James Rouch: Death March

The driver turned away and ignoring them in a moment in a haze of cannabis smoke.

Behind them there came a loud rumble as charges were exploded beneath the bridge piers. One of them, less well packed than the others, sent a fast climbing gout of dark smoke and chunks of masonry high above the rooftops. As the thunder of the massive detonation died away and in a temporary lull in the shelling, there arose a spine chilling sound. Across the width of the river there came what started as a scream, and then turned in to a howl, a collective hoot of distress.

Refugees, temporarily herded from the far approaches were now rushing back, to look down in the torrent filled abyss that lay between them and safety, between them and the west. Between them and their escape from this newly forming area of the Zone.

So much masonry had been brought down that in a couple of places it was humped above the flood, forcing the river to detour around the broken stone. Already the surging water, propelled by the flood of the winter rain was crumbling those pathetic islands away.

A woman, lifting her arms in distress, then gathering a young child into each, flung herself over the jagged edge of the severed road. Another, mercifully without children, hurled imprecations that did not carry and then followed the first, her slim body making hardly a ripple in the fast moving water.

Tipping his helmet to the back of his head the French driver lolled against a raised hatch He had watched the big pieces of stone rain down on to civilians crowding forward too soon on the distant road. He grinned and blew out a plume of white smoke as he witnessed the scene of the suicides. “Oui, it is a lovely day…a lovely day sergeant. Truly a lovely day.”

The Iron Cow looked terrible. The hover APC appeared to have received scant attention, just been abandoned in a corner of the garage. It had been crammed up against a wall, penned in by a heavy truck and two partially dismantled Hummers being stripped for spares.

The workshop seemed to have become no more than a dump for abandoned equipment. Various boxes and coils of wire were draped across the APCs hull A large pot of semi-gloss brown paint had been upset on the hull top forward of the turret and now made a glistening series of rivulets down the camouflage decorated aluminium armour. Sergeant Hyde’s fist tightened in the loose material of a mechanics coveralls. “You said twelve hours. You’ve had fifteen.”

His toes barely making contact with the floor the man tried not to look at the NCO’s expressionless mask of a face, or what would have been a face before an anti-tank round had seared it away.

”What are you bitching about Hyde.” Sergeant Taylor, his coveralls saturated in grease and his many pockets bulging with tools and anonymous pieces of metal, intervened. “Put my bloody mechanic down. You’re never bloody satisfied. You want me to line the interior in a nice chintzy fabric, maybe put blinds over the gun ports?”

Hyde released the mechanic who initially tried to saunter away nonchalantly but instead scuttled to bury himself out of sight among the vehicles under repair.

“I don’t have time for smart valet parking. We can tug that pile of shit out when you want it. Its all done, the bits that matter anyway.” Taylor scrubbed at his hands with a cleaning fluid that left incongruous patches of pink skin showing.

“She’s done?” Sergeant Hyde found it hard to believe. “The blades, everything?”

“Appearances count for bugger all. Oi, Watts.”

At the mechanic NCOs’ summons, a skinny private with pens behind each ear stuck his head out of a glass walled office. Its windows were adorned with advertising stickers that revealed the establishments civilian origins.

”Yes? What is it now? I can’t ever get these returns finished. HQ wants them faxed in an hour”.

“Give me that list of spares for the Iron Cow.”

Relieved it was nothing more the harassed clerk dived in to the office, rummaged briefly and then scurried out to hand over a computer printed list.

“This is all the gear we rounded up, in fifteen hours.” There was a definite sneer in Taylor’s voice. “See it’s all listed here, spare ride skirts and fixing strips, new recoil mech’ for your cannon, two complete reconditioned banks of decoy dischargers…what the fuck do you do with them, you’re forever tearing them off along with a chunk of the hull…new hydraulic pipes and a servo for the front and rear doors, a complete new roof hatch and set of command cupola vision blocks plus a new rear fuel tank and miracle of miracles I even found replacement blades for the port Allison. Add in that we patched or filled better than twenty shell and splinter hits and we hate welding aluminium…”

“Ok, I believe you.” Despite himself and the state of constant antagonism between himself and their maintenance chief, Hyde was impressed with the volume of work carried out. “How soon can we have it?”

“What the hell is going on here?”

The officer who barged in to the scene had just sufficient bombast and haughty attitude to instantly alienate Sergeant Hyde. He waved a manicured hand towards the hover APC. “Is that damned thing yours?”

“It’s our vehicle, yes.” Revell sensed he might have returned to the workshop at just the right moment.

“I’ve had enough of you cowboy outfits dumping vehicles on us and expecting immediate results. When, if, your transport can be signed out then it will be.” From a tool littered workbench, Libby picked up a clipboard; he nudged Sergeant Hyde and handed it to him. He in turn passed it to Major Revell, who had entered through the back lot.

After glancing down the list on the clip board Revell looked out through the partially open sliding doors and took in the activity around some large Mercedes saloons and a couple of expensive looking sports cars. He scanned the page while the officer who stood before him, bristling at being kept waiting for a response, tried to take it away.

“Seems you’ve managed to put quite a few civilian cars back on the road.” His finger traced further down the list. “And a good number of top of the range Mercedes, Lexus and Audis have been trailered out.”

Uncomfortable, looking for a reply, the workshops commanders’ false bottom set of teeth protruded as he pursed his lips. His attitude had altered, but still he tried to project an air of authority. “I decide the priorities here…”

“And clearly who has the most clout and what will best serve your bank balance.” Revell noticed the man colour and saw him fighting to respond. He didn’t give him the opportunity. “I’ve had enough of self serving bum-kissing specimens like you. My APC is ready in ten minutes or we take our choice from the Merc’s and Lexus saloons you seem to be finding room for. You can then explain to their four and five star owners what happened to them.”

The officer turned about for support but saw only repressed smirks among his men, all of whom had edged closer to witness the confrontation but who now ducked aside and pretended occupation elsewhere. “It’s not possible.” His truculence was almost childlike, petty. His voice rose in pitch, in desperation. “It can’t be done.”

“It had better be. I shall leave two of my men.”

Even as Revell said it, Dooley strode forward and planted himself beside his officer.

Revell had seen the big man and Andrea eyeing up the beautiful cars packed into the workshops outside area and anticipated him volunteering.

Less expected was Andrea volunteering, though she had been running her eyes over the sleek lines of a Jaguar V12 saloon. “I shall be happy to stay and ensure our transport is pulled out in time. And if it is not…” As she looked at the metallic blue automobile her hand came to rest on the ugly outline of a thermite grenade clipped to her belt.