Quake (39 page)

‘Simple solution,’ said Carter, eyes glittering.

‘What’s that?’

‘We’ll let Sergeant Simmo question him.’

Mongrel nodded, enjoying the smoke and gazing around at the fire, the bodies, the devastation. He laughed out loud then, and shook his head, eyes haunted.

‘You thinking of Jam?’

‘Yes,’ muttered Mongrel. ‘Come on. I want to get out of this place.’

‘Let’s tool up and move out,’ said Carter. ‘Simmo can give us information while we’re on the move.’

‘Can I come with you?’

Carter turned, and saw Mila. She was watching him with a strange look on her face. Blood had dried on her skin and he smiled kindly, wearily.

‘No.’

‘We might need a sniper,’ said Mongrel.

‘No.’

‘Listen, you can’t leave me
here
,’ Mila said, gazing round in horror at the battlefield and the corpses. ‘This is my fight as well - these Nex, they are my enemies. I have helped you get this far - without me you would not be on the trail of that ...
creature
you need to hunt.’

Carter glanced - murderously - at Mongrel. What else have you blabbed? he thought.

‘It will be dangerous,’ said Carter softly. He placed a hand against her shoulder, gently, feeling a little guilty for having placed a bullet in her flesh.

‘I can look after myself,’ Mila said.

‘So be it,’ nodded Carter.

‘Pussy,’
whispered Kade, a dark sneer in his tone.

T
he lights were dim inside the barracks.

Simmo stood at the centre of the room, wearing nothing but combats and boots. His chest, heavily scarred and heavily tattooed, rippled with muscle. The huge soldier carried not one ounce of excess fat.

Around the outskirts of the room designed to house a hundred Nex warriors stood several grim-faced DemolSquad troopers. Haggis and Mo stood side by side, huge squat bullet-headed men, one British and one Pakistani: both awesome fighters. Lurking in the shadows, weapons held loosely in their hands, cigarettes trailing smoke to the ceiling stood the TankSquads - Fegs, Kavanagh, Oz, Remic, Root Beer, Rogowski, Falconer, Sagar, Graham and Holtzhausen. Kinnane and Samasuwo both held brews in their big scarred fists, and Bob Bob was looking forlorn, still with custard - his favourite food -staining his combats. All of them watched with barely suppressed hatred as Simmo reached down, dragged Kattenheim onto the chair at the centre of the room, and slowly tied him tightly to the thick wooden frame.

Simmo stooped a little, looking into the red eyes.

‘I know you’re a tough lad,’ he rumbled, ‘and The Sarge be honest - he not really like doing this sort of thing. Well, not much. Well, not unless he in bad mood. But you know answers to our questions and we want answers.’

‘Fuck you,’ said Kattenheim softly, and stared straight ahead.

Simmo shrugged, flexed his shoulders, and delivered a crashing left hook. They all heard the crack of bone before the chair hit the ground and Kattenheim lay, stunned and bleeding and staring at the wooden boards.

‘Simmo?’ said Fegs, holding a cigarette casually between his tattooed fingers.

‘Yeah?’

‘Aren’t you supposed to ask him a question?’

‘Hm. Yes.’ The Sarge nodded, then dragged Kattenheim upright once more.

‘Nothing like a fair trial,’ said Kattenheim smoothly; his face was swollen around his cheek and his gaze lifted to meet Simmo’s. ‘Once, when I was on para-ops in Colombia, I was captured by the enemy. The drug-purifiers tortured me for five days with alkaline chemical agents - and you see the results of their handiwork. And do you know something, Sergeant Simmo? I spoke not one word. Not one fucking word until my team mates found me and burned the enemy — alive - in large pits. I have a pact with pain, Mr Simmo. Me and pain, well, we just agree to disagree.’

Simmo nodded, then delivered a right that smashed Kattenheim’s nose and sent the chair crashing backwards, thumping against the boards. A splash of blood stained the timber. Simmo moved forward and stood over Kattenheim, staring down, his face twisting as he felt his massive temper rising. Simmo felt the other TankSquad men retreating further into the shadows. When Simmo exploded, nobody wanted to be close.

‘The Sergeant very sorry you suffer at the hands of your enema.’ He chuckled nastily. ‘But I have watched one thousand, five hundred and sixty-three men - and, ah, Nex - die. One could say Sarge is professional. One could say Sarge have no soul. One could say Sarge have pact with the Devil. Whatever, you need answer questions or your pain will be incredible.’

‘Pain is something I can live with,’ said Kattenheim softly as the chair was righted and somebody handed Simmo a long, heavy, rusting iron bar. Simmo weighed it thoughtfully.

‘You have made your peace. That good, Sarge thinks. Now, I need know links between Durell and the LVA fuel. I need know why Nex are guarding LVA pumping rig. And I need know where Durell has gone with little cronies.’

Kattenheim stared straight ahead, mouth a grim line.

Most of the TankSquads looked away as Simmo swung the heavy bar.

And they knew that the night was going to be a long one.

The Comanche’s twin LHTec engines were humming softly as they cleared the south-west coast of Slovenia and headed out over the Adriatic Sea. The sun was rising in the east, casting tendrils of soft orange light over the silver waves, and the huge expanse of water stretched out ahead of them.

Carter, still weary and exhausted, checked the blip from the TrackingDisc and smiled to himself. He thought of Natasha lying in the hospital bed and the smile changed immediately to a grim scowl.

His mind spun with confusion.

And hatred.

And ... exhaustion.

How much longer can I go on? he asked himself.

How much longer can I fight? Kill?

‘For ever and ever. Amen,’
said Kade.

‘Who dragged you kicking and screaming back into this universe?’

‘I was just thinking.’

‘About?’

‘About Jam. I know his weakness.’

‘Which is?’

‘Ahh, now that would be telling. Let’s just say that when we meet the fucker again, let me have a stab at him. We’ll see who’s the fucking daddy then.’

‘The only stab you’ll ever get is a nine-inch blade in the back.’

‘Your humour is what keeps me alive, O Master
,’ chuckled Kade.

The Comanche flashed low over the sea, heading south- east a couple of miles off the coast of Croatia and then Albania. As they headed over the Ionian Sea to the west of the Greek mainland Carter’s ECube buzzed softly.

‘Yeah?’

‘Carter, this is The Priest.’

‘Long time no see, you religious maniac. What do you want?’

‘We need to meet.’

‘I’m a little busy.’

‘Make time.’

‘You’re not listening, Priest. I’m a little fucking busy to be arranging social events with Bible-wielding lunatics - even if they are in charge of the Spiral secret police.’

‘Carter, this is important. It involves Spiral, it involves Jam, and it involves Natasha.’

Carter was silent behind the insect-visor of the HIDSS helmet.

‘What do you suggest?’ he said, finally, quietly.

‘You are heading for Egypt. The Spiral mainframes have you plotted. Touch down in Crete, coordinates 224.361.762. I will meet you as soon as I am able.’

‘How long?’

‘I cannot say. We have just discovered Durell’s game. I will bring you up to speed when we meet.’

‘This better be important, Priest.’

‘It’s important, Carter. Trust me and trust God.’

‘God? I’m pretty sure that fucker has abandoned me.’

The ECube cut out and Carter was left staring at the silver sea below his humming war machine. He thought back to everything that they had been through; thought back to Feuchter and Durell and the QIII processor and The Priest’s involvement in the events that had almost toppled the world.

‘
You think he could be a traitor as well?’
asked Kade.

‘No ... I don’t know. I find it hard to trust people in, shall we say, the current world climate.’

‘Let me kill the fucker,’
said Kade.

‘Jesus, don’t you have another fucking tune to play?’

‘
The day that I die will be the day I stop killing
,’ said Kade.
‘And you are the same, my boy, my brother. You are the same. We are as one; peas in the same pod.
‘

In silence they cruised towards the distant shimmering island of Crete.

Freddy killed the engine and sat in silence, in the absence of the Honda’s 8600cc rumble. He nodded to himself. Hmm, he thought, this LVA seems to be running a treat! Maybe Charlotte had been right after all?

He climbed from the cabin and stood in the darkness, hands on hips, and then lit a cigarette. He noticed that his hand was shaking - just a little bit. As the weed touched his lips he could just distinguish badly scrubbed bloodstains on his fingers.

The ground trembled beneath his boots.

A gentle caressing.

A tender warning ...

The quake singing a soothing grinding lullaby.

Freddy stood on the moors, filling his lungs with nicotine. He moved around to the boot of the Honda and popped the catch. It slid smoothly upwards to reveal a dark interior.

And there lay the bin-bag-confined body parts of Charlotte.

Freddy sighed.

Why couldn’t you have been normal? he thought.

He reached in and pulled out a long parcel. It was wrapped very neatly and Freddy prided himself on the tight binding of the silver duct-tape around the seams that made sure that no blood could possibly escape.

He chuckled to himself as he stepped onto the heather and headed away from the Honda. The heather was wet, springy, sinking a little beneath his footsteps. He carried Charlotte’s leg under one arm and a spade in his free hand.

It wouldn’t have to be a deep hole.

Just a shallow grave.

He found a suitable spot.

Rain started to drizzle down. As he dropped the parcelled leg on the heather, it made a wet thump. He slammed the spade into the earth, cutting neatly through heather with the sharp edge of the blade. The blade struck four times, creating a square of sliced vegetation and soil - and then Freddy levered the mound free and threw it to one side.

Slowly, Freddy began to excavate.

After twenty minutes he was panting hard and his breath was steaming in the light rain. The hole was quite big - almost big enough for the body of his ex-lover, at any rate.

Freddy felt a twinge of guilt then.

He acknowledged that Charlotte probably hadn’t deserved what she had got. He acknowledged that death and dismemberment were gifts that one shouldn’t really bestow upon one’s girlfriend. And he acknowledged that burial on the moors was perhaps rather savage a punishment for perpetual moaning, whining, bickering and emotional blackmail.

Freddy smiled.

His eyes glinted - a little insanely.

But then ... but but but fucking
but!

He shovelled another spade of earth onto the pile of waterlogged soil. It smelled creamy, rich, musty - like a proper grave on the moors should.

Something glinted through the rain, distantly, across the heather.

Voices drifted; the sounds of ghosts.

‘Pedal, fat man, pedal!’

‘Is this insanity - or fitness training?’

‘It must be insanity. We never see any other fucker out in the rain, ice and snow!’

‘Fucking warm-weather riders. Bunch of pussies to a man.’

‘Yeah, bit of frost and they fanny out! The little girls.’

Freddy’s head whipped left. His eyes narrowed. Water dripped from the tip of his nose.

Lights glittered dazzlingly through the rain.

‘What the hell is
that
?’ he muttered.

Two sets of twin halogen lamps sparkled. Freddy could hear puffing and panting - laughter. Through the increasing downpour came two mountain bikers, their silver titanium full-suss machines sloshing easily through the mud, lamps glittering. The riders were wearing full army combats, wet-proofs, and floppy desert army hats. They splashed to a stop a few feet away, halogens cutting a bright slice from the night and illuminating Freddy, his spade, his hole, and a bin-bag-wrapped leg.

The two bearded men stared hard at Freddy.

Then they looked at one another.

‘What the fuck is
he
doing, Ravioli?’

‘Fucked if I know, Worzel.’

They both stared back at Freddy, eyes narrowing to glares as they stepped from the saddles of their mountain bikes and allowed the machines to fall in the mud. They took a step closer, then another. Freddy took a step back.