The Worm King (45 page)

Winston wisely kept his mouth shut.

The single, positive aspect of this ugly turn
of events was it confirmed their risk assessment had been correct and he felt
more confident in the course of action they’d set themselves on. Snow was
clearly insane. In no way could his tactics be condoned as normal from a
government official. Not just because all the lights had gone out for a few
months.

Surely not?

Dick asked about the fuel, and Francesco told
him there were two ways they could go: through the showroom and directly out
back to the loading bay, or down the main street a hundred meters, take the
first left then another quick left down a side street which took you to the
rear of Big Yass Furniture. One route was approximately a hundred and twenty meters,
the other nearly a kilometer. Snow unsurprisingly opted for the shorter.

Lord Brown picked up one lantern and the Hat
the other. Astrid and Francesco held torches so they led the clumsy procession,
while Snow, Bob and the twins entered the showroom last. Astrid waited at the
door then trained her beam on Bob and the girl’s feet to light a path through
the scattered furniture.

All non-involved personnel had been moved
from the showroom four hours ago, into a vacant store three doors west. As a
precaution, they’d voted to leave a team of spotters in the office to shout a
warning if someone tried to slip in the back way, should they manage to sneak
past Wiremu in the loading bay.

Forsyth hoped those hiding in the office had
the good sense to keep their heads down. Near the middle of the room where the
jumble of furniture was thickest, an angry growl froze Francesco in his tracks.
He and Snow swung their torches in the direction of the sound, but saw nothing.
A muffled shout came from the vicinity of the office although Snow still probed
for the origin of the growl and didn’t appear to hear it. Without warning, a snarling
blur sprung at Bob’s face: an angry, furry ball of claws and gnashing canines. Bob
must’ve thought he’d stumbled on a wolverine.

Āmiria had opened the office door to
see what was happening as soon as they’d entered the showroom, and the dog
immediately escaped. Peanuts liked the twins because one time at Mulloolaloo
they dished him up an entire manky chub luncheon roll. He saw the twins and remembered
the chub, then detected a particularly nasty vibe between the Chub-girls and
the man holding their leads. Dogs are tops on vibes, and the spaniel could see
No-lip-one-eye had the bad kind in spades. Then Peanuts thought about the chub
again, before finally coming back to the vibes and deciding something really
must be done about it because the Chub-girls looked terribly frightened,
whereby he leapt up and ripped a sizable hunk from No-lip-one-eye’s snout,
hopefully seriously hindering his sniffing ability.

Bob slashed wildly at the dog but never made
contact although for several frenzied seconds Peanuts actually hung off his
nose. The dog sped off, disappearing into the maze of furniture. Pandemonium
erupted. Some of the shouting was Forsyth’s because pandemonium can on occasion
be your friend. Astrid and Francesco kept their torches on the twins but Snow’s
beam zipped hither and thither in all directions. Bob clutched a hand over his
torn hooter which drew the ropes taut but not enough to pull the machetes up past
their protective wraps. One of the twins stepped towards Bob, and her line
slackened, so she pulled her sister in too and both lines went slack.

Forsyth saw a window.

It wasn’t a big chance but definitely there,
peeking at him through the chaos. If he could wrest those ropes from Bob’s
hand, staying out of the way of the knife, then attempt to use Bob’s scrawny
frame to block any shot from Snow, with any luck it’d give Francesco a chance
to grab Snow which you could see he was itching to do. Bob stood a fraction out
of range for a kidney punch so the next best option was a spear-kick to the
goolies, which Forsyth drove home with the sort of precision and vigor any State
of Origin player would’ve been proud off. Bob doubled over, cradling his mashed
nuts.

He grabbed for the ropes. And missed.

‘Get ’em!’ yelled Āmiria from behind a
divan to his right. Snow’s beam turned on her and the others who’d unwisely
left the office. A shot exploded, reverberatingly loud in the confines of the showroom.

‘Stop!’ shouted Snow with impressive
authority. Forsyth’s first thought was he’d plugged Āmiria because she
wasn’t visible, then he saw the smoking glock pointed at the roof. ‘Bob!’ he
called, ‘Stop!’

Bob straightened, holding his crotch and
glowering through a single hate-filled eye, the knife drawn back like he was ready
to spring forward and start stabbing whatever got in his way. The ropes were wrapped
tight around his left wrist, barely any slack in them. With great effort, he held
himself in check. Again, a brilliant move on behalf of Snow. If Bob killed the
girls in rage, or even by mistake, Snow’s advantage would be in tatters: down
to two pistols and surrounded by an angry group in the dark who’d quite probably
get him from that distance. He swung the gun onto Forsyth and should’ve pulled
the trigger there and then, but hesitated.

Instead, he shouted, ‘Out here!’ to the
figure now trying to hide behind the faux-goatskin sofa. Eventually Āmiria
emerged, scowling. He ordered her and the other four spotters out, waving them over
with Astrid and Francesco. The brief window of escape Peanuts bravely opened had
gone.

Sgt Kevin came forward with Tamati, Geoff
and Rangi, who each carried baseball bats. Snow told them to put these down
because he’d been at the depot and seen what a Māori could do with a club.
Āmiria gamely approached the twins but Bob angrily waved her back, blood
running freely between his fingers over the savaged nose.

‘Where? Snow demanded. Astrid pointed at the
rear door. ‘Come on,’ he said to Bob and the two made quickly for the exit, Bob
in front gripping the ropes and knife in one hand and seemingly oblivious to
the twins scurrying behind, while Snow covered the girl’s rear to prevent anyone
trying anything else tricky.

Their only option was to follow.

Snow walked around the truck twice.

‘You have to let them go now,’ pleaded
Astrid.

They’d parked it fifty meters from the
loading bay, conveniently pointed at the road, all ready to roll.

‘Not yet,’ said Snow. ‘I need to check it
first, how do I even—’

‘For goodness sake!’ she burst. ‘At least
take those . . .
 things
off them!’

‘Alright, alright.’ Bob waited at the rear
of the truck, holding the twins, while Astrid, Francesco, Winston and Forsyth had
been instructed to stand nearby but not within five meters of the girls. And
just so they knew exactly how much five meters was, Snow measured it out with
five big paces so they could all see. The lantern Lord Brown had carried sat on
the ground at the back of the truck although he’d been told to remain at the
loading bay along with Āmiria, the Hat, Sgt Kevin and the three Māoris.
He’d split them into two groups.

‘Now, Dick, please!’ Astrid implored.

‘Alright!’ he repeated, losing patience. ‘Come
here.’ He waved the twins over. ‘Come here!’ They were waiting for Bob to move.
When he finally did, Snow tucked one of the pistols into his coat pocket and held
out his hand for Bob’s knife. He deftly cut the harnesses off, then passed both
machetes and the pistol to Bob. He pocketed the knife and withdrew the pistol, and
a set of keys, which he used to unlock one girl’s handcuffs, taking them off completely
and slipping them into his pocket. He opened a bracelet on the second girl’s cuffs,
lifted her arm and passed the free end behind the handrail of the ladder
running up the back of the truck, then reattached it to the first girl.

Snow studied the narrow ladder. The
handrails on either side appeared to be fitted as separate pieces from the ladder
itself. ‘This go to the top?’ he asked Francesco pointlessly. It wasn’t going
anywhere else in a hurry. Francesco nodded but didn’t answer, instead staring
in dismay at the girls locked onto the truck. At the base of the ladder the
owner had erected a rectangular aluminum platform supported by four oblique
struts. The small platform had two well-ground, circular marks on it where
Forsyth guessed a pair of gas cylinders normally sat. Two side-straps further up
the ladder were evidence of this, more than likely used to hold the missing cylinders
tight against the side of the ladder. The platform looked an add-on job and the
truck at least fifteen, maybe twenty years old.

‘Is it full?’ asked Dick.

‘No, we tell you, only half,’ replied
Francesco. In fact it was slightly less than a third full but the gauges were
busted and when you looked in the top it was virtually impossible to tell the
difference between a half and a third. Forsyth had wanted to take out more,
when they’d been rigging it up.

‘Watch them,’ Snow said to Bob. He nudged
the twins out of the way then ascended the ladder. At the top he unfastened the
duel clamps holding the tank cover, swung it up and shone his torch inside. After
ten seconds of peering around, leant back, pulled the lid shut and re-clamped
it. As he climbed down the truck swayed under his weight. Francesco and Astrid
visibly tensed. Āmiria had tested for swayage, making Francesco clamber up
and down numerous times and it hadn’t once resulted in spillage into the pie
dish. Each time it’d created a wobble in the petrol but never enough to splash over
the dish rim. For actual splashover it required a few seconds of acceleration
or deceleration to create a wave large enough to “rim” the device.

Snow walked to the front, opened the
driver’s door and had a cursory look in the cab. Forsyth wasn’t too worried:
even if he walked around to the passenger’s side, pulled up the seat (which frankly
was a pain in the arse to do) then saw the storage space, would he think to
pull the tarp out that was stuffed in front of the greasy old discarded cooking
pot which contained the pie-dish floater? It was a one-in-a-hundred. Far more
likely to give them away was the reaction of those standing around.

Snow checked the keys were in the ignition then
banged the door shut.

Astrid demanded again he let the girls go.

‘No, they can stay right there, up on that
platform.’ Snow turned to the twins. ‘You can get up there and hang onto that
alright can’t you?’ Without waiting for an answer, he said to Astrid, ‘When
we’re on the outskirts of Yass, I’ll let them go. It’s an . . . insurance
policy if you like. Last time you reneged on our agreement so I’m afraid I’m
forced to do this.’

‘No! You
can’t
do that!’ she cried
desperately. ‘That’s . . . dangerous up there!’

She sounded about to fess-up and give the whole
game away. Then they’d all be in serious trouble. Snow would get as many of them
as possible handcuffed, or roped, or glued onto that truck while he watched it
explode from a safe distance and used the pistols and machetes to pick off any
stragglers trying to wander away.

‘Okay, okay!’ He raised his hands in mock
surrender. ‘I’ll tell you what, as a mark of good faith, I’ll let you take one
of the girls and one of
you
can come instead of one of them. To make
sure the other gets back safely and all that. Yes, that’s much fairer. Winston
you little rascal, how about you? You come on up here!’

‘Little?’ said Winston. ‘Fuck you!’

Snow’s proposal sounded a dangerous step
sideways rather than anything particularly “fairer”. He shone his torch in
Winston’s face. Bob poked a machete in the direction of the plucky dwarf, like you’d
do with a voodoo bone.

‘Hey Bob!’ Bob turned, and Forsyth puckered
him a kiss, which  pissed him off no end.

Bob tenderly felt his testicles, eyeballing the
Captain, who blew him another sloppy one and suddenly Bob was as angry as all
buggery.

Fortunately Snow stepped over and took the glock
off him because he looked on the verge of pulling the trigger. ‘Now, now,’ he chortled.
‘Well, Winston?’ He was back to two-pistol status, holding all the cards and
smug as a fat man in a jam shop. Feeding out a little line at a time to keep them
all happy, but in reality, callously trading human lives—this one for that—and
click by crafty click their position kept deteriorating.

A numbing realization struck Forsyth. In a
matter of seconds there’d only be one viable window remaining. If they arrived
at worst-case scenario, and Snow insisted on taking two people as “insurance”,
one of them had to be him. He’d be able to use his knife to undo the screws on
the ladder handrail (a couple ort to be enough) then draw the girl through and
jump off, leaving Snow and Bob with the truck. He was the only one who could do
this.

‘I’ll go.’

‘What?’ said Winston, staring in amazement.

‘I’ll go.’ He pointed at the truck to draw
Snow’s attention then cast a surreptitious glance at Astrid and Francesco,
winking without Snow seeing so they’d believe he had a much better plan than
the tenuous shambles it actually was. ‘You don’t want them, let me go instead. Instead
of the girls.’

Snow gave Bob an odd look, almost seeking
approval before deciding. It was as though this unspoken thought passed between
the pair:
there’s two of us and we’ll need one each.
‘No. It has to be
you
and
one of the girls.’ He beckoned Forsyth over, handed Bob one of
the glocks, withdrew the cuffs he’d pocketed earlier and in the barest of
jiffies had clicked the bracelet on. Another swift click and Forsyth found himself
attached to the same handrail as the girls. Snow was surprisingly proficient
with handcuffs and the Captain wondered momentarily how a TV weatherman would attain
this skill. Throughout the movement Bob pointed the gun at his head, which
seemed jolly rude.