The Cobra raised his hands above his head, laughing. “What the fuck you going to do with that?” he roared.
In response, Makasito tossed the hammer in the air and swung into a roundhouse kick, making contact with the tool in mid-air. It flew across the clearing, striking the Cobra right in the centre of the forehead and sending his head snapping backwards. The rest of him followed, and he collapsed to the ground, out cold. It had happened so fast that a smile still played across his face.
Makasito turned and faced the crowd again, calmly awaiting whatever might come next.
After a few moments of confused murmuring, applause broke out – the mob loves a winner.
Smithy watched as those who had been putting themselves forward before the Cobra’s coronation as the mob’s champion faded back into the crowd.
Chaz raised his hands. “Brothers, brothers,” he said, laughing. “I told you he was good. And tonight, he did not disappoint!”
The crowd cheered.
“Unfortunately, he has previously been bested by a midget!”
Smithy felt himself redden as the mob’s attention turned to him. This was what he had been dreading. Even as Makasito had fought, the possibility had swirled in his mind. Chaz might demand a rematch. I’m not going to do it. Then came the image of Diller with a gun being held to his head.
Chaz rested his hand on the grip of the Glock he wore in the holster on his belt. “And if there’s one thing we cannot stand for in this organisation, it …”
Smithy tensed as Chaz drew the pistol.
“Is …”
It dawned on him too late what was happening. He got to his feet. No thought in his head as to what to do beyond that point.
“Failure.”
Makasito didn’t see it coming, which was some form of blessing. The shot passed through the back of his head. He was dead before he hit the ground.
The crowd fell silent, those closest to Makasito’s body looking at it, slumped beside the unconscious form of the Cobra.
Chaz clapped his hands gleefully. “Yes. Yes. Yes. Are you not entertained?”
Muroe turned away and retched under the table.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dessert had been Twinkies.
Having watched Chaz slaughter a man in cold blood, Smithy’s appetite hadn’t been at its highest, but on the other hand, Twinkies came in self-contained plastic packaging and had a best-before date that meant they would outlive the planet – so it was the safest food imaginable in their current predicament. Diller had lost his appetite completely, so Smithy had told him to shove it in his pocket for later. Nowhere seemed to be growing evermore chaotic, even in the short time they had been there. He wasn’t taking the existence of breakfast in the morning for granted.
They were “escorted” to their quarters in the main house by Zero and a quartet of his goons. While it denied Smithy the chance to take an unsupervised look around, it at least spared Muroe from dealing with the advances of the less chivalrous elements of the camp’s populace. As it was, plenty of comments still came their way, mostly but by no means all directed at her – Diller and Smithy had their admirers too.
At one point, Reed got hit in the head by a well-thrown beer bottle. The man said nothing. Smithy gave it a day before he was as squirrely and monosyllabic as Finley. Those boys didn’t know how to deal with a world where the rules that had always favoured them no longer existed. Diller had grown up in Hunts Point, scrabbling to survive. It wasn’t this or anything close, but at least the odds being stacked against him didn’t come as a shock.
Muroe hadn’t said much, but as far as Smithy could tell she was holding it together reasonably well. Whatever could be said about the woman, and Smithy could say plenty, she had to be tough to do what she did. As for Smithy himself, this all held a dreamlike quality, that his idiotic determination to seek retribution against Reed could lead them here. He’d allowed himself to be put in the position where he could be humiliated by Reed the first time, and then he’d run back and done the same thing, only worse. When this was all over, Smithy was going to sit down and try to get his shit together once and for all. But first, he had to make sure that he could get them out of this freakshow without incurring any losses that would haunt him for the rest of his days.
“I’m no expert,” said Diller as they passed two men trying to have a fight but unable to do so given how stinking drunk they were, “but was it the best idea to give a group of men like this access to booze and whatever else?”
“That’s not what worries me,” said Muroe, who was walking between him and Smithy.
“No?” said Diller.
“No. What worries me is what happens when it starts to run out. This place has one hell of a hangover coming.”
Smithy had to concede she had a point.
They reached the main house, which was notable for the security system it had in place. Zero punched in an eight-digit code to open the door. They were led down a hallway and Zero came to a stop in front of two doors. Immediately, Finley opened and walked through one of them. Zero indicated for Reed and Muroe to follow him.
“Actually, I’m going to room with these two gentlemen,” said Muroe, nodding at Smithy and Diller. “They’re my guests and I want to make sure they’re well taken care of.”
One of the guards sniggered, but Zero just looked at her blankly. He blinked a ponderous blink, which Smithy regretted he’d not used as an opportunity to escape, then pointed at Muroe and the other door.
She gave him a quick smile and went inside, closely followed by Smithy and Diller.
The room was surprisingly, well, pleasant. It was much like you’d find at a mid-range hotel which, given that everything outside of it was like a post-apocalyptic Disneyland, was a refreshing slice of blandness. There was a double bed, a futon, a wardrobe and a door leading off to a bathroom.
Diller looked at the door as it clicked shut behind them. “There’s no handle on the inside.”
“Yeah,” said Smithy. “And those windows don’t open. They can keep referring to us as guests all they like – we aren’t.”
“So, what are we going to do?” asked Muroe.
“Well,” said Smithy, “I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m going to see if there’s any water for a shower.”
“But …” Muroe noticed Smithy’s eyes as they motioned up to the camera in the corner of the room.
She gave a subtle nod.
“There’s only one bed,” said Diller.
“You two can have it,” said Muroe. “I’ll take the futon.”
“But …”
She nodded at Smithy. “Before he can say it, it is my fault we’re in this mess.”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
Muroe opened the wardrobe. “I am, however, going to take one of the dressing gowns.”
“Go ahead,” said Smithy. “I’m guessing they’re not my size.”
“Oh, right.”
“You can have the first shower too, if you’d like?” said Diller.
Muroe sighed. “Thanks.”
Forty minutes later they’d all freshened up. It was awkward, three adults in such a confined space, but they made do. Part of the politeness pact was ignoring the fact that everybody had had to wash their undies and hang them on the shower rail. The flight crew hadn’t taken the time to toss their bags off the plane before deserting them. They were due one hell of a sniffy online review.