Chapter 18: Readied
The men continued to fight. Erik possessed more fire in his blood. He wanted his retribution as quickly as possible. He threw his punches madly, without care or recourse to where they hit. For a man of his status, he spent most of his fury without care of whether or not his strikes landed or if his hits did more damage to Tybalt than it did to him.
Tybalt, on the other hand, kept himself moving and avoidant. He would rather watch Erik tire himself with his aimless and impotent action. Once the man slowed down, then he would be able to strike mercilessly. He would wait until the moment was right and then he would unleash everything he had. Yet, as he noticed Erik slowing down, Njal entered into the fray.
The giant grabbed Erik by the shoulder and pulled him backward. Erik fell onto his bottom. He then stepped in front of Tybalt. His figure loomed over him, every pound of him a reminder of his strength. Tybalt stumbled back a bit, mentally preparing himself to fell this giant, when Njal spoke.
“You know this fight is folly. There is nothing to be gained here. Go on.”
As much as Tybalt would have liked to continue combat with Erik, he understood the wisdom of the large man. His head was cooler than the rest. Tybalt inhaled deeply and turned his back on the men of Corvus. Stanimir tossed Tybalt his bag and handed him his revolver.
“I owe you one bullet,” he said.
“I’d take a beer instead,” Tybalt responded.
* * *
When Stanimir and Tybalt entered the depot, they did not know what to expect. Lukasz waited for his soldiers by the front door. He welcomed Tybalt and Stanimir into the large room. The men had a proper glimpse of everything in it.
The depot’s ceiling extended two-storeys above them. Salvaged steel beams created a sturdy support for the activity below. While the depot had been nothing more than rough concrete, supported by various metal meshes, the real event was the great multitude of workers and soldiers. Dozens of workers milled between wooden crates, sorting various tools and implements. While Tybalt couldn’t identify many of the items that they sorted through, he could make sense of the group that moved quickly with a giant crate of ammunition. The men and woman that stood in their assembly line, took different calibres and sorted them into distinct groups. Certain calibres, in their boxes, were taken a moved to another group who had plenty of empty magazines and cartridges that they filled hastily, ensuring that every bullet possible was loaded neatly and uniformly. From then, a worker would come and collect the loaded magazines and bring them to the soldier by a table of weapons. One of the appointed men doled out weapons and ammunition to each of the new comers.
Zoltan looked from a far, witnessing his small army grow as their hour dawned. The man, draped in the glow of his white hair, smiled behind his walrus mustache. His face shined with the pregnancy of ambition.
“Go on,” Lukasz said. “Get your gun.”
Tybalt and Stanimir descended down the short flight of stairs from the entrance and went to the man doling out weapons and ammunition.
“Semi-automatic rifle. Three magazines. 30 bullets in each. Standard five-five-six. Questions?”
“And a pistol?” Stanimir asked. The man clearly wanted to have as much fire power on him as he could. The soldier looked in the distance to Lukasz. Lukasz nodded to him from a far.
“Fine. Six-shot. Double-action. Thirty-eight special. With one speed-reloader.”
“You have anything autoloading? Surely, you have a semi-auto pistol somewhere here.”
“Sir, please take your weapons and go.” The soldier was having none of Stanimir’s requests. He felt that he had bent the rules enough to give him that revolver.
As Stanimir moved out the way, Tybalt got the same speech.
“Semi-automatic rifle. Three magazines. 30 bullets in each. Standard five-five-six. Questions?”
“None.”
“Great, please allow others to get their equipment.” The soldier motion behind Tybalt, who noticed the length of the queue behind him. He stepped out of the way and walking about with Stanimir.
“You think we should take our place in line?” Stanimir asked, looking at a worker winding copper wire around a metal spool.
“We’re not their regular soldiers,” Tybalt responded.
“I don’t think either Zoltan or Lukasz would buy that,” he said looking at the walrus-faced man on the platform above them.
Tybalt acquiesced to the custom of the soldiery. The two of them joined the lines of soldiers that amasses in the portion of the warehouse allotted to them. Neither Tybalt nor Stanimir kept their feet at attention. They had no need for the discipline of the others. They were freelance, hired guns. Instead, Tybalt kept assessing the room and counting the soldiers that would be joining them. He must have counted nearly thirty men who would be joining them in combat, as he did another pass, checking if he was off by one or two, or had missed a new recruit falling into line, Zoltan took to the podium.
“Men! Here we are at the precipice of our moment, at the cusp of history. Together, we shall steer this city to new heights. No more shall we be under the thumb of the hooligans who call themselves politicians. No longer shall we need to take commands from the unworthy, from cowards, from eggheads and bookworms. Now will be a moment in our history were the brave and the bold shall hold the reigns of power. No more shall we be swept up in the current of decadence that is sweeping this wasteland. We are living in the mire of moral filth, of unease, of instability. Our mothers, wives, and daughters all fear the hordes that roar to the West and the encroaching imperialism of the Borealia. No more! No more! Their fears shall be sated by the blood we spill today. It is not a battle of factions, friends. No, it is a battle for the very soul of this city and future of these Wastes. How long must we wallow in the mud of an extinct civilization? No more, I say. For it is upon this night that we shall lay the cornerstone for a new government, a new city, a new empire, a new conquering force that will bring order to the chaos out there! It is chaos, friends, chaos! We shall not stand it any further. No more shall our stomachs growl in hunger. No more shall our bodies ache in the weight of an unjust yoke. Today, it is the end of all that we hate and the start of all that we love. A new era, friends! A new era!”
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The soldiers launched a great cheer. Their roar echoed throughout the depot. Even the workers themselves, who stopped their duties, listened and were flooded with emotions. Tybalt even saw some of the woman at their stations tearing up. Water streaked their faces with the wild passion that gripped their heart.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tybalt whispered to Stanimir, but realized that Stanimir seemed to have purchased the rhetoric.
“I understand now,” Stanimir said with a quavering voice. “I understand. We need to make this hit. We cannot fail.”
Tybalt, as much as he agreed with the outcome, found the overwhelming emotion unsavoury. Emotions, in his opinion, muddled the activity of man. Only dispassionate action can carve the road of destiny. These theatrics were distractions. Perhaps, these theatrics were necessary for others, but not for him. He knew where he would be going, he knew the path before him. It was a matter of vengeance. Afterward, well, then he could think about what he would need to do. But, as it was, his path was clear.
“Move out!” Lukasz shouted from his end of the depot.
The heavy gates that covered one end of the depot began to pull open. Men grabbed onto the heavy chains that pulled the door open. When the gates separated enough to allow the three rows of soldiery to move, Lukasz led the platoon into darkness of Carrion Hill.
* * *
Tybalt and Stanimir found themselves in the same squad as Corvus. Erik, whose eye had swollen, snarled as he saw the men he would have to fight alongside.
“No hard feelings?” Tybalt reached out his hand to try shake his hand. Erik swatted the hand away from him.
“Don’t shoot at me and I won’t shoot at you,” he said as moved to his position behind a barricade made from linen-burlap bags filled with sand.
“No hard feelings,” Njal said in place of his leader. “He only needs some time to simmer down. You have nothing to fear.”
“I have no fear,” Tybalt said.
“Then, I am glad that you are on this side of the fortifications,” Njal said with a laugh.
Sten, still taciturn from the death of Arne, walked to his spot beside Erik and readied his gun. From their vantage point, they were far enough in that when the eighteen-wheeler entered the city in reverse, they would be right at the end of the truck. When the doors of its rear opened, they were given license to open fire after a twenty-second pause.
Tybalt and Stanimir took their spots at the far end. Tybalt could see little glimmers of the men posted on the rooftops, in the alleyways, and alongside the exterior wall of city. Likewise, from his spot, he could see the city guards and militiamen oblivious to the trap that burgeoned around them.
The signal was made among the city guards, who started to wave to each other. Various shouts filled the midnight air of the city entrance. The porter started the great engine that kept their heavy doors shut. As the machine roared into life and steam bellowed from its chimney, the gears and pullies of the gate seized, tightened, and pulled the great gates open.
As the space of its entrance widened, a man walked through it. He had been dressed fairly dapper. The had a well-groomed black beard and thick head hair, although, a bald spot on the crown of his head. Clearly, this man was Vassilos, the leader of Mercury Transport. Tybalt considered ignoring the mission brief and taking his shot now. He could kill the head of Mercury Transport with a single twitch of his trigger.
The rifle in his hand shook with temptation. One well aimed shot. It was all that he neared. He peered through his scope and placed it dead center on the man who had hired the men who killed his brother. His finger wrapped itself around the trigger.
No.
He would not pull the trigger. Mercury was not a snake, whereby cutting off the head would cause it to die. It was some ancient monstrosity that when killed with merely multiply. Killing him would allow some other capo to take his place at the head of the organization. If he wanted total revenge on Mercury, he would need to make the whole organization shudder and die. He would chop the whole beast into pieces and toss the pieces into the fire. He would see this assault to the end. He would help Zoltan’s men kill as many of the members of the Mercury and as many city guards as he needed to weaken the beast. He would love to see Vassilos killed tonight, but, if Zoltan won the election, Mercury Transport would be even weaker than after this assault. Zoltan seemed committed to see their forces dwindle and die.
In political turnover in days like these, it was not uncommon that the new leader, the new Reeve, would slaughter the men who opposed him, the men that sought his destruction, or placed obstacles in his assent. The position, a position appointed for life, would be one that needed to be secured. Often, despite the life-long position as Reeve, ascending into the position would shorten the title-holder’s life by several years. As such, it was necessary for these men to prune the weeds that gathered around the gardens of his power. Zoltan would be no different.
If Tybalt took his orders, he would stand in the crowd when Vassilos would mount the executioner’s scaffold. He would laugh as he watched the man’s head tumble from his shoulder. Then, his vengeance, slow, deliberate, and ever-growing network of plans and traps, would come to its final conclusion. The beast of Mercury Transport would be wholly and entirely destroyed. Then, who knows? A power vacuum would be made, a fact that Zoltan must be clearly aware of. It would be in this vacuum that Tybalt could probably glean new power for himself. He, after all, helped Zoltan get his items back, his caravan cargo, and additional men for this operation. He would have proved himself to be an invaluable companion throughout his most dire moment. Certainly, rewards would be necessary. He would not allow this walrus-faced man to pass him over for what he had done for him.
But, then again.
Tybalt looked back into his scope.
Vassilos shook hands with the commander of the city official. The men walked off to the side as the sounds of a truck in reverse filled the air with its mechanical bleeping. First, the enclosed cargo space peeked through the great gates. Vassilos’ own soldiers flanked the rear of the truck and help navigate it into the city. A few shouts and maneuvers helped the truck driver steer the vehicle perfectly into the middle of the open space.
As Tybalt watched the artistry of the driver, he noticed that the truck that had entered into the city beared clear resemblance to the one that he and his company had awaited. The tractor unit itself had been the exact same colour and decal. The explosion from Unity’s grenade launcher that knocked him unconscious and allowed the members of Mercury to overtake his company clearly scarred the tractor. But Tybalt had no doubts. This was the vehicle that had been his undoing. At the end of this, he would hope that this large piece of machinery would be dissembled or destructed completely. He could not fathom even this truck and cargo end existing any longer. If not, perhaps he would even lower himself so much as to beg Zoltan to destroy it, to scrap it, to turn it into spare parts. Anything that would allow the vehicle to cease to exist. That would be enough, that would be satisfactory.
Tybalt wanted to get a good glimpse of the driver. He wanted to see if the driver had been the disgusting man who had spat at his helmet. He would make sure that ugly man would be thoroughly dead by the end of the night. He would place additional holes into his body if he found him dead.
Tybalt squinted his eyes and looked at the driver who emerged from the driver’s cabin.
It was a woman.
Unity.