Impact (27 page)

‘How does that compare to the others?’

‘Irrelevant. You battle yourself. Always.’

Frost talked it through with other members of the class as they rode the bus back to base.

Plenty of bravado:

‘Blow my fucking brains out rather than be taken alive. No way I’m letting myself get beheaded for some sick-ass jihadi video. Wouldn’t give those ragheads the satisfaction.’

Each of them secretly wondering if, when their moment came, they could tough-out adversity, or would break and beg for mommy.

Sunset.

Stars in a darkening sky.

Frost tethered to a tyre. Hancock crossed the sand and stood over her.

‘Feeling a little more circumspect?’

‘You have to let me go,’ said Frost. She stretched as best she could. ‘You won’t kill me. And I sure as shit won’t give you the code. So what then? You can’t keep me tied up like this.’

Hancock shook his head.

‘You think you know me. But you don’t. Can’t say I want to leave you out here all night. But I sure as hell will, if that’s what it takes.’

‘Whacking an unarmed colleague? How does that fit with your honour code?’

‘I’d leave it to those bastards out there in the dunes.’

‘Murder by inaction. It would still be on you.’

‘You know how it is with an assignment of this gravity. The standing orders.
Anyone or anything that interferes with the execution of the mission can be considered hostile and can be engaged.
You became an enemy combatant the moment you turned your hand to sabotage.’

Frost stared past his shoulder.

‘Well, then I guess this is the moment we test your resolve,’ she said quietly. ‘Look. They’re here.’

Hancock turned.

Two figures standing on a high dune, silhouetted against starlight.

He drew his side arm.

‘Cut me free,’ hissed Frost. ‘They want your ass, as well as mine. Cut me loose. Give me a weapon.’

Hancock got to his feet and slowly walked towards the figures, pistol raised.

Silhouettes against starlight.

The first figure had half a head. The left side of his body slouched limp and unresponsive.

The second figure stood bent to one side, body kinked by a shattered spine.

Hancock crept towards them, Beretta gripped in both hands.

‘What the fuck are you?’ demanded Hancock.

One of the creatures turned away and shambled back into the desert.

Hancock took aim at the remaining silhouette. He fired. Pinback lit by muzzle flash. Slack face. Black eyes.

Bullets punched tufted holes in his flight suit.

Hancock lowered the smoking pistol. He fumbled a reload as he backed away from the impassive figure. He raised the pistol like he intended to loose a second volley of shots. He changed his mind. He turned and ran.

More Conex containers, ringed by a double perimeter of concertina wire.

Noble shone his flashlight inside one of the containers.

Foul stench. Cuff-chains and a latrine bucket. Crude air holes burned in the walls by an oxy-acetylene flame. He couldn’t imagine what it would have been like to be imprisoned inside one of the shipping units. Must have been hell during the day. A stifling steel coffin. A fucking oven.

Noble stepped inside one of the containers. Bare footprints on the sand-dusted floor. Bloody scratches on the wall like someone tried to claw through steel.

He kicked at a tattered red jumpsuit.

Something scratched on the back wall of the container. He used the balled jumpsuit to brush dust.

He stepped outside to escape shit-stink and claustrophobia.

A water trailer next to the containers. It had been punctured by bullet strikes. He hit it with his fist. Dull reverberation. Near empty.

He crouched, put his lips to the tap and let the last few drops of water drain into his mouth.

He stood and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. He looked around.

A couple of watchtowers overlooked the detention area. A clear sector of fire. Anyone attempting to bust out of the Conex cells would get dazzled by searchlights, torn by twin streams of 5.56mm, before they had a chance to climb the wire.

He did the math. Seven units. Twenty guys in each. And what about that message scratched at the back of one of the containers?

FIGHT.

Some sorry soul left a warning for future inmates. Implied the cells had been filled and emptied a few times.

Hell of a body count.

A thin avenue of barbed wire. A tight rat-run that led from the freight containers to a couple of Airstream trailers.

A bunch of R20 batteries scattered in the dust. The guards must have used cattle prods as a compliance tool. Stood outside the wire and goosed recalcitrant prisoners with a livestock wand, propelled them towards the Airstreams.

‘California Girls’ segued to ‘Sloop John B’.

He approached one of the trailers.

A couple of the corner jacks had buckled. The trailer listed to the left.

Noble drew his pistol and pulled open the door. He climbed inside, Beretta in one hand, flashlight in the other.

The Airstream had been stripped of all furnishings. The interior was dominated by a padded table. Restraint cuffs for ankles, chest and wrists. Extensions welded either side of the table to extend the subject’s arms cruciform. Looked like the kind of prison gurney used for lethal injections.

He circled the table. The trailer rocked as he moved around.

Stained canvas pads. The carpet beneath the gurney was worn threadbare. Place had seen plenty of use.

The walls and windows were crudely lagged with foam. Soundproofing. Same purpose, Noble supposed, as the music blaring outside: an attempt to muffle screams.

‘
Help Me Rhonda’ abruptly stammered and stopped.

Noble ducked outside. He took shelter from the arclights, hid in the shadow of the trailer. He waited a long while, scanning the desolate compound, the trashed buildings and wrecked vehicles. Maybe he wasn’t alone. Maybe someone cut the music. Or maybe the CD player, wherever it was, glitched and shut off.

No movement. No signs of life.

A large, geodesic tent. He stepped through the arched doorway. He looked up. He could see stars through tears in the vinyl dome.

Three dissection tables. Zinc slabs with drain holes.

A metal chair equipped with leather arm and leg restraints. A tripod video camera and a couple of mikes positioned in front of the chair ready for some kind of interrogation.

Bloody surgical instruments scattered on the polythene floor. He bent and picked up a pair of rongeurs. He scissored the blades. Crusted blood and tufts of hair.

A voice behind him.

‘Hands. Hands where I can see them.’

Noble froze. He held out his pistol and let it drop to the floor. He tossed the bone cutters aside.

He raised his hands and slowly turned around.

Trenchman. Dust-matted clothes. Couple of days of stubble. The guy looked sunburned and exhausted.

He lowered his side arm.

‘Shit. Noble. Noble, right?
Liberty Bell
.’

‘What the hell are you doing out here?’

‘Looking for you guys,’ said Trenchman. ‘Anyone else make it?’

‘Two survivors, back at the plane.’

Noble bent and scooped up his Beretta. They both holstered their weapons.

‘We should get out of here,’ said Trenchman. ‘The lights, the music. Might as well ring the dinner bell.’

They scrambled up the mountain slope.

Trenchman led Noble to a high ledge. A sleeping bag, bottled water, canned food.

‘This where you’ve been camping out?’

‘Managed to elude the fuckers so far.’

Trenchman pointed to the floodlit compound beneath them.

‘There. See that? Next to the truck.’

‘Can’t see a damned thing. No, wait. Yeah. I got him. Deep shadow.’

‘They come out at night. Might be dumb, but they got enough sense to stay out of the noonday sun.’

‘How many?’

‘I don’t know. A bunch.’

‘Reckon we’ll be okay up here?’

‘They’ve left me alone the past couple of nights. They don’t climb so well. A couple of them try to make it up that scree slope down there. Guess they wanted to take a bite out of my ass. They got a little ways, then brought a bunch of rocks down on themselves.’

Twisted bodies at the bottom of the gradient. Red jumpsuits, snapped limbs, part-buried beneath stones. One of the revenants was pinned under a boulder. Skeletal hands feebly slapped the massive stone, tried to roll it aside.

Noble sat a while and contemplated the compound.

He gestured to the wrecked buildings.

‘So what is this place? Evidently some pretty dark shit going down, some army docs getting in touch with their inner Mengele, but is it truly worth a nuclear weapon?’

‘Wait till sunrise,’ said Trenchman. ‘I’ll give you the full tour.’

The lower cabin.

Hancock pulled the barricade aside as quietly as he could and leant through the fissure in the fuselage wall. The desert night. Deep darkness. He shone his flashlight left and right. Undisturbed sand.

‘Frost?’

He reluctantly stepped from the plane, torch in one hand, Beretta in the other.

‘Frost? You still there?’

He approached the extinct signal fire. Anxious three-sixty scan of surrounding dunes.

Frost still knelt with a leash round her neck, arms locked cruciform.

‘You okay?’

She looked up. She didn’t speak. Haunted, terrified eyes.

He held the flashlight under his armpit, took a knife from his pocket and flicked it open. He cut the leash.

‘Let’s get inside.’

Hancock rebuilt the barricade.

He cut Frost free of the crutch. She sank to the floor, still set cruciform. She slowly flexed her shoulders, winced as she tried to bend her elbows and lower her arms. Sensation gradually returned to numb limbs.

Hancock kept the gun trained on her head.

‘Climb the ladder.’

Frost pulled herself upright. She gripped the ladder for support.

‘Take a long, hard look at yourself,’ said Hancock. ‘Dead on your feet. Planning to throw some kung fu my way? Best think again.’

She gripped the ladder rungs. She tried to climb. She gnashed her teeth and snorted in pain as her injured leg refused to hold her weight.