darkly ecstatic by it all, knowing he shouldn’t. The plan was going to plan, and he was getting a buzz out of that. A huge buzz.
And that couldn’t be denied…
A loud whoosh made him look up. He watched something arc across the air and crash into the middle of the factory floor where Marek’s boys were congregated. A column of fire raged up to the ceiling and then died down. A gush of heat hit John in the face, forcing him to protect it with his forearm. When he looked back, he saw Marek’s boys now dancing around fire like tribesmen. One of ’em was running around screaming, his bomber jacket smothered in flames. Another petrol bomb flew through the air and hit the wall behind ’em, sending it up in flames. Then another hit the conveyor belt to John’s right. The rubber began blazing and melting, releasing a hot acrid stink.
They’re trying to burn the fucking place down, gamota!
That was Dread I’s plan—send the amber factory to the ground, taking the competition with it. And suddenly he remembered something, something very important—Valeria. He looked up. She was still up there on the balcony, the two bods alongside her taking potshots at John/Dread I/Sagat’s crew. She was looking left and right for a way out. Either set of stairs led to danger, so for the moment she was safe, but the fire would eventually force her back down or she’d be burnt alive. And John couldn’t afford that.
He looked back at the war zone ahead to assess the situation. His army were camped on three sides of the factory floor, with what was left of Marek’s crew pushed back against the right hand wall where they were sitting ducks. One set of stairs leading up to the balcony were on their occupied territory, the other were on the side with Marek’s crew, meaning that Valeria could well go down that way to join ’em. If she did that, there was a risk she could either get shot or escape, and John couldn’t afford that either. He had to block those stairs to keep her up there. And he had to do it fast.
An idea suddenly hit him. He jumped up and raced over to the Molotov cocktail brigade who were by the fire escape. He got there to see a slick little operation going on—they had a holdall full of empty bottles; one of the boys was filling ’em up from a huge canister of petrol; he then passed ’em onto another soldier who stuffed rags into their necks and lit ’em up before finally passing them on to the launcher.
‘Give me one of those,’ John ordered, eagerly curling his fingers inwards.
The horned boy stuffing in the rags held out a ready-made Molotov. John grabbed it and raced back the way he came. He dived behind the conveyor belt again and grabbed his lighter. He sparked it up and glanced over the belt. Marek’s boys were putting up a last stand and were inflicting a few casualties. But the truth was that they were fucked and sooner or later, they’d have to either try and leave the building or die ’cos the flames were getting more intense by the second. And that went for their side as well.
He set the rag alight and quickly threw it at the stairs in enemy territory. It hit the metal steps
full on and exploded across them, sending flames up and all around the staircase. Very quickly, the middle section of steps was engulfed in flames, making it impassable. He licked his smiling lips and nodded his head in appreciation of his handiwork. Perfect. Now he could corner Valeria. All had to do was take care of her bodyguards…
His next move was to go and get some backup. He went straight for Dread I, who was lined up next to Sagat, firing through the flames at the bods beyond them.
‘We gotta get outa here now, bredda,’ Dread I shouted over his shoulder. ‘This place gonna blow, big style!’
John shook his head. ‘Valeria’s up there! We gotta get her!’
Dread I turned and gave him an incredulous stare for a second or two.
‘I need her!’ John added, giving him a serious look in return.
‘Okay, bredda,’ Dread I replied. ‘Let’s go!’
Dread I went ahead; John followed. John looked up the steps. The two bods had seen the other way was blocked by fire and as a result they were making a dash towards the other set of stairs. Valeria was just behind ’em, the back of her lab coat riding the air. John pointed his finger towards ’em, and Dread I stomped up the steps, pumping his shotgun on the way. He jumped up the last few with a grunt and aimed his gun, meeting them full on. The bod in the lead stopped dead, raised his gun and instinctively fired. There was a loud clang just behind Dread I, but he was unnerved. Didn’t even flinch. He replied with a shot of his own and caught the bod hard in the chest. He was sent backwards under the impact and crashed onto the metal balcony.
Valeria’s hands shot up to her mouth and her eyes widened. After a second, she let out a loud scream. Dread I stepped forwards, unfazed. John could see he was proper pissed, in Terminator mood. And it was bomber jacket bod season.
The second bod looked from his dead friend by his feet and up at Dread I with hate in his teary eyes. John watched on as his mug contorted in a surreal fashion. His eyes flushed red and his skin took on a sunburnt hue. He opened up his mouth to reveal rows upon rows of fangs; a forked tongue darted out between them. And with his horns already there and the place engulfed with flames, he instantly became a demon straight from Hell, brimful of rage. And John saw it in all its glory.
The Survival Game Page 26
