Blood Prize (14 page)

T
om couldn’t stop thinking about Uta; the monster lurking in the shadows; the ever-present threat to the mortality of every member of the group.

Just saying her name implied fear. She killed in the darkness, forcing all of them to wonder about the unsuspecting thrust of the knife. For the sake of sleep, denial replaced any need for bravery.

“God … You evil bitch of a woman.”

His whispered profanity gained Noah’s attention; the man’s cheeks bunching over his clamped jaw, while his lips peeled back in anger.

“I don’t like that language, Tom. We’re bigger than that. It’s cheap talk, nothing else.”

Tom noticed the anguish in Noah’s expression. His leader stretched forward, banged his fist against the wall of the hut and cried out in grief. Tom knew he felt responsible for Julius, his friend and colleague, but such displays from Noah … Unthinkable.

He turned and stared at Tom; his moist eyes reflecting the flames from the open stove.

“I may have sent Luther and Petra to their deaths, lad.”

Surat coughed before Tom had a chance to reply. His eyes and face, empty of expression.

“Perhaps we should be getting on with business. It’s all for nothing, if we don’t find this thing.”

Tom watched Noah rise above his suffering. The man refocused, creating structure in their search.

“Surat. Break through the corrugated iron and lining timber on the outside of the verandah and crawl under the building. Search for any markings, or any soil that isn’t rock hard. Also, check the underside of the floor-timbers for any sign of activity.”

Noah swung his arm in a wide arc, encompassing all aspects of the room.

“I want the rest of you to delve into every conceivable hiding spot. Alright, let’s get going.”

After fifteen minutes, they found nothing. Tom felt his disappointment as a knot in his stomach. They couldn’t have missed anything in this shoebox of a place.

The hut consisted of a small entrance and storeroom, and one other larger room, with a combined wood fire and stove. On the outside, corrugated iron on both the walls and roof, covered a strong hardwood frame. A tough layer of plywood lined the inside walls and ceiling with only two inbuilt cupboards created for storage. Bench seating ran along two walls of the main room with an old table beside the stove; none of which concealed their Prize.

After having no luck under the hut, Surat widened his search to the closest of the snow gums, but with no results. All four searchers regathered in the hut. No-one spoke for several minutes, until Surat began to pace the room.

“You’ll have to make a decision soon, Noah. This storm is covering us for the moment, but if we wait here much longer, we could well be taken.”

“How we handle Uta will determine our immediate fate. It’s a perilous situation. If the woman overreacts, then we’ll cop hell. Let’s ready ourselves. When Luther and Petra return, we’ll keep up the pretence with Uta and move out.”

“No.”

Tom felt devastated. How could they give in so easily? He sucked in a ragged breath and began jabbing his index finger at both Noah and Surat.

“No. No. No. We’ve come all this way. There could be other things we’ve missed. I think we should all grow some balls and start again.”

Tom noticed the lines on Noah’s face begin to change. They creased into a tight frown around his eyes and then his entire face slowly widened into a smile.

“Well said, Tom.”

He gave a slight nod. Tom thought he recognised the man’s approval.

“Alright, back to work everyone.”

They searched everything again, covering all of their previous territory, but they found nothing but the same frustration.

Tom and Isobel continued checking the last patchwork of carved graffiti covering the walls. Tom felt overwhelmed with tiredness. He gazed over at Isobel. She appeared to have no such heaviness, seemingly buoyant in her meticulous study of each marking.

“Stop slacking off, Tom. Look for anything with an RP or an AF.”

“An AF…?”

Tom felt his face redden with embarrassment. Sometimes his memory couldn’t retrieve the obvious. A psychiatrist once described it as aphasia. A description he loathed. He hated feeling stupid, particularly in front of her.

“Alexander Fox; your father’s initials.”

The tone of her voice stung him.

Annoyed, he looked away to see how the others fared, but at the same time he heard her subtle expulsion of breath.

“Iz …?”

He twisted back around and saw her pointing. He followed the direction of her finger to a chaotic bunch of scribble carved into the ply.

Her eyes bore into his.

“This could be it, Tom.”

She looked away from him and engaged the others.

“Hey. Noah. Surat. We’ve found something.”

She seemed to wait for their full attention before continuing.

“There’s initials and an engraved figure here, but someone’s carved over them. That’s why we didn’t notice anything before. Look, an RP and the figure looks like a tiny dinosaur.”

Tom recognised the condescension in Isobel’s smile and the shake of her head.

“Hello. Is somebody going to do something about this?”

Surat took up his camp axe and attacked the plywood with enthusiasm. It took some time for an opening to appear.

Tom thought the hole looked like a crown of thorns, but it didn’t stop him from approaching it first. He edged his hand forward and searched the narrow space. Sharp pieces of plywood dug into his arm the further he delved. He pushed in harder and a splinter pierced the skin on the inside of his elbow.

“Ow … Not fun.”

He withdrew his arm in one involuntary movement.

“Not so nice. I’ll try that again.”

This time he eased his arm in more slowly, but a dagger of plywood still managed to puncture his bicep. He withdrew it, closed his eyes and took a deep breath; pushing his arm in to its fullest extent. She watched, so he closed his eyes to disguise the pain. He could feel blood trickling down his arm and dripping off his fingers.

“I’ve … got it.”

His hand felt a box-shaped metal object, but he couldn’t grasp it fully with slippery, bloodied fingers.

“I just have to ease it out.”

The fingernail on Tom’s middle finger found and held behind a tiny hinge. He increased the tension and the box gave up all resistance and came free.

“It’s a book … bound in metal.”

He placed the bloodied book-like object on the table and they all stared at it in confusion.

“Is this it?”

Tom and every other member of the group stared at the person opposite, imploring them for an answer.

Tom beseeched Noah for his.

“Is this the Prize, Noah?”

“I don’t know. It’s not what I expected, but I’ve a good idea how we’ll open it. Do you remember what we found in Katoomba?”

Noah reached over and squeezed Tom’s shoulder.

“The key has the same initials marked on the tag.”

“You’re right. Let’s get it opened.”

To Tom’s surprise, Noah raised his hand, pushing the palm at his face.

“No, wait … Surat?”

Tom looked around in confusion. He found Surat stepping up on the far bench, peering through the window. Then he pulled back and jumped down; his expression more ominous than usual.

“Turn off your torches, I just saw something.”

Noah replaced the stove’s lid, concealing its illumination. Simultaneously, the glow from four head-torches went out.

Surat stepped back up onto the bench and spent several more seconds staring through the window.

“We’ve got trouble. We’re receiving a continual SOS signal from somewhere under Molly Hill. It’s intermittent; probably torchlight between moving clouds.”

He turned away from the window and spoke to Noah with urgency.

“I don’t trust this. It stinks. Our people use communicators.”

The renewed light from Noah’s head torch lit up the room. He leant forward and placed both hands on Surat’s shoulders.

“Yes. That’s where you come in, old friend. I need you to find out what’s happening out there with as much stealth as possible.

“Should I kill her if I get the chance?”

“No. Don’t engage her, unless it’s your only chance of retreat. Even as our worst enemy, keeping the woman out there remains our greatest hope. Now go.”

E
very time Noah looked at her, Uta could see the disdain in his expression. She felt his distrust as a burning sensation in her chest.

The bastard knows and he thinks he’s won a victory, well he’s about to find out how wrong he is.

The group marched in single file with Petra leading and Luther in the rear. This confirmed her suspicions. If they trusted her, Petra would not be on point duty and looking for their trail.

The stupid bitch couldn’t find the toilet in the middle of the day.

Uta could feel the storm easing. Between moving clouds, she could see the light from the hut in the distance, which meant that she needed to utilise the weather to disguise her covert activities.

Noah must be made to assume that they’re alive. Even when they found the Prize, they wouldn’t move without Luther and the Russian.

The group maintained a steady pace along the side of Molly Hill, before moving up onto the crest of the ridge towards High Knob; the place where Julius tumbled off the rim.

She saw her mark in the snow; a small protruding branch placed to prompt her; time to begin.

“Luther, stop. We’ve gone too far. It’s back twenty metres behind us.”

He made a fatal error. Uta counted on him turning and looking back down the trail.

“I’ll see you in hell, Luther.”

The nine-millimetre slug drilled its way through the big man’s back and exploded into his stomach. It splintered on impact, sending shrapnel ripping through the body like hundreds of tiny knives.

Luther fell forward onto the track. His head struck first and the weight of his body drove it deep into the snow. With a kick, Uta made sure he didn’t move.

Saliva flew from her mouth, as she turned and sneered at the bewildered Petra.

“Now it’s your turn, peasant.”

The blond Russian appeared unresponsive; subdued by shock. Uta laughed and aimed the gun at her stomach.

“Get your clothes off, bitch. Do it now.”

She felt a gush of pleasure at Petra’s fear, sending shivers through her body.

“You pathetic piece of shit. I wouldn’t waste vomit on you. Get naked or die.”

Petra moved in stiff jerky spasms, her functions overwhelmed by fear. She sobbed as she began to undress.

The sight of the Russian stripping flushed Uta’s limbic system. Dopamine blasted her libido; causing a storm of lust to thunder through her body. She ached for the terror in the girl’s eyes, the panic, the horror; the darker the mental taboo the greater the physical gratification. She craved the forbidden; she craved murder.

She began to perspire, delighted by the wet presence between her legs.

“Get ready, bitch. No guns. No knives. Just hands and teeth, baby.”

Uta noticed the Russian stop undressing. She saw the girl’s eyes staring; connecting. She felt movement and then the tingle of erect hairs on her neck.

Luther …?

She spun around and spotted him searching for his weapon. A hulk of a man; his head and shoulders drooped over his wounded core. He looked spent, but Uta knew the man’s strength.

He attacked as she reached for her sidearm; his lunge driving Uta backwards, causing her weapon to discharge and fall from her grasp. In her peripheral vision, she saw the bullet strike Petra in the elbow and witnessed a spray of blood splatter against the whiteness of her body.

Uta forced Luther’s hands from her neck to avoid strangulation. She disentangled herself from his grasp and rolled away from him. As she jumped to her feet, she heard him call out to Petra, beseeching her to move, as he raised himself from the snow.

“Don’t just stand there. Get going girl. Run and keep running.”

Uta frowned. Her weapon lay at Luther’s feet.

She smashed into his body as he tried to retrieve it. They grappled, twisting and turning, trying for an advantage. Uta couldn’t allow him to free his hand and utilise her weapon.

In the midst of the battle, she smiled at his consistent calls for the Russian to flee.

Some people just can’t accept their fate.

“It’s time for you to die, Luther.”

Uta maintained her grip on the big man with practised techniques, striking him repeatedly with her elbows. In the heat of the contest, she couldn’t stop herself from laughing. The big oaf waged war with desperation, but she fought for another reason; the joy of inflicting death.

_____________

Red-hot neural impulses exploded into the cortex of the Russian’s brain and tore her from her stupor. She screamed, as more pulses of pain, reached her brain through the limbic system.

A concoction of neurochemicals raised her awareness and she started to run; fear and adrenalin forcing her to gain momentum and accelerate down the track. The madness didn’t stop for several minutes until the pain of her injury and the biting cold on her bare feet dragged some sanity back into her mind.

“Oh God …”

A new panic beset her; the absence of any light. How could she have run so far without falling off the edge? Oblivion could be a few steps in any direction. Even the smallest miscalculation meant death.

Petra, you idiot.

When the fight broke out, she stood on the eastern side of the combatants.

I’ve run the wrong way. Away from any chance of help.

After a quick estimation, she determined her position to be somewhere near the entrance to the Diamantina Spur.

Uta’s between me and the hut.

Once more, fear began to rise as acid in her throat. If she moved in this darkness, she might fall, but if she didn’t …?

_____________

Uta feigned, pretending to pull away from Luther’s grip. She knew he wanted to utilise his strength in order to land at least one telling blow, so she twisted and rolled him. Never allowing him the possibility of leverage.

She enjoyed his agony and understood that he couldn’t continue this level of intensity with such extensive injuries.

“Come on, you big ape. You’re not trying hard enough.”

Uta employed a simple ruse; dropping her hands in search of her weapon.

He’ll try for it now; one last effort.

He came at her hard, striking out with elbows and fists. Several punches grazed her face and she absorbed two more fierce blows; one to the body and one in the mouth before he withered towards impotence.

She smiled at him through bloodied lips.

“Come on. Get it over with.”

Uta anticipated his next move. He pulled back from her and tried to lunge for her legs.

“Nice try.”

She struck out with her boot. It smashed into the damaged area of his stomach and his knees swayed and buckled.

Uta savoured his pain.

“Yes, you big self-righteous ape. You’re about to die.”

She needed to locate her weapon, but she kept him in her peripheral vision as she searched. Once retrieved, she began circling, taunting him about the upcoming death of his lover.

“I know about you and your peasant girlfriend. It’s a shame you’re not going to see me cut her up.”

Luther raised himself from his knees and stood; his entire body shuddering in spasmodic jerks.

“She’s gone. You won’t catch her now.”

“Rubbish. She’s dead and you know it.”

She laughed when he switched off his headlamp.

“What are you doing, you fool?”

She could see him clearly; just a big ugly piece of meat, awaiting the knife. She moved to her discarded pack, reached in and removed a bone-handled dagger; eight inches of killing blade.

“Luther?”

When she turned back, she couldn’t see him.

Uta raced to the spot where she saw him last.

“Where are you, Luther? You pig.”

She could see no footsteps heading away in any direction. She walked closer to the edge and spotted the slip marks disappearing into the abyss.

“No …”

The bastard took his own life to deny her. She tried to look down after him, but the clouds raced by and the beam of her headlamp turned all vision into a dense whiteness.

Alright. Change of plans.

She needed to despatch the Russian with only a brief period for her enjoyment; not quite the ecstasy of slow torture, just a moment of pleasure.

She searched the snow for tracks.

“You stupid foolish girl.”

Uta examined the trail. Deep extended footprints marked the track.

She laughed into the storm.

The Russian ran for her life, but the wrong way.

The stupid cow’s running close to the damn edge.

“Don’t go and die on me, bitch. I want my fun.”