The Worm King (38 page)

Chapter Forty

Battle of Yass

W
ill they remember the Battle of Yass?

They remember the Alamo, and the Somme, and
the bloodstained streets of Stalingrad. But will they remember Yass? They
should do: it was fought between the last men and women on earth with axes and
clubs in the frozen darkness.

The question is, will there be anyone left
to
remember Yass?

I will. I
will
remember Yass. Desperate
one-on-one battles unfold where courage flies and is gone, evaporating in a
crimson spray as though it’d never existed. All that’s left is a shrunken universe
of grunting and hacking and crunching and splashing and screaming in agony as
precious—oh so precious!—lives come to an end. A painful and frightening end at
that. Heads cleaved in twain, torsos carved like mutton and all the rest of
that really bad stuff. Fear, so intense you can actually hear it as a dull,
throbbing, background roar.

As is the case in many a battle the carnage
is so extreme on both sides that even well after the end, when there’s finally
a pause, and blessed, holy silence descends on the drenched field of gore, no
one is truly sure who’s won. Those left always cheer, regardless of what team
they’re on: ‘Shit! I made it! How did that happen!? There’s blood all over the
place!’

But this is only what you think in the
afterwards, when the battle is done and dusted. Before, the reasoning and logic
and all sense of judgment are jumbled and murky and you wonder why you’re
actually there? Why! I do every time, and only a madman wouldn’t. Who are these
people hanging with me—that I’m happy to die for what they believe? The idiots!
The key is to just believe in something. Anything.

This.

Lord Brown held on high the unopened can of
beer. He said to the crowd assembled: ‘This, is what I teach you . . . ’

Two hours before Dick Snow was scheduled to
arrive in Yass, thirty-seven people were crammed in the designated safe-house
across the road and two doors down from the truck depot. Forsyth would’ve said
more, given the stink, but old Browny reckoned it was exactly thirty-seven and
the funny thing was, when they took the trouble to count there really were thirty-seven.
Strange, because his back was to the door and at least five or six people had
entered or left who he couldn’t possibly have seen. Lucky guess, Forsyth
figured.

The windows of the lounge cum dining room
cum kitchen were nailed over with wooden planks stripped from the house next
door to make the place less visible from the road. Before they’d arrived, it’d
been occupied by three men, two of whom were currently across the road keeping
an eye on the fuel truck while the third was sitting on the floor in here. He
was the idiot who’d asked if anyone knew a prayer they could all say together. Everything
had been removed from this part of the house apart from one sofa-type chair and
a beer crate. Even the stove and fridge had been taken from the kitchen and
dumped unceremoniously in the driveway to make extra room. The two bedrooms were
stripped apart from a mattress on the floor of the master bedroom and three
mattresses in the spare room.

Outside the wind gusted in short,
unpredictable flurries making it hard to isolate any odd sounds. An antenna on
the roof kept striking the tiles with a soft, metallic
dong
that was
getting on peoples nerves and the foggy, wheezy breathing of thirty-seven
unclean mouths swirled pointlessly through the minimal light of three lanterns,
only making you realize how cold and shitty it was inside, as well as out. Everyone
was dressed in a multitude of assorted layers, none of which matched or had
been near a washing machine in a long time. The stink said forty, at least, and
Forsyth was a connoisseur of man-stink after eleven years in the army.

The coughing came virtually continuous. They
looked pale, on the verge on some non-specific sickness. The air tasted . . . well,
the air just
tasted,
which it wasn’t supposed to do. Choked up with dust,
or sediment—hard to tell—although plenty of the grayish mucky material had been
traipsed inside and coated the floor, and wallpaper to about halfway up.

Lord Brown stood on the upturned beer crate.
He held outstretched a can of Fosters XXXX like it were a jewel-encrusted
chalice. The top of the can reached within centimeters of the roof. He hadn’t
spoken for maybe thirty seconds and his eyes were closed, then he opened them, looking
around the congregation.

‘Lads of Yass,’ he said somberly.

‘Excuse me,’ interrupted Zelda, putting her
hand up.

‘Yeah!’ added Āmiria. Apart from these
two there were no other women. Astrid was taking a nap in the master bedroom.

The three lanterns in the lounge were spaced
in a triangle around the only chair, which Zelda sat in. Everyone else was on
the floor, stood or crouched where they could. What a sorry bunch! Francesco’s team
wore the most concerned expressions, and that was a worry because he’d
delivered the message to Snow and set all this up. His eight men from the
Griffith council seldom spoke and always sat nearest the door. They carried
baseball bats, but Forsyth happened to know each of them also had a sawn-off
shottie slung under their overcoats, which was why they were all sitting up so
straight with such rigid backs. Councilor Montabelli’s promise of at least ten
men hadn’t panned out, and apparently Francesco wasn’t very happy about it
either. At least the men he did have, had good posture.

Wiremu, his daughter, and the four men who
worked with him were making enough noise for the whole room. They did a version
of Kumbaya which made the dog howl. Āmiria, Tim and Peanuts tried to make
a hole in wall, through the plaster, looking for “treasure”. The men did a haka
which made the hairs on Forsyth’s neck stand on end. That weedy bloke David, who
remained perched on the arm of Zelda’s chair, had never seen a haka up close
and looked about to wet himself. Winston sat on the floor in front of Zelda,
sharpening an axe that Nathan gave him before they left Griffith. He’d
discarded the sharpened stick. He’d also shaved his hair back to a mohawk and was
one of the few not wearing something on his head for warmth.

‘We are gathered here this night to witness,
yes witness the unraveling of our foe, who comes hither. I bestow on yea,
verily.’ Lord Brown lowered the can.

What codswallop! Still, he got the thirty-seven
right, so Forsyth thought he’d give him a moment longer. Another thirty-seven seconds?

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!