Use of Weapons (2 page)

He
shook his head and turned away, striding up to one of the hall's two giant
fireplaces. He hauled himself up onto the broad mantelpiece, where he stared
intently at one of the ancient weapons mounted on the wall; a huge wide-mouthed
gun with an ornamental stock and open firing mechanism. He started trying to
prise the blunderbuss away from the stonework, but it was too firmly attached.
He gave up after a while and jumped to the floor, staggering a little as he
landed.

'See
anything?' said the voice again, hopefully.

The
young man walked carefully from the fireplace towards one corner of the hall,
and a long, ornate sideboard. Its top was covered by a profusion of bottles, as
was a considerable area of the nearby floor. He searched through the collection
of mostly broken, mostly empty bottles until he found one that was intact and
full. When he found it he sat carefully on the floor, broke the bottle open
against the leg of a nearby chair, and emptied into his mouth the half of the
bottle's contents that hadn't spilled over his clothes or splashed across the
mosaic. He coughed and spluttered, put the bottle down, then kicked it away
under the sideboard as he got up.

He
made his way towards another corner of the hall, and a tall pile of clothes and
guns. He picked up a gun, untangling it from a knot of straps, sleeves and
ammunition belts. He inspected the weapon, then threw it down again. He swept
several hundred small empty magazines aside to get at another gun, but then
discarded that one too. He picked up two more, checked them and slung one round
his shoulder while placing the other on a rug-covered chest. He went on through
the weapons until he had three guns slung about him, and the chest was nearly
covered with various bits and pieces of hardware. He swept the gear on the
chest into a tough, oil-stained bag and dumped that on the floor.

'No,'
he said.

As
he spoke, there was a deep rumble, unlocated and indeterminate, something more
in the ground than in the air. The voice under the table muttered something.

The
young man walked over to the windows, setting the guns down on the floor.

He
stood there a while, looking out.

'Hey,'
said the voice under the table. 'Help me up, will you? I'm under the table.'

'What're
you doing under the table, Cullis?' said the young man, kneeling to inspect the
guns; tapping indicators, twisting dials, altering settings and squinting down
sights.

'Oh,
this and that; you know.'

The
young man smiled, and crossed to the table. He reached underneath and with one
arm dragged out a large, red-faced man who wore a field-marshal's jacket a size
too big for him, and who had very short grey hair and only one real eye. The
large man was helped up; he stood carefully, then slowly brushed one or two
bits of glass off the jacket. He thanked the young man by slowly nodding his
head.

'What
time is it, anyway?' he asked.

'What?
You're mumbling.'

'Time.
What time is it?'

'It's
day time.'

'Ha.'
The large man nodded wisely. 'Just as I thought.' Cullis watched the young man
go back to the window and the guns, then heaved himself away from the great
table; he arrived, eventually, at the table holding the large water-pitcher
which was decorated with a painting of an old sailing ship.

He
lifted the pitcher up, swaying slightly, turned it upside down over his head,
blinked his eyes, wiped his face with his hands and flapped the collar of his
jacket.

'Ah,'
he said, 'that's better'.

'You're
drunk,' said the young man, without turning away from the guns.

The
older man considered this.

'You
almost manage to make that sound like a criticism,' he replied, with dignity, and
the tapped his false eye and blinked over it a few times. He turned as
deliberately as possible and faced the far wall, staring at a mural of a sea
battle. He fixed on one particularly large warship portrayed there and seemed
to clench his jaw slightly.

His
head jerked back, there was a tiny cough and a whine that terminated in a
miniature explosion; three metres away from the warship in the mural, a large
floor-standing vase disintegrated in a cloud of dust.

The
large grey-haired man shook his head sadly and tapped his false eye again.
'Fair enough,' he said, 'Im drunk.'

The
young man stood up, holding the guns he had selected, and turned to look at the
older man. 'If you had two eyes you'd be seeing double. Here; catch.'

So
saying, he threw a gun towards the older man, who stretched out one hand to
catch it at just the same time as the gun hit the wall behind him and clattered
to the floor.

Cullis
blinked. 'I think,' he said, 'I would like to go back under the table.'

The
young man came over, picked up the gun, checked it again, and handed it to the
older man, wrapping his large arms around it for him. Then he manoeuvred Cullis
over to the pile of weapons and clothes.

The
older man was taller than the young man, and his good eye and the false eye -
which was in fact a light micro-pistol - stared down at the young man as he
pulled a couple of ammunition belts from the floor and slung them over the
older man's shoulders. The young man grimaced as Cullis looked at him; he
reached up and turned the older man's face away, then from a breast pocket in
the too-big field-marshal's jacket extracted what looked like - and was - an
armoured eye-patch. He fitted the strap carefully over the taller man's grey,
crew-cut head.

'My
god!' Cullis gasped, 'I've gone blind!'

The
young man reached up and adjusted the eye patch. 'Your pardon. Wrong eye.'

'That's
better.' The older man drew himself up, taking a deep breath. 'Where are the
bastards?' his voice was still slurred; it made you want to clear your throat.

'I
can't see them. They're probably still outside. The shower yesterday is keeping
the dust down.' The young man put another gun into Cullis' arms.

'The
bastards.'

'Yes,
Cullis.' A couple of ammunition boxes were added to the guns cradled in the
older man's arms.

'The
filthy bastards.'

'That's
right, Cullis.'

'The...
Hmm, you know, I could do with a drink.' Cullis swayed. He looked down at the
weapons cradled in his arms, apparently trying to puzzle out how they had
appeared there.

The
young man turned round to lift more guns from the pile, but changed his mind
when he heard a large clattering, breaking noise behind him.

'Shit,'
Cullis muttered, from the floor.

The
young man went over to the bottle-strewn sideboard. He loaded up with as many
full bottles as he could find and returned to where Cullis was snoring
peacefully under a pile of guns, boxes, ammunition belts and the
dark-splintered remains of a formal banqueting chair. He cleared the debris off
the older man and undid a couple of buttons on the too-large field-marshal's
jacket, then stuffed the bottles inside, between jacket and shirt.

Cullis
opened his eye and watched this for a moment. '
What
time did you say it was?'

He
buttoned Cullis' jacket up halfway. 'Time to go, I think.'

'Hmm.
Fair enough. You know best, Zakalwe.' Cullis closed his eye again.

The
young man Cullis had called Zakalwe walked quickly to one end of the great
table, which was covered by a comparatively clean blanket. A large, impressive
gun lay there; he picked it up and returned to the large, unimpressive form
snoring on the floor. He took the old man by the collar and backed off towards
the door at the end of the hall, dragging Cullis with him. He stopped to pick
up the oil-stained bag full of weaponry he'd sorted out earlier, slinging that over
one shoulder.

He'd
dragged Cullis halfway to the door when the older man woke up, and with his one
good eye fixed him with an upside-down bleary stare.

'Hey.'

'What,
Cullis?' he grunted, heaving him another couple of metres.

Cullis
looked round the quiet white hall as it slid past him. 'Still think they'll
bombard this place?'

'Mm-hmm.'

The
grey-haired man shook his head. 'Na,' he said. He took a deep breath. 'Na,' he
repeated, shaking his head. 'Never.'

'Cue
incoming' the young man muttered, glancing around.

Nevertheless
the silence continued as they reached the doors and he kicked them open. The
stairs that led down to the rear entrance hall and out into the courtyard were
of brilliant green marble edged with agate. He made his way down, armaments and
bottles clinking, gun bumping, dragging Cullis down step after step, the big
man's heels thumping and scraping as he went.

The
old man grunted with each step, and once mumbled. 'Not so damn hard, woman.'
The young man stopped at that point and looked at the old man, who snored and
dribbled saliva from the corner of his mouth. The young man shook his head and
continued.

On
the third landing he stopped for a drink, allowing Cullis to snore on, then
felt sufficiently fortified to continue the descent. He was still licking his
lips and had just grabbed Cullis' collar when there came an increasing,
deepening, whistling noise. He dropped to the floor and hauled Cullis half on
top of him.

The
explosion was close enough to crack the high windows and loosen some plaster,
which fell gracefully down through the triangular wedges of sunlight and
pattered delicately on the stairs.

'Cullis!'
He grabbed the other man's collar again and leapt backwards down the stairs.
'Cullis!' he yelled, skidding round the landing, almost falling. 'Cullis, you
dozy old prick! Wake up!'

Another
falling howl split the air; the whole palace shuddered to the detonation and a
window blew in overhead; plaster and glass showered down the stairwell. Half
crouched and still pulling Cullis, he staggered and cursed down another flight
of stairs. 'CULLIS!' he roared, tearing past empty alcoves and exquisitely
rendered murals in the pastoral style. 'Fuck your geriatric ass, Cullis; WAKE
UP!'

He
skidded round another landing, the remaining bottles clanking furiously and the
big gun knocking chunks out of decorative panels. The deepening whistle again;
he dived as the stairs leapt up at him and glass burst overhead; everything was
white as the dust whirled. He staggered to his feet and saw Cullis sitting upright,
scattering plaster shards from his chest and rubbing his good eye. Another
explosion, rumbling further away.

Cullis
looked miserable. He waved one hand through the dust. 'This isn't fog and that
wasn't thunder, right?'

'Right,'
he shouted, already leaping downstairs.

Cullis
coughed and staggered after him.

More
shells were arriving as he reached the courtyard. One burst to his left as he
emerged from the palace; he jumped into the half-track and tried to start it.
The shell blew the roof off the royal apartments. Showers of slates and tiles
hammered into the courtyard, turning into little dusty clouds in their own
tributary explosions. He put one hand over his head and rummaged in the
passenger's footspace for a helmet. A large chunk of masonry bounced off the
engine cover of the open vehicle, leaving a sizeable dent and a cloud of dust.
'Oh... shiiiiit,' he said, finally finding a helmet and jamming it onto his
head.

'Filthy
Ba...!' yelled Cullis, tripping over just before he reached the half-track and
tumbling into the dust. He swore, then dragged himself into the machine.
Another shell and another ploughed into the apartments to their left.

The
clouds of dust kicked up by the bombardment were drifting across the faces of
the buildings; sunlight sheared a gigantic wedge through the chaos of the
courtyard, edging shadow with light.

'I
honestly thought they'd go for the parliament buildings,' Cullis said mildly,
gazing at the burning wreck of a truck on the far side of the courtyard.

'Well,
they didn't!' He punched the starter again, shouting at it.

'You
were right,' Cullis sighed and looked puzzled. 'What was the bet we had again?'

'Who
cares?' he roared, kicking somewhere beneath the dashboard. The half-track's
motor stumbled into life.

Cullis
shook flaked tile from his hair while his comrade strapped on his own helmet
and handed a second one to him. Cullis accepted it with relief and began to fan
his face with it, patting the area of his chest over his heart as if in
encouragement.

Then
he drew his hand away, staring in disbelief at the warm red liquid on it.

The
engine died. Cullis heard the other man bellow abuse and slam the starter
again; the engine coughed and spluttered, to the accompaniment of whistling
shells.

Cullis
looked down to the seat beneath him as more explosions thundered, far away in
the dust. The half-track shuddered.

The
seat below Cullis was covered in red.