Juggernaut

‘Can you picture how this site must have looked, thousands of years ago? Elaborate frescos painted on every wall. Rugs, silks, brass, perfumes. Yet the citadel is too remote to be erected for earthly prestige. It is a secret priest city. Lifelong home of soothsayers and astrologers. They would chant their incantations and sacrifice ritual offerings. They would study forbidden texts, transcribe opium dreams, dance themselves to a delirium. This was a serious place. A power-house of daemonic energy. The inner sanctum of the temple approached with the same trepidation as the plutonium core of a nuclear reactor. A great warlord wanted to draw down the power of the gods and blast his foes. When armies met on the sand he wanted his cavalry to sweep through barbarian ranks and lay them waste like a cyclone. Maybe he got his wish. Who knows?’

Toon’s voice:

‘This place scares the shit out of me, boss. Sooner we get going, the better.’

‘Everyone chill the fuck out,’ said Lucy. ‘It’s just a bunch of rocks, all right? This isn’t a vacation. We are here to work.’

They crossed a cloistered courtyard. They navigated tight avenues strewn with rubble.

‘How long were you here, Jabril? You and your men?’

‘Two months.’

‘I haven’t seen a single sign of disturbance. Not a footprint, not a cigarette butt. This place is pristine.’

‘Most of our troops wouldn’t enter the citadel walls. The youngsters were superstitious and easily scared. Some of the night-watch said they saw ghosts. Figures moving on the ramparts in moonlight. We decided to camp further up the valley.’

Huang turned to Lucy.

‘What about bodies? Jabril said there was a big-ass gun battle. Place-should be a corpse-field.’

‘Plenty of guys died out here,’ said Lucy. ‘I can feel it. And I’m willing to bet Jabril played his part. As long as he leads us to gold, I don’t give a shit.’

They explored the dark recesses of a shrine built against the perimeter wall of the citadel.

Six internal pillars held up a low roof. A crude altar ready to receive votive gifts: libations and burnt offerings to win the favour of a minor deity.

‘Whoa,’ murmured Huang. ‘Check it out.’

The room was carpeted with spent shell cases and discarded AK magazines. Each footstep clinked and chimed. The walls were cracked and cratered, brickwork blackened by muzzle-flare.

Lucy unsheathed her knife and dug a bullet from splintered granite brickwork. The bullet had mushroomed on impact. A misshapen, steel and copper coin.

‘Hell of a fire-fight,’ said Huang. ‘Seriously heavy contact. Look at this. Emptied a full clip at the same spot in the wall. Damn near drilled right through it.’

Shell cases piled in the centre of the room. Empty magazines, up-turned ammo boxes.

Lucy brushed cartridge cases aside with her boot and stood at the epicentre of the debris.

‘Two stacks of empty mags. I reckon two guys holed up in this room. Brought all the ammunition they could carry. Threw their shit down and let rip. Their last stand. Their fucking Alamo. Looks like they stood back to back. Fired about a thousand rounds. Fired in all directions. Look at that. Shooting way up the wall. Must have blown their eardrums. Must have melted their gun barrels. So much smoke they couldn’t see a hand in front of their face.’

She scooped shell cases from the floor. Fresh bullets among scorched brass.

‘They ejected a bunch of rounds. Misfires. Weapons overheated and jammed.’

‘But who would try to overrun a couple of guys armed with AKs? What kind of maniac runs into that shitstorm? Even Taliban would hang back.’

‘Maybe they went nuts. Heatstroke. Cabin fever. Started shooting at thin air.’

‘Two guys? A shared madness?’

‘It happens.’

‘Want to ask Jabril? See what he has to say?’

‘He’s full of shit.’