The Worm King Read online

  Lord Brown opened the can. The crisp, clear sound of the ring ripping away from the aluminum seal triggered an instant flashback to brighter times: barbeques; sweltering days at the beach; Ppfffizzzzzzzt! Mesmerizing.

  ‘Come, come,’ Lord Brown beckoned Winston, urging him up to the crate.

  ‘Piss off,’ replied the feisty dwarf, although he did get to his feet, using the axe as a lever. Winston swung the handle up onto his shoulder and the two men sitting behind jerked back as the blade sliced air centimeters from their faces.

  The Hat immediately stepped up to the crate instead. ‘Master!’ Lord Brown passed him the can.

  ‘Drink, John the Hat, Knight of the Order of Brown and Holy Nugget.’ The Hat took a healthy sip. Lord Brown motioned the man from Yass to come forward—the one who’d asked for the prayer—and indicated he drink too, which he did. It occurred to Forsyth that in chess, the best a knight could hope for was two steps forward and one sideways. Or two sideways and one forwards. Either way, the outlook wasn’t terrific.

  ‘Go forth, verily, and smite. Smite!’

  Winston worked his way towards the door. As he passed he said, ‘You want to whip out for a quick reccy?’ Forsyth nodded agreement. The thirty-seven seconds turned out to be about thirty-six too many.

  Lord Brown bellowed in a loud, strong voice, arms once more upraised: ‘Will they remember the Battle of Yass!’

  The door closed and the rest was thankfully blotted out. Winston lowered his axe and shook his oversized, triangular head in disbelief, glad to be outside. He clicked on his torch so Forsyth left his off in his pocket. Axe in one hand, torch in the other, Winston quizzically raised a single bushy, black eyebrow. ‘Anything in particular you think we should do?’

  ‘Nothing much we can.’ Forsyth shrugged. ‘Have a wander around the perimeter. Not that there really is one; more to make sure no one’s trying to sneak in early and get the jump on us. Might also be a good idea to make sure no locals from the neighborhood are drifting around to confuse the picture, although Francesco was certain most of the people had left, so we should be right.’

  ‘Right,’ repeated Winston, kicking gravel on the path then hoisting the axe back onto his right shoulder. He had a toughness nothing seemed to wear down. If even half what he said happened to him in the rubbish pile at the hotel was true, he deserved a medal. Or at least inoculations. The Brigadier would’ve called him a “sturdy little chap.” Mohawk, one ear, rat bite scars all over his face: despite his height, not a man to be trifled with.

  ‘Let’s go then. How long before he’s supposed to arrive at Dick-house alpha bravo, or whatever you ended up calling it?’

  Forsyth tilted his wrist into the torchlight to see. ‘An hour and a half.’ The watch was a replacement from his previous high-tech model shorted by the EMP. It had pinhead buttons which supposedly lit the face but each was barely the size of a flea and almost impossible to press. The worst designed piece of machinery he’d ever owned. It was a lot easier to tilt his wrist.

  The air seemed noticeably thicker out here. A few days ago the sun had without doubt begun peeking through; not today though. Winston coughed, which started them both coughing. The wind had predominantly blown from the north-west so it could be dust or fine sand down from the Simpson Desert.

  He spat on the ground, glad not to be able to see it because a couple of people inside had recently been coughing up a flecks of blood. During the bus ride from Griffith, he’d overheard Lord Brown telling one of the Māoris that each hour in the open was equivalent to smoking 4.9 packets of cigarettes. No idea how he calculated that, still, Forsyth didn’t know how he guessed the thirty-seven either.

  His scarf was tucked down into his jacket so he pulled the ends out and rewrapped a loop around his nose and mouth. Winston did likewise with a handkerchief, folding it diagonally in half then knotting it at the back of his head, leaving a large V hanging down in front like some punk cowboy outlaw on his way to do a rob’in.

  Light poured out the front window of the Dick-house, two doors down. If it’d been another eighty meters away the gunk in the air might’ve obscured it completely. The Dick-house was owned by an old bloke named Pedro, third-cousin twice removed related to one of Francesco’s men. Pedro’s address was where Dick Snow had been instructed to come, hence being designated the “Dick-house”, while the main house they’d just exited got labeled the “safe-house”. Old Pedro couldn’t speak much English so hopefully wasn’t too upset with his abodes new moniker. A small, vacant bungalow lay between the Dick and Safe houses. Directly over the road from Pedros was the truck depot where Francesco had stashed the fuel tanker, locking it in a workshop on the corner of the depot yard. The two men who’d originally been living in the safe house were currently guarding the truck, one armed with a .22. Forsyth made a mental note to make plenty of noise when they got closer to the workshop, in case the guards did anything rash. The only other building at the depot was a transportable office, strangely positioned on the opposite side of the yard from the workshop. Maybe they got a cheap deal, or maybe the folks in the office just didn’t like the sound of trucks being fixed six inches from their ear holes.

  In terms of the neighbors, on one side of the depot you had a vacant lot, and on the other a burnt-out agricultural machinery warehouse. Yesterday, when they’d arrived, Winston and Forsyth did a sortie through the gutted warehouse but it failed to yield anything useful. Several tractors, a combine harvester and what might’ve been shearing equipment, all melted into a charred, tangled, black mess. Plenty of corners to hide, and nothing worth taking, making this a place to avoid: unless one didn’t want to be found.

  Apart from these scanty buildings there wasn’t much. The semi-industrial land lay on the fringe of town and he’d walked at least 150 meters wide around the outside of the depot, warehouse and three houses, and seen zip. When he returned, one of the Yass locals told him he would’ve crossed a small park behind the safe-house, and on the far side of that were more houses. They drove the bus around the block and parked it in the driveway of one of these houses, so anyone not directly involved in the arrest of Snow could wait safely away from the scene.

  If all went according to plan, Snow would arrive at Pedro’s address with the twins and just one other person in his car, the extra being to drive the fuel truck away (or his car) when the twins had been duly handed over. What Snow didn’t know, was that eight men would be waiting in the back of Pedro’s house and another twelve across the road in the depot office. When the twins were visible, these men would emerge and Snow would instantly be surrounded. Your classic enfilading pincer. Magnifico!

  Despite the simple elegance of the plan, Forsyth didn’t like it. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but—

  ‘What’s first then?’

  ‘We’ll check the Dick-house, then go over the road.’ Winston grunted agreement and turned towards Pedros. Francesco and co would be outside in thirty minutes or thereabouts and it’d be good to get back here before then.

  ‘Brownie thinks this stinks, you know that?’ said Winston quietly over his shoulder.

  ‘What does?’

  ‘The whole scheme, to arrest Snow. He thinks it stinks.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Dunno. He just does.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Me?’ He sounded surprised to be asked. ‘I can’t see how it can go wrong, to be honest. More’in twenty of us and just him, or him and one more? My guess is he’ll try and scarper as soon as he sees we’re pulling a shifty, and we’ll lose him.’

  ‘Maybe . . . ’

  At the edge of Pedro’s property Winston stopped briefly. A low spindly hedge ran along the border but it was so dead and collapsed even an axe-wielding dwarf could step across with graceful ease.

  Pedro tottered to the door after twenty seconds knocking. Forsyth gave him a bar of chocolate (nut & raisin, kiddie’s size) and informed him Francesco and his friends would be along shortly. They left him a happ
y man, crossing the road, calling out: ‘Hello there!’ No reply. They eventually found the two guards of the fuel truck in the tearoom attached to the workshop, peacefully drinking camomile tea in the dark. Another bar of chocolate (peppermint crunch, kiddie’s size) then back to the safe-house.

  Nobody else encountered along the way; all appeared hunky-dory. He couldn’t see where it could go wrong? Old Brownie will be overdoing the risk. That’s what happens with age—you see death get closer, and you fear it. Yes, this should work, provided Snow actually turned up of course.

  It wasn’t difficult to make a beeline straight for the safe house, with at least a dozen chinks of light peeping through the supposedly boarded-up windows. Winston turned off his torch. As they approached the front door opened and Francesco, then his assistants, emerged.

  He’s right. This stinks.

  It was a one-way ambush, pure and simple. They were in an indefensible position with no secure fallback if things got ugly. This “safe-house” certainly wouldn’t do it. He tried to remember who’d suggested that name and recalled it might’ve been that cricket player from Tamworth. This is what happens before a scrap, everything gets all jumbled up and you never know who to rely on or believe.

  Winston and Forsyth went back inside. The remaining assembly didn’t seem much cheered up by Lord Brown’s prayer. More like startled squirrels, dazzled under a spotlight.

  A car in the distance. ‘That’ll be him,’ said Winston. He knelt beside Forsyth, behind a partly-collapsed wall on one corner of the burnt-out warehouse. From here, the two could see anyone trying to sneak through the warehouse (provided they obligingly carried a light) and also had an excellent view of the road in front of Pedros and most of the truck depot, apart from the transportable office where Wiremu and his men were hiding because that was tucked further back from the road. As an added precaution he’d broken three dozen empty bottles around the floor of the warehouse—everywhere except one zigzag path running diagonally to the back, and both were sure they could follow this in the dark by feel, after practising a few times without the torch.

  Francesco’s men, including Zelda, were stationed in Pedros while those not taking any part: Jerry, Ken, Lord Brown, Āmiria, Tim and half a dozen others, were safely ensconced on the bus.

  ‘Bloody thing!’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Winston.

  ‘Can’t get the light to work on this damn watch. Finally! There you go.’ He read the hands with growing unease. ‘He’s not just on time: he’s spot on to the second. Bad sign.’

  ‘Why?’

  Probably nothing, so Forsyth didn’t bother replying. A suspicious man might’ve said you only arrive precisely on zero hour if you’re coordinating with someone. Who’re you coordinating with Dickie? Would he make that effort just for Councilor Francesco? Then again, why wouldn’t he.

  Headlights appeared. The profile of a swept-back car swung into view, slowing sharply as it saw the houses, obviously searching for numbers. It passed within thirty meters of where they hid before pulling up in front of Pedros. A green Falcon. Snow drove with a male and two young females in the back seat, the man placed between the girls. The front passenger seat was empty. The girls wore woollen ski hats with identical blonde ringlets poking out the sides. So far, so good.

  Snow climbed from the vehicle, leaving it running and headlights on. You could pick the smarmy bastard a mile off. Francesco was already out on the road, one of his offsiders behind, walking towards Snow. The man in the back seat leant across the twin on that side, pushing her down brutally, then shoved his arm through the window and pointed a gun at Francesco. It was Bob, no doubt about it, shouting some garbled warning. The pistol looked of a large, peculiar type Forsyth didn’t initially recognize. Francesco and his companion stopped on the dot.

  So Snow wanted to get off on an unnecessarily aggressive footing. Another bad sign. Or maybe that’s just Snow, and his winning ways. Francesco and Dick were having words but from this distance Forsyth couldn’t hear specifics.

  ‘What are they saying?’ asked Winston.

  He didn’t answer.

  Francesco bent over, trying to look into the rear of the car but Bob waved him away with the pistol and Dick began gesturing at Pedros, then the depot over the road. He’ll be asking where his fuel truck is. Francesco’s companion gamely unveiled his shotgun, pointing it at Bob and suddenly they had a full-blown Mexican standoff. Francesco held up his hands, shouting an urgent instruction. Bob lowered his pistol. A shaft of light appeared on the road and Forsyth turned to see the workshop door opening, presumably so Snow could view the truck. Francesco approached the car again, raising a whistle to his lips which was the signal for the other men to flood from Pedros and the depot office, when he stopped, hesitating. Bob raised the pistol. Francesco took a pace backwards, put the whistle to his mouth, and blew. He put enough puff behind it that you probably would’ve heard it in Canberra.

  ‘Shit!’ said Winston. Behind the wall both cringed, having no doubt Francesco would be shot. It took a brave man to do that when some nutcase has an oversized pistol aimed directly at your chest.

  Instead, Bob pointed at the sky, and fired.

  A flare!

  Another very bad sign. His arm whipped back into the car, which Forsyth assumed was to reload the pistol. Yep. Bob leant out and this time, no hesitation: he fired directly at Francesco. Despite the councilor’s bulk he managed to nip to one side, so his companion took the round full in the face. Knees buckled instantly; the top half of his body snapped back; the front of his head exploded in a burst of luminescence. The flare must’ve punched through his teeth and gone off in his throat.

  ‘No!’ gasped Winston.

  ‘Sssshhh! Listen!’ At the sound of the whistle, men began spilling from Pedros and the depot office. But Snow was already back at the wheel, revving the engine, and a second later he’s screeching off down the road and away. A glimmer of hope emerged that he might continue on, and be gone forever. Not to be. After no more than a hundred meters he spun the wheel sharply and squealed to a halt, facing the depot. What . . . ?

  Torchlights appeared from the depot office then two Māoris came into view on the edge of the road. They heckled Snow, egging him to return. It was pretty obvious running directly at his headlights from that distance would’ve been suicide so they wisely chose not to advance. Francesco’s men were also outside, loosely assembled in front of Pedros around the dying man. Nobody had thought to turn off the light in Pedros so all were silhouetted beautifully, although the worst thing was the noise, the shouting and everyone making a hell of a racket because he really needed to listen out for—

  Winston beat him to it. ‘Can you hear that? It’s another car!’ He jumped up and started to climb over the wall but Forsyth pulled him down.

  ‘No! Stay here.’ Winston continued to squirm. ‘Quiet! I’m not sure which way it’s coming from.’ No headlights yet, but the sound suggested a decent-sized vehicle; close too. Maybe they were coming from their rear!? Could’ve worked their way overland, and be coming around the back of the warehouse . . .

  What on earth!—

  The truck ground to a halt on the road directly in front of the warehouse where Forsyth and Winston hid. It’d been travelling fast, with headlights off the whole time.

  A second truck from the opposite direction, this one with its headlights on, came tearing straight past Snow and stopped fifty meters short of the depot. Francesco’s men began retreating into Pedros. Men spilled from the rear of the truck nearest Snow. They wore headlamps, and each carried a club of some sort with a knobbly T-shape at the end. Sledgehammers! What? When he looked back at the first truck, men were spilling from that too, but darker, shadowy figures only visible because of the light from Pedros. One passed directly in front of Pedro’s window and the terrible realization of who they were hit Forsyth like a train: the cyclops profile of night vision goggles; steyrs with bayonets fixed; helmets and webbing . . . Army!

  A hi
deous feeling of despair churned in the pit of his stomach. He’d been double-crossed something awful and this was all turning to custard at a rapid rate of knots.

  Wait on . . . sledgehammers, and ten-dollar headlamps? That didn’t sound like army!? He refocused on this first group and saw no webbing or helmets and incredibly several were hooting and jeering like you’d do at a Sunday footy match. They converged in the middle of the road for a brief exchange then spread out, most making for the truck depot, some heading directly towards the warehouse and a couple disappeared in the opposite direction, possibly to check the vacant lot on the other side of the depot. At least two—no, three—had unsheathed knives shoved into their belts which is actually very dangerous to the wearer and certainly not de rigueur in the regular forces.

  ‘Shit!’ whispered Winston. ‘What’ll we do?’ He rose again and once more Forsyth pulled him down.

  ‘Keep an eye out behind us.’ Winston’s shoulders shook as he nodded. Didn’t want them sneaking up the rear, although chances are anyone would come in through the front, at the other end of the warehouse. That was where the main door had been and a considerably wider opening existed: an obvious entry point, and why he’d positioned them thirty meters away with a view of that entry point.

  He edged his head back up over the wall, scanning the unfolding dispersal. The opening moves are critical because this is the only time you’ll always get to see the full layout of the field. When the enemy have fully moved into position, prior to attack, you may not be able to see them at all. If they’re any good, you won’t be able to see any of them. The movement had already ceased around the soldiers truck, so they must all be out. They’ve spread like cancerous ghosts: creeping over the terrain and leaching into every dark cranny and nook. Then two soldiers did appear; on the other side of the road, moving stealthily up the path towards Pedro’s door and only obvious because of the light still shining from Pedro’s window.

  They were coming in on two fronts made up of different groups, and only one of these carried guns. The primary and the outflanker. And no firing? A moment later two shotgun blasts shattered the air, immediately followed by the returning savage burst of a steyr. Pedro’s light disappeared. Another squeeze from the steyr; someone screamed. He couldn’t see where the firing originated but they’ll have flash suppressors on. Two of the men with sledgehammers sauntered towards the entrance of the warehouse, like coalminers off to a biff.