Rotten Gods (41 page)

Marika focuses her attention on the warlord. She wants to go at him with her fingernails, scratch out his eyes and smash his balls to pulp with her knee. ‘You're like a medieval overlord — you suck the blood from your people to build your palace and equip your army. Now you are holding two innocent women so you can fulfil some pointless male desire. You kill a couple of families out in the desert. For what? Sex?'

‘Fulfil your side of the bargain, and you and the woman may go — my men will not impede you. Fail to do so and I will hand you over to Wanami. He feels that you betrayed our trust, and looks forward to levelling the score.'

Marika swallows down the fear that rises up from her chest. What choice does she have? What if she
does
play the game, and Dalmar Asad keeps his promise?
What then?
What can she do in the middle of the desert with no means of communication?

‘I will remind you again. We had a deal. I fulfilled my part of the bargain. You chose to abuse my trust, but as far as I am concerned the deal stands.'

‘Really? Now? It's the middle of the day.'

‘The time is immaterial to me.'

‘OK,' her voice rises, ‘let's get this over with. Where do you want to do it. Here? On the chair? Or just on the floor like animals — I guess it would be appropriate.'

The big man appears to relax. ‘There is another room. Come with me.'

Marika follows him through a gap in the canvas, finding herself in a large space with a sleeping mat in the middle.

‘Take off your clothes,' he says. ‘I want to look at you.'

‘No.'

‘Take them off, or I will do it for you.'

Marika unbuttons her shirt, then reaches around to unclip her bra. His eyes have, so far, not left her face, but now she sees them flick down to her naked breasts — so white, tipped with rose.

‘The rest,' he orders. ‘Hurry.'

Dalmar Asad takes off his own clothes, underwear last. ‘When I was a child,' he says, ‘my brothers called my member Adh-Dhikh. The hyena.'

Marika sees the aptness of the description. Apart from the mottled colouring, the thing is huge and misshapen, enlarged behind the bulb in the shape of hunched shoulders.

Seeing her watching, he drops one massive hand and begins to manipulate it. Little happens apart from a slight thickening along its length. He steps forward so he is in front of her. ‘Touch it.'

Hating him more, she drops one hand and feels the warm clamminess.

‘Stroke it.'

She obeys.

‘Lie down, woman.'

Marika stares back venomously as she obeys; squatting, sitting down and then stretching out on her back. A tear comes to her eye as she thinks of Madoowbe and what they did just the previous night. For comfort; lust, perhaps. For reasons infinitely better than this misbegotten deal. She has slept with men for love, sympathy — even to give in to the kind of relentless emotional pressure Australian men can exert. This, however, will be the first time she has been penetrated in pure, unadulterated hate.

Looking agitated, he lies down beside her. While his hand walks down her belly she pictures dead children on the desert sand. They died  — for this. The thought makes her tense, clenching her thighs, locking them together.

‘No,' he orders, ‘move them apart.'

She complies, almost sobbing with shame and anger, but when he raises himself to his knees and swings Adh-Dhikh near her face she realises the truth. It remains flaccid. This giant of a man
cannot get it up.

Feeling a repugnance and hatred that overwhelms her, Marika does something stupid. She laughs. Loud and cruel. Then she says, ‘That's why you went to such lengths to have me. You thought maybe I could help you get a hard-on.'

Dalmar Asad's face changes, teeth coming together, lips curling up from his front teeth. Veins stand out in his forehead and his neck becomes a fibrous cable drawn taut. One hand is now a blade as straight and hard as a shovel, arm muscles bunching and compressing as he slaps the side of her face.

The slap rattles her brain in her skull and crushes her cheek against her back teeth. The shock robs her of the ability to breathe. She sees the hand change, bunching into a fist the size of a lunch box, coiling back to gather strength for the blow aimed squarely at her face. She realises her folly — that no man will suffer his sexual prowess being mocked. Her one chance, she decides, is to make him angrier still.

‘Can't get it up, can you? The hyena can bark but not bite.'

Asad abandons the punch; breathes like an automaton, reaching for his trousers and the gun belt, fumbling with the holster and bringing out the nickel-plated automatic pistol.

Time seems to stand still, and Marika can do nothing but stare as he pulls back the slide, seeing the cartridges waiting
their turn below the first one slipping into the chamber. As the barrel swings towards her she realises that he was always going to kill her, because that is the only way he can excite himself.

Closing her eyes, waiting, Marika is aware of two things: one is a sound similar to that of a zip being undone; the other is a grunt of surprise from Dalmar Asad.

Opening her eyes she sees the slim form of Madoowbe, very much alive, coming through a newly torn hole in the side of the tent, holding his bilau overhand. Dalmar Asad raises his arms to stop the blow, but the razor-sharp point strikes him at the temple, and, driven with all the strength of a desperate man's arm, flies on into the brain to just an inch shy of the hilt.

The body jerks and vibrates, before thumping backwards onto the floor, eyes staring at the canvas ceiling in apparent surprise.

Footsteps sound on the canvas outside the room. ‘Are you OK, Aaba?'

Marika bites her lip, thinks for a moment, then simulates a soft cry of pleasure. ‘Of course we are, leave us.'

The footsteps fade away. Marika dresses, then hugs her rescuer's arm. ‘Sufia is here, in this tent. I saw her.'

‘We must hurry. They are suspicious already.'

Marika goes to the body of Dalmar Asad, and extricates the handgun, still held by the sausage like fingers. It is a Colt Commander .45, heavy and powerful.
If ever a girl wanted a gun to shoot her way out of trouble
, she thinks,
this would be the one.
She looks back at Madoowbe, who sheaths the knife and unslings his AK47, checking the load with practised efficiency.

‘I feel bad — I thought you were deserting me when you ran away into the bush.'

‘I saw no point letting them catch both of us, and I was sure they would not kill you  — not when you can be used as a bargaining chip.'

‘I wonder why he told me you were dead.'

‘Because he wanted you to despair.'

Marika grips his hand. ‘Let's find Sufia and get out of here.' Walking to the door flap, she opens it a crack, holding the .45 on the other side of the canvas, out of view.

‘You are wanted,' she calls.

A face appears.

Marika mimics the act of holding a water bottle and drinking, then uses the Arab word for bottle, boo-til, that she heard so often at Rabi al-Salah. Finally she holds up two fingers. ‘Two,' she says, ‘two boo-til.'

The man's eyebrows rise, surprised, it seems, at these orders issued from a woman.

Marika smiles and lowers her voice. ‘Dalmar is exhausted, the poor man.'

The guard grins and moves away, returning moments later with two bottles of Kenyan packaged spring water. Marika waits until he is just a pace or two away before she fires, the roar of the discharge deafening. The heavy .45 slug takes him in the chest, his body collapsing. The recoil jars her wrist. Not looking at the body, not wanting to, she changes the gun to the other hand, shaking the pain away.

They leave the room and enter the next, meeting Sufia's guard coming to check on the commotion. Marika shoots him at point-blank range, then pushes aside another flap. The partitioned space inside is no larger than a closet, with a greasy woollen blanket in a rumpled heap on the floor.

Sufia stands. ‘What is happening?'

‘Hurry, you must come with us.'

‘Who are you?'

‘There'll be time for that later.' Marika turns to Madoowbe. ‘The front entrance will be dangerous. Is there another way out?'

Madoowbe slits the tent wall and they step out into the night. Running men converge across a canvas of grass and acacia trees. The gunshot has raised the alarm.

‘To the vehicles,' Marika cries. ‘Run with me.'

Gunfire arcs out towards them, the occasional tracer round stinging through the air like a phosphorescent bee. Marika is aware of Madoowbe turning, firing a long, searching burst, cut off by a misfire and jam.

The first of the vehicles looms ahead, a converted Ford pickup. An F100, Marika decides. Her uncle once owned one, a rusted heap that after thirty years showed no sign of packing it in.

‘You go for the gun,' she calls to Madoowbe, ‘I'll drive, and pray those stupid bastards left the keys in the ignition.' She turns to look at Sufia, running beside her. ‘You OK?'

‘Yes. Confused but alive. That is a good start.'

‘Go for the passenger side.'

Almost there, Marika turns and fires three shots from the Colt, picking out running targets. One falls. The others stop and go to ground. Return fire splits the air around her. The slim figure of Captain Wanami remains upright. Marika fires at him twice before he too takes cover.

Throwing open the driver's door, Marika gropes for the key. The heat of the vehicle interior hits her like a sauna. There are two AK47 assault rifles wedged between the seats, long magazines curving up towards the ceiling.

‘Damn,' she shouts, finding the ignition slot empty, leaning down to feel the floor and finding nothing. Then, raising one
hand, she explores the upper side of the folded sun visor and her hands close on a pair of keys on a ring. ‘Bingo!'

Sufia dives in, slamming the door. The vehicle body bounces as Madoowbe leaps onto the tray behind them. The key slips into the slot and the engine fires. Starting the big Ford in second gear, Marika eases off the clutch and it shoots forwards, just as the heavy machine gun behind them spews out the first burst, followed by the tinkle of spent cartridge cases onto the metal tray.

The rear-vision mirror shows the flare of automatic fire, and heavy lead projectiles thud into the vehicle body. Marika flinches each time it happens. ‘Oh shit,' she sighs, ‘I think I've killed three men today.'

Sufia's voice remains level. ‘Not three men. Three swine. A service to humanity.'

Marika forces a smile. ‘They're not going to let us get away too easy, but I wonder if they know their master is dead?'

Sufia's eyes shine like pools. ‘Who are you?'

‘I am a friend, I assure you.'

‘Is this about my husband?'

‘You could say that. Do you know what he has done?'

‘Ali is a good man; the best I have ever known. Whatever he has done is the right thing in the circumstances.'

Marika swears as the front offside wheel strikes a rock. ‘A few billion people might disagree with you on that one, but we'll let it pass for the moment.'

Again the machine gun fires.

Sufia's voice is defiant: ‘If you have come here to get me to divert Ali from the path he has chosen, then you have wasted your time. I believe in him, and I believe in what he has chosen to do — I have watched him grow in anger at the apathy, the political games of the West. I will not stop him.'

One of the pursuing vehicles closes on them, accelerating out onto the flank, heavy machine gun crackling. The flash of gunfire sears across the desert, a long flame lighting the area like a strobe light, or fireworks.

Marika swings the wheel with all the strength in her shoulders, feeling the vehicle begin to lose control, then shudder, as Madoowbe returns fire. ‘Hell,' she says, ‘this is no fun.' Looking across at Sufia she sees that she is calm, her face showing no sign of fear.
Nerves of steel
, Marika decides,
either that or just no bloody imagination.

‘Look out, ahead,' Sufia calls.

Marika turns just in time to see a hillside looming, wrenching the wheel hard in response. ‘My mother always wanted me to be a hairdresser,' she says. ‘I can tell you that curling hair looks like an attractive career option right now.' She hears healthy laughter, and glances across to see Sufia giggling into her hands.

‘You are very funny, do you know that?'

‘So are you if you can laugh while we've got a couple of truckloads of thugs on our tail.'

The vehicle skids out of control, slewing sideways before straightening, and as they accelerate, Madoowbe gets another burst away. Marika sees the flash of a petrol-fuelled explosion in the mirror as one of the technicals explodes. ‘One down,' she cries, and her hands relax on the wheel. From what she can see there is still one other vehicle behind, but the driver is wary, keeping his distance, relying on short bursts that tell on the metal frame of the vehicle. It looks to her like Wanami sitting beside the driver, but the distance is great enough that she cannot be sure.

A drift of sand covers the track ahead, and Marika takes it at speed, the wheels spinning as she pours on the power, knowing
that keeping up momentum is crucial. All the time the pursuing vehicle draws closer. The gun hammers.

‘Take him out, for God's sake,' Marika encourages Madoowbe, shouting through the open window. One of the headlights shatters. ‘Good shooting.'

Sufia opens the glove box and starts rummaging through.

‘What are you doing?'

‘Just seeing if there is anything useful in here.'

Marika glances across as Sufia takes out a dull, globular object the size of a cricket ball. ‘Hell, that thing belongs in a museum.'

‘It's heavy. What is it?'