Cowboys and Dinosaurs - Chapter 20

20. Punishment Battalion

Sunday morning, eleven fifteen a.m.

A queue of company cars - Alfas, BMW's, Civics, Primeras - was approaching down the narrow dirt road. The rounded outlines of coalscuttle helmets could be seen in each one, like horseshoe crabs coming ashore for an annual orgy.

The gate across the bridge was manned by a large, heavily-armed group of marshals. Seeing the registration numbers on the cars, they opened the gates and waved them through. As the motorcade passed, two lines of black female stormtroopers gave a perfectly choreographed Hitler salute. Mystified, perplexed white faces peered from the cars.

The convoy parked up in a line on the hard ground on the other side of the bridge. A shower of ill-dressed SS tumbled from the cars, belts in the wrong places, grenade cannisters worn on the chest and stomach, on the shoulder like pantomime parrots, and in one notable instance, hanging by the groin like a sporran.

Vutwaminiführer Syndii approached them and snapped out another salute.

"Your eqvipment iss shoddy und incorrectly vorn", she said. "You are ein disgrace to ze pure Vite Race."

The tallest of the SS shower looked her up and down, but could find no words to describe her.

"You vill adfance one kilometer south und engage ze enemy", continued Vutwaminiführer Syndii, prancing along the line of poorly-equipped Nazis, her own uniform a credit to the Schutzstaffel. "You vill not embarrass ze Führer by comink back alive."

"I don't like this, Gary", said one of the female SS. "I'm going home."

"YOU ARE GOING NOVHERE", shrieked Syndii, eyes gleaming with Jew-exterminating fervour. "You vill take not von step bäck. Ze first trooper to take ein step bäck vill be schot!" She clicked her boot heels together for emphasis. "Schot!"

"Those aren't real guns", said one of the troopers.

Syndii nodded to one of the vutwamini who turned a double barrelled shotgun in the direction of the signpost saying UNSUITABLE FOR MOTOR TRAFFIC and squeezed the trigger. There was a brief, echoing detonation. The steel sign became a fine wire mesh.

"Jesus", said Sturmmann Gary.

"All troopers who die for ze Farterlant vill be avarded ze Iron Cross! It vill look nice pint to your dead skeletons! Your poor old muzzer vill finally be prout off her disgustink offsprink! MARCH! LOS! SCHNELL! VORSPRUNG!"

The Punishment Battalion marched off to the south. Inside vehicles blacked out with paper and masking tape parked on the other side of the bridge, Mr. Wittering and the other bona fide marshals struggled in vain against their bonds.

The false marshals' radios buzzed. All eyes turned to Syndii and Liz.

"Answer it", said Liz.

"- CCCH NOT SUPPOSED TO BE GUNFIRE OUTSIDE THE BATTLE AREA WHAT ARE YOU BLOODY PLAYING AT GEOFFREY OVER CCCCHH -"

Syndii pressed the TALK button.

"Apologies control. One of our troopers experienced a weapons malfunction. Over."

"- CCCHH WHO IS THAT? IS THAT MR. SIMKINS OVER? CCCHH -"

"It is Mrs. Simkins. I have been gargling with sulphur hexafluoride. How are you over."

"- CCCHH WE'RE ALL FINE HERE THANKS. HOW ARE INGRID AND THE CHILDREN OVER CCCHH -"

"They're fine. Ingrid and the children are all fine. They're fine. Over."

"- CCCHH AND WHAT ABOUT LITTLE RONALD OVER CCCHH -"

"He's passed all his exams and he's doing very well over."

- CCCHH EXAMS? HE'S A DOG GODDAMMNIT OVER CCCHH -"

"His dog exams. Obedience training. To stop him jumping up. Over. Cccchhh."

"- CCCHH GLAD TO HEAR IT OVER CCCHH -"

***

Oh Dave almighty they're gaining - got to rush that red light - PARP - wave and nod in embarrassment at the man making faces at me from the white Transit - drive on -

The man in the white Transit turned out directly into the path of Lucian and his portable mob following behind. The Transit driver mouthed soundlessly at Steve in the mirror, miming masturbation, giving him the finger, giving him two fingers, giving him the whole clenched fist.

Result! If I can only make him stay there, he'll act as damage absorption.

Another red light loomed up. He ran it. White Van Man came straight through it after him, evidently convinced Steve was running the lights out of mortal terror of him. Which, on a normal day, I might be, seeing as how I have devoted my entire life to the achievement of cowardice. Today, however, I'm far more scared of the car behind his.

Curiously, no-one seemed to be shooting at him now. He felt almost touched at Lucian's unwillingness to harm innocent bystanders.

White Van Man is a seventeen-year-old driving his boss's van. He's evidently a plumber. I know this not just from the reversed lettering in my mirror that reads GNIBMULP KIWK CBA, but also from the pipe wrench he's shaking instructively at me in my mirror.

Only another two miles to go...

Another two green lights. White Van Man actually tried to overtake on a stretch of suburban clearway, obviously planning to block Steve's path before getting out and shaking his fist at him further. He was forced back into second place by an oncoming double decker. He didn't seem to have noticed that, by the time he slid back in behind Steve, Steve's rear windscreen had a fresh bullethole in it. Probably thinks it's a stone from the road. One of those ones that leaps out of the road after passing cars -

Oh lordy.

A double decker at a dead halt in front of him. Filling the road. Another double decker coming towards him in the other direction, the two sliding across each other with the efficiency of jaws clashing. There was absolutely no way he could get through.

He had to stop.

When he stopped, White Van Man stopped and ran up the centre line towards him with his pipe wrench. He operated both door locks skilfully. White Van Man raised the wrench above his head -

The bus in front switched its indicators to right turn and moved off sedately. Steve moved off with it, sticking to its bumpers, staying just ahead of White Van Man, who at first tried desperately jogging after the car, then running, then finally threw up his hands in frustration and ran frantically back towards his van, back through a posse of Palace Albanians, neatly dressed gentlemen with their hands in the breast pockets of their suits like a party of Napoleon impersonators. He paid them no heed, leaping into his cab and gunning the engine like a thing possessed.

Steve decided to put the double decker between him and them, having to force oncoming traffic to slow down in doing so. There was hooting and angry gesticulation, but he was used to angry gesticulation by then, and if it wasn't accompanied by either a pipe wrench or a loaded revolver, it was not worth listening to. The white van tried to come round the double decker too, but ended up in an impasse with a Chelsea tractor. For some reason, he appeared less willing to use his wrench on a middle-aged solicitor's wife. Steve feared momentarily that he might have given himself too much of a lead. He could still see, however, White Van Man's indicators weaving impatiently round the edges of the bus, trying to pass it on either side; the wings of Lucian's Mercedes followed. The double decker driver was also yelling at Steve in his mirror. No-one liked him. Everyone hated him. Life was as normal.

And then, the blessed green expanse of the Marshes opened up on one side. Partially green, that was, and partially discarded drive-thru cartons and rusted-up, burnt-out cars. Steve floored it, just as White Van Man and Lucian managed to pass the bus and came growling after him.

There, on the left - the entrance. He had to brake as hard as he'd just accelerated. His tyres morphed into great blue clouds of evil-smelling vapour moving faster than he was. He managed, just, to slot himself into the turn-off, the car's wheels scrabbling on the gravel. The suspension clattered across tyre ruts deeper than it was designed for, and he feared for the health of his sump. But even if the sump cracks like an egg, I'll still make it to my destination now. He forced himself to accelerate. The car protested like a cat being dragged over a cheese grater. The van was no longer gaining; its driver was now looking in his rear view mirror in sudden concern at the large car full of gangster-looking individuals that had turned off the main road right behind him. Steve slowed down as much as he dared, watching events unfold in his own mirror. The plumber slowed down and pulled over, allowing himself to be overtaken by the horrible, sleek, and purposeful Mercedes. As it passed, five pairs of intimidating eyes glared broadside at him, and he held his pipe wrench bashfully under the dashboard. At that point, Steve realized why Lucian's posse had not yet filled the van with bulletholes. The side of it facing him read COMPRESSED AIR CYLINDERS IN TRANSIT.

The Mercedes still did not come on quickly. It didn't need to. Its driver knew he had his quarry in a blind alley.

The gate loomed up now - what looked like a five-bar affair closed with sign saying a DANGER! NO VEHICLES BEYOND THIS POINT! sign. All about, a trio of white German Waffen-SS men sat playing cards. Private Cracker, who Steve believed was really named Arnold, nodded almost imperceptibly over a trembling hand of aces, their faces turned in the wrong direction; Steve nodded back.

Steve gunned the engine, crossed his fingers on the steering wheel, bounced over the bridge and rammed the metal gate head-on. There was a slight impact, a sound like the snapping of telegraph wires, and the gate fell in two miraculous halves. The Mercedes cruised through the gates and past the group of armed stormtroopers, giving them the same deadly eyeballing the van driver had been treated to. The stormtroopers looked to their cards, chastened.

Once the Mercedes had been eclipsed by banks of weeds and rubble, two Untersturmführer crept from their positions, easily hoisted aloft the two halves of the gate, carefully fashioned out of balsa wood and florists' paint by Gonoroid over a period of several nights, and flicked them over the nearest fence. Then, the real gate, lifted off its hinges previously and dropped into nearby long grass, was set back on its hinges, pulled into place, closed, bolted, chained, and padlocked. The real gate was made of tubular steel, weighed considerably more than its balsa equivalent, and took over two minutes to convince into position.

***

The Anne Sommers pool Volvo hurtled down the track towards what looked like the remains of an old sewage treatment plant. Inside the plant, people - people breathing through their mouths - waited, peering out from under heavy coalscuttle helmets. In keeping with the proceedings, one of them had produced a harmonica and was performing a passable rendition of Lili Marleen. Sturmmann Gary glared at him.

"Sorry", said Sturmmann Dean, glowing with embarrassment.

The Volvo braked on the wet earth in a drumroll of ABS, its driver wrestling with the wheel; the car carried on braking and steering simultaneously, its makers' brilliance outdoing its driver's ineptitude, and brought it to a halt inches from a concrete wall in the sewage farm's quadrangle. Steve leapt from the driver's seat, vaulted the perimeter wall, and stood atop it, watching the gigantic, disused circular settlement tank at the centre of the yard intently.

"The Volvo passed the Moose Avoidance Test, I see", said Gary disdainfully.

Steve looked up at Gary, who had been comforting Christina from Direct Marketing and still had one hand around her unslender waist.

"I see you didn't", he said.

Before Gary could react, the troop were forced to turn their attention back to a second skidding automobile approaching from the north. The Merc's driver had not been driving at Steve's breakneck pace, but had not had any warning of the turn; although he braked, his car failed the Concrete Sewage Plant Avoidance Test. The car's grille bounced into the air on the grass glacis surrounding the settlement tank, and Steve saw airbags inflating; the front wheels plopped into the deceptively solid-looking boggy earth that filled the tank. For a second it seemed as if the Merc might be easily salvageable with the help of a tow rope and reverse gear - then, however, it began slowly, insidiously to inch forwards into the mire. Lucian and his private army began to struggle from the car into the marshy sod around them, only then making the discovery that it was not technically sod. Amusingly, they all appeared to be bleeding from the nose. Possibly the airbags had broken their noses.

They were still carrying their weapons. One of them seemed to have been wounded by his own gun when the airbags had activated. Despite having shot himself in the arm, he was still gamely managing to hold the weapon in his off hand, glaring out at the world in an ecstasy of aimless malice.

The stormtroopers looked around again for Steve; but Steve was gone.

***

"How long has that sewage plant been disused?" said Syndii, adjusting the magnification on her powerful binoculars.

"About a week", admitted Steve, cautiously parting the vegetation to peer out to the south. "The council judged it inappropriate to stage a major olympic event upwind from a shit processing facility."

"That's what I thought", said Syndii. "One of them's gone under ...no, they've got him on his feet again. No, he's taken both of them down with him. They're really not very good at this, are they? You might almost think they're enjoying all this." She turned the binoculars, adjusted the magnification. "The big one has one of your stormtroopers by the collar. He's waving a gun in his face. The gun is all covered in shit. He's forcing him to suck it. Errr, he's doing it. I'm almost certain it can't taste nice."

"At least it's not me", said Steve.

"You've not got away scot free. They're trashing your car", said Syndii. "Jumping up and down on the bonnet. Smashing in the windows."

"It's not my car", said Steve. "It's Gary's car. We did a switch."

"I think he may be begging for his life now." Syndii offered the binoculars to Steve. "Can you lipread?"

A number of gunshots - deep bass gunshots, not boy soprano .22 gunshots - boomed out. Steve squinted through the foliage. "Now he's dancing. I think it's Gary. Gary's dancing. With the right motivation, he's become surprisingly good at it."

Syndii turned left. "The Russians have heard." She held the walkie talkie up to her ear, listened briefly, then held it up to Steve's.

"- not supposed to start till twelve. We haven't finished singing The Red Flag, goddammit -"

Another voice bit back in fierce and incomprehensible German.

"WIR FÜHREN IMMER DEN ERSTEN SCHLAG!"

"SO IST ES! HEUTE WIE IN NEUNZEHN HUNDERT EINUNDVIERZIG!"

Syndii clicked the SEND button. "CCCH THIS IS MRS. SIMKINS. I BELIEVE YOU SHOULD ALL START SHOOTING EACH OTHER NOW CCCH."

From unseen positions in the mist to the east and west, massive engines fired, loudly enough to cause Lucian to look up from tormenting Gary.

"The Tiger", said Steve, "and the Man of Steel."

"What's the plan now?" said Syndii.

Steve shrugged.

"You have no further plan", said Syndii.

"Well, it's obvious", said Steve. "The Germans sweep in from the West, the Russian Steamroller from the East, and the Palace Albanians are crushed between the two irresistible forces." He lowered his eyes, feeling the increasing heat of Syndii's gaze. "Um. Aren't they?"

For some unaccountable reason, Syndii was staring at him like a stern headmistress in his worst ever Naked-At-School nightmare. "And you did nothing else to ensure that that would happen."

"But the Sales team are dressed up as comic opera Nazis", said Steve. "They won't just be fired on by the Russians. They'll be shot at by their own side. This is Daniel and Alasdair we're talking about. They hate historical inaccuracy."

"Steve, the Red Army and the Wehrmacht are armed with blank-firing replicas. The Albanians are packing real bullets that go through stuff and out the other side and through stuff that's behind stuff and out the other side of that to go into other stuff, which -"

"What do you mean?" said Steve.

"I mean", said Syndii, fixing her attention on the image through her binoculars again, "that the Albanians might be about to win the Battle of Stalingrad."