Читать книгу Blood & Dust - Jason Nahrung - Страница 6

Kevin's father stood in the aisle looking confused indeed. He raised his hands - one clutching a lunch bag, a peace offering from Kevin's mother, no doubt.

The cop had somehow managed to put down the mug and draw a squat pistol in the time it had taken Kevin to say, 'Dad, something's seriously fucked up here.'

'Special Branch,' Hunter said. 'Let me be and I'll explain.'

'Explain why you got two injured men on my service station floor, or why you're holding a gun on me?'

'Both. But I gotta do this or my partner's a goner.'

Kevin's father dropped the bag on the nearest shelf and folded his arms across his chest, his lips tight with restrained anger. 'Well, be quick about it. I could have customers any minute.'

'Yeah, it's peak hour out there.' The cop left the pistol close at hand as he picked up the mug again. He dipped a finger in the brew, pulled it out dripping and said, 'Still warm.'

Bile burned in Kevin's throat as Hunter forced Dave to swallow the blood. Twin streams trickled from the sides of the injured cop's mouth. Hunter let Dave's head down gently, then tore away his shirt to allow him to pour the remnants of the mug's contents onto a puckered wound on his chest.

Hunter reached for his belt, swore, then asked Kevin, 'You got a hammer?'

'Huh?'

He nudged the spike. 'This isn't gonna put itself back in.'

'Cunt,' Taipan snarled.

Hunter holstered his gun, stood and fished a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. 'You get me a hammer, boy, and you - what's your name?'

'Thomas Matheson. This is my service station, and that's my son you're pointing that gun at.'

'Well, Tom, I'm gonna need a vehicle. The faster the better. What've you got?'

'I got a car. Up at the house.'

'So, the kid here gets me that hammer so I can secure my prisoner, and you get me the wheels. I'll see you're compensated.'

Kevin's father frowned then nodded for him to do as the cop said. 'I'll watch you secure your prisoner, and then I'll get you your wheels.'

Kevin ran into the garage - a lighter sparked behind him, sounding like a knife being sharpened - and returned with the first mallet he found. 'You really gonna hammer that thing back into him?'

'Fucking oath.' Hunter took a deep drag on his cigarette.

Taipan pulled himself into a sitting position. His sleeve slid back down.

Kevin stared at the man's arm, wishing he could see through the cloth. He'd glimpsed a thin blood trail, but he hadn't seen the gash. It was almost as if… But that couldn't be.

Hunter flicked ash and put his cigarette back in his mouth before gesturing to Kevin to hand over the mallet.

'Hear that?' Taipan said. 'That's your death comin'. Alla youse.'

'I don't hear nothin',' Kevin said.

Hunter cocked his head. 'Good set of ears, this bastard.' He nodded to himself. The dogs whined outside. 'It won't do you any good, Taipan.' He poised the stake over the biker's chest, then gave it an almighty whack.

Taipan jerked as the spike sank an inch into his chest. He spat blood across the cop's face. Hunter ignored it and brought the mallet down again. The biker spasmed once more, then lay still, eyes staring, a trickle of blood worming bright and viscous from the corner of his mouth. Hunter sat back, wiped his face with a handkerchief and tucked it back in his pants pocket. 'I need that car, sport. Kid, keep an eye on Dave for me.'

'Jesus,' Kevin said. 'Look at that.'

The injured cop was breathing regularly. Even had a bit of colour in his cheeks.

Kevin's father stepped closer to look and said, 'Just what in the hell is going on here?'

'Ah, crap.' Hunter walked over to the window.

'What's that noise?' Kevin said, hearing a low rumble. 'Bikes?'

Hunter motioned with the pistol for Kevin's father to move. 'The car, sport, quick now.'

'How about an explanation first?'

Kevin got a folded tarp and put it under the injured cop's head. The man seemed to be breathing okay, shallow but regular. The wound in his chest, he reached to move the sodden shirt out of the way, looked as if-

The roar of bikes filled the room. Shapes moved outside the window. The dogs barked furiously.

'Shit.' The cop ground out his cigarette on the floor and drew his pistol. 'Get down; away from the windows.' He ran to the nearest, cuddled up to the wall and peeked out. 'How many doors?'

Kevin's father pointed them out: 'Front, rear office, garage. Is there a risk - to the house, I mean?'

'They got no reason to go up there. What they want is here.' He stretched to kick the biker, the man's foot wobbling unconsciously under the impact. Fresh sweat glistened on the cop's forehead. 'We need that front door locked and those garage doors down. Right now.' He looked at Kevin.

Kevin took a moment, then ran for the garage.

'I've got the office,' his father said.

Kevin tried to call the dogs in but they were out near the bowsers, barking at people across the road. Four or five bikes sat under the power pole. Leather-clad shapes huddled around them, like a flock of crows picking over road kill. Kevin rolled the doors down, then ran back inside to lock the servo door. It and the top half of the front wall were all glass; he didn't see that locking up would help. It was just the three of them at the servo and his mother up at the house. No-one between here and town, twenty minutes down the track, and only the one cop, Smithy, on duty, anyway.

'We're cut off from the house but they seem to be leaving it alone,' his father said, re-entering from the office. He pointed a shotgun at the cop.

'I'm not the enemy here, sport,' Hunter said. 'Trust me - your missus will be safe enough if she keeps her head down. Unless they try for a hostage trade, of course.'

'You better start talking, or I might just be willing to do a trade of my own.'

Hunter stared out at the bikes making idle circles on the road. 'Is that the only gun you got?'

Kevin's father braced, the gun firm into his shoulder, the barrel locked on Hunter. 'You aren't Special Branch; there isn't one, not any more, not for years. And your prisoner isn't exactly human, is he? So you tell me, right now, what's going on here?'

'Jesus, Dad.' Kevin, feeling useless as the shit got ever deeper, looked for a weapon. Nothing but the pliers and the mallet discarded on the floor. Great.

'Just stay back, son, his father said. 'We'll get out of this.'

'No you won't,' Hunter said. 'Not if you don't help me. You've got no idea what's going on here.'

'Just hand him over. You caught him once. You can catch him again.'

'That lot won't be happy with that. They want blood, you can bet on it.' He checked his watch. 'I'd give my left nut for the chopper right about now.'

The window disintegrated. The cop crouched, shouted for them to follow suit. The timbers shuddered under the impact of bullets. Metal pinged where slugs tore through the garage.

The dogs barked like Gatling guns. One gave a short, sharp yap of surprise. The barking stopped. The shooting continued.

Kevin's ears felt as if they were going to burst. He kneeled, hands over his head as glass rained across the floor. Through the door to the garage, he saw a chance.

'The Cruiser,' he said, pointing. 'We could take the Tojo.'

'You finish it?' his father asked.

'Nah, but it'll get us to town, no worries.'

Hunter hadn't returned fire yet, just sat behind one of the fridges. He checked his automatic's magazine for the second time and swore again before slamming it back home. 'Wouldn't get a mile.'

'I got the keys.' Kevin stood, a hand in his pocket.

'Son, wait!'

Kevin was thrown to the floor. Try as he might, he couldn't stand up. His whole body felt numb.

His father appeared over him. 'Kevin? Son?'

The gunfire ceased. A piece of glass shattered like a chime.

Kevin couldn't talk.

'Get him in the back,' Hunter said. 'Safer there.'

His father dragged Kevin into the office by the shoulders. Kevin felt nothing, puzzling over the view of the wrecked servo from this angle. Broken glass and tins everywhere, motor oil splashed over the floor, a fridge light fritzing like a bad strobe. His father, upside down, looking scared.

Hunter said, 'Help me move these two.'

'No. We can drive him to- We can do a deal. We can-'

'There's no coming back from that wound. We gotta see to ourselves now. Don't forget your missus up there at the house.'

'Damn it, he's my son!'

'Help me bring those others in here, before the bastards start lighting us up again.'

Don't leave, Kevin said, or thought he said, but his father left, following Hunter. The room wavered, darkened, and he was choking, like a mouthful of Coke had gone down the wrong way and was coming out his nose.

His father returned, huffing as he dragged the biker beside Kevin. 'Use this bikie's blood, like you did on your mate.'

Hunter hauled Dave in. 'Your kid's a lot worse off; a lot worse. Me and Dave, we got a little something extra going on, gives us an edge. I'm sorry, sport, but I could really use you with that shotty out here. They'll come in next time, I reckon.'

'Let 'em. I'm not leaving my son.'

A shout from outside drew Hunter's attention.

'Stay here. Keep that gun handy. I'll see what they want.'

Kevin had no idea where the shotgun was. His father kneeled over him, both hands pressing on his chest, and Kevin could see the scarlet leaking out through the fingers. Despite his father telling him to 'stay with me', he felt the world spin like some crazy show ride and the darkness pulled him down, right through the floor. He thought he heard screaming; and somewhere far away his mother was saying he was only young, he had plenty of time…

His eyesight is blurred beyond seeing, his body a cloud, but he can hear real good. There's a constant background rumble of bikes and there are two men shouting, but he can't make out the words. He thinks there's a lot of swearing. A gunshot, answered by many, like hail on a tin roof.

And then he hears his father, right next to him, and he blinks and blinks until he can see him, crouching with the shotgun pointed at the biker, who's on his back and looking at his father with what is, if anything, amusement. No sign of Hunter; still out the front, then, trading bullets with the gang.

'I seen what you did for this copper here,' Kevin's father says, gesturing at Dave. 'You can do the same for my boy.'

'So I fix him up, and then what? You gonna shove that spike back in me?'

'There's a car in the garage and I got the keys. It's all yours, I don't give a damn. Just save my boy.'

Taipan holds his bound hands out.

Kevin's father puts the shotgun down and hefts a pair of pliers. Must've grabbed them when he dragged the biker in. Cunning as a shithouse rat, his old man. He ducks back, quick smart, as soon as the wire snaps.

'What about me feet?' Taipan asks. 'And these?' The handcuffs rattle.

'When my boy's safe, I'll get you out of here. You've got my word on that.'

Taipan snorts, drags himself to lean over Kevin. 'He's plenny far gone. This ain't gonna be pretty.'

'Just do it.'

And then, from far, far away, there's a tearing pain in Kevin's throat. It sparks a moment of extra clarity, of seeing past the bobbing black hair and cheek of the biker to the ceiling, dusty cream and water-stained in one corner, and his father hovering by the door, naked fear on his face, shotgun clenched in his bloody hands as his tense gaze darts between Kevin and the front of the servo where things are quiet again.

'What in the bloody hell are you doing?' his father asks, voice low and hoarse as he takes a step closer.

'I told you it wasn't gonna be pretty. You should just let him go. Sometimes, death is better, eh.'

'He's only eighteen.'

'More than some.'

'Less than most.' The shotgun barrel motions the biker to continue.

Kevin's consciousness flickers as his body turns icy; he can just make out Taipan's whispered, 'It won't hurt for long - unless you survive.' The biker pushes up the sleeve of his leather jacket, the action clumsy, restricted by the handcuffs. There's a faint, moist ripping noise and Taipan holds his bleeding forearm over Kevin's mouth. Kevin tastes warmth, a salty heat flowing through him like rum. It hits his gut: fish hooks are tearing at his insides, through his lungs and behind his eyes, all the way to his fingernails and toenails. He thinks he hears a didgeridoo moan, deep down under a cockatoo screeching that might be him or might be something else again, a squealing fanbelt, perhaps.

An explosion shakes the floor and the walls. A blast of heat and fumes. Figures - silhouettes against the flames - grapple and grunt. Gunshots crack amid the popping and banging, and something heavy hits the floor. Then the white glare of daylight blinds him, and when Kevin's eyes have recovered, he sees the back door is open and the filing cabinet is on its side, papers spilled everywhere.

Smoke billows, thick and greasy. A shape passes across the doorway, and he thinks that Dave has been dragged out but there's still a body there on the floor, reflections of flames on leather boots. Kevin hauls himself away. He wants to hide in the dark, but there is no dark, just the hungry waves of heat from the fire and the scouring burn of sunlight outside the door. He scrambles toward the lesser of the two deaths. Outside, groaning under the lash of the sun, he finds the cool relief of darkness, folds it around himself like a blanket, sinks into it like a bed made of dough. A cockatoo shrieks, and rumbling explosions and collapsing timber shake the ground, and that didgeridoo moans, moans like a man caught in a nightmare in which his world is coming down around his ears.

Finally, as the darkness takes him, it all fades away, drowned in the slow, desperate thudding of his heart.