Journal of the Plague Year by Adrian Tchaikovsky

Author:Adrian Tchaikovsky
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction
Publisher: Rebellion Publishing Ltd

CHAPTER EIGHT

“NICE ONE,” CALLED Trex. “You done got me a tank!” He stood at an awkward angle, leaning heavily on his cane. Ranged behind him was the motley rabble of his army. To one side, the massed ranks of gang members, clad in variations on a familiar uniform: beards, shaven heads or long hair, ripped denim, bandanas, motorcycle boots and tattoos, automatic rifles, shotguns and knives. On the other side, the civilians of Trex’s cult, all with the same glazed expression as the late Cho Hee, also brandishing a miscellany of weapons. McGuire even spotted the aged Reverend Sarah, shotgun propped languorously against her shoulder, a faint smile playing on her lips. Against a sea of incongruity she still managed to stand out. Behind them all rose the cathedral, its sandstone spire reaching for some other, better realm.

“And an army,” added McGuire, striding toward Trex, exuding bonhomie, his iron helmet clasped under one arm like a returning general. “A shit army, but an army nevertheless.”

Behind McGuire, Trex’s former accomplices—the nine who had raided the compound and now switched allegiance to McGuire—shepherded rows of battered, bloodied soldiers, guns at their backs. The uniformed men and women trudged into the compound, their hands above their heads, some looking defiant but most defeated, perhaps even relieved. There were about forty in total. A dull rumble accompanied their desultory approach: one of the liberated Abrams, Wilcox’s head visible in the turret. McGuire led his squad to a standstill some twenty metres from Trex’s ranks, the tank coming to a peremptory halt shortly after. Wilcox signalled for one of his comrades to cut the Abrams’ engine and a pregnant silence descended, broken eventually by the distant laughing of a kookaburra.

“Trouble is,” mused Trex, hobbling toward him, braces shrieking with each step. “This looks a little bit, uh, confrontational.” As he approached, McGuire saw Trex’s familiar hand scythe dangling from his belt. “Not planning something disloyal, are you, mate?”

McGuire stared him down. “I told you, Trex,” he deadpanned. “I’m all about the revenge. Plain and simple.”

“Fuck me. How many more times?” returned Trex, seemingly genuinely exasperated, but also undoubtedly playing to the crowd. “I didn’t betray you.”

“Maybe you didn’t,” ruminated McGuire. “But let’s be honest, eh? You used me to neutralise the military compound. And my reward? One of my ‘team,’ brought along at your insistence, turned out to be a swivel-eyed assassin intent on blowing my head off. Not to mention those canisters containing precisely fuck-all. Thanks a fuckin’ bunch, mate.”

Trex waved his hand dismissively, “Yeah, well. The canisters were a genuine mistake, mate. Empty, were they? Well, there you go. As for Cho Hee—well, maybe she got a bit overzealous and misinterpreted my instructions.”

“Like fuck she did,” McGuire sniffed. “Anyway, she got a meat cleaver in the brain for her trouble. I think she finally achieved enlightenment, mate, let me tell you. Nice bit of, uh, trepanning, I think they call it. Perhaps you should try it too.”

Trex laughed, gesturing behind him to his acolytes.

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