“The thing has a top speed of thirty-four miles an hour,” said Diller.
“Who remembers stuff like that?” asked Muroe.
“He does.” Smithy watched as the thing lurched towards the tethered cow, which was looking at a beer can, as if trying to figure out if it could eat it. “Oh boy. This isn’t going to be …” A thought struck him. “Dill, seeing as it’s called Dragonzilla, does that mean it can …?”
The flame that shot out of the robot’s head engulfed the cow. Diller turned to one side and threw up.
Smithy placed a consoling hand on his friend’s back. “I’m going to stop asking questions.”
They all looked away as the robot moved forward and put the animal out of its misery through the liberal application of the massive mallet-arm. All this served only to whip the crowd into more of a frenzy.
Even with the PA system at his disposal, Junkyard Elvis struggled to be heard over the clamour. “Knights, mount your steeds.”
“I guess that’s us,” said Diller. The three of them turned to pick up a metal pole each and clambered on to the ride-on lawnmowers. “Is it just me, or is this not the fairest of fights?”
“I’ve been in worse,” said Smithy.
“Really?” asked Muroe.
Smithy didn’t answer – it would be bad for morale. “Hey, look, someone left us a note.” He snatched it off the steering wheel of the mower where it had been taped. “One, sit on seat to engage battery. Two, press key into ignition. Three, depress clutch before four, turning key clockwise.”
They followed the steps as described and the machines sprang into life.
Muroe turned to Smithy. “Would now be a bad time to ask if we’ve got any kind of plan here?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
When he’d finished, Muroe and Diller nodded. “You’re right,” she said, “I really hate it.”
“Told you.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Plan” was far too strong a word for what he had in mind. It was, at best, the merest glint of an idea, but it was all he had. Smithy felt incredibly uncomfortable with what he’d asked Diller and Muroe to do, but he didn’t see how he had any choice.
They all strapped on their helmets in silence. As protection against a machine with an industrial buzz saw and a massive pummelling mallet for hands, plus the ability to breathe fire, the helmets felt about as useful as a winning smile in the face of a tsunami.
Junkyard Elvis hollered into the mic at the top of his lungs. “Dragon ready?”
The massive robot raised its arms and spun around on the spot. A display that was greeted with rapturous hollering. If you were going to be David taking on Goliath, it really felt as if the crowd should at least be on your side. Hey ho.
“Knights ready?”
Muroe started laughing.
“What?” asked Smithy.
She shouted over the engines to be heard. “Do you think we could say no?”
“Stick to the plan,” he shouted back, trying to look more confident than he felt.
They both nodded. Diller gave a thumbs-up.
“Let battle commence.”
Muroe went right, Diller went left, and Smithy turned his mower around and headed towards the wall behind them. The thing had a reasonably tight turning circle, which was good as it wasn’t built for speed or battle. He heard the dragon breathing fire behind him, and the crowd roared. He just hoped the other two were keeping their distance and buying him the time he needed. He resisted the urge to look back. That wouldn’t do anybody any favours.
As he reached the rear wall, he put the mower in neutral and leaped off. He looked up and, after a couple of moments, saw what he was looking for. Right near the top, of course. Quickly, he started to climb.
“Get back in there, coward!”
A few men were sat on top of the wall. As it happened, being at the far end of the arena from the main gates and viewing platform, it was the least densely populated – presumably only by those music lovers who wanted to be as far away from the band as possible. Still, they didn’t take kindly to Smithy’s attempts to flee.
He felt objects hitting him as he climbed. Something metallic and heavy slammed into his right hand, causing him to lose his grip and almost stumble backwards. A cheer rose as he struggled.
Smithy shook it off and tried to block out the pain. No time. When he reached the third level of crushed cars, a figure appeared before him. It was the naked man he’d seen earlier, who, for reasons probably known only to him, had colour-coded his various body parts. The man started to spit on him, demonstrating an even lower standard of etiquette than his appearance suggested.
Smithy kept climbing. Handholds were hard to come by, but he managed to reach the fourth level of cars, blocking out the sounds from behind him. In his hurry to get up there he’d ended up a car’s length away from where he needed to be. The only way across was to go a bit higher and then make his way over.
His route brought him within range of the swinging legs of the painted man. His foot glanced off Smithy’s helmet. Smithy kept moving, his arms aching from the effort.
The foot slammed into Smithy’s helmet this time, jarring his neck and almost sending him backwards.
Once.
Twice.
On the third occasion, Smithy managed to move his head out of the way and the foot slipped past him. He slammed his head into it. The naked man screamed. His cry went up a notch when Smithy bit him.
With another yowl, the naked man fell past Smithy and onto the arena floor, a development which was also greeted with a cheer. Even the worst scum of the earth found the company of a man with painted genitalia a little much.
Smithy hung on by his fingertips. With a final effort he got to where he needed to be. He found what he wanted and tugged at it. The effort of pulling it free sent him tumbling down the side of the wall. Luckily, there was a naked man beneath him to break his fall.
An increase in surrounding noise caused Smithy to look up. The dragon was heading straight for him. He leaped up, ignoring the pain assaulting several parts of his body and hopped on to the mower, careful to retain his “lance”. The machine kicked into life just as the dragon spewed forth fire. Smithy turned away his shoulder and felt the flames wash over him, his every nerve screaming in pain and primal instinct.
Being at the far end of the arena, Chaz’s view was at its worst, which was why the dragon crashed into the wall behind Smithy as he accelerated away. “Accelerated” seemed the wrong word for a top speed of ten miles per hour, but thankfully it was just enough.
Smithy heard screams from the men on the wall. They dived for cover to escape the dragon that had collided with it, buzz saw first. The commotion gave Smithy enough time to at least clear the area. He slapped at his Hawaiian shirt, smothering the flames. He’d feel those burns later. That was assuming there would be a later in which to feel anything.
He looked for the others. In horror, he noticed the mower that Diller had been riding was now a flaming wreck of hammered metal at one side of the arena. Relief flooded through Smithy as he noticed that his friend was on the back of Muroe’s mower and seemed OK.
He looked up at the sky and moved himself into position on the other side of the arena, ignoring the barbecued cow parts strewn about him. Only when he was where he needed to be did he allow himself to look back at the dragon. Chaz had extricated it from the wall, leaving a mess in its wake. It turned out to be no bad thing that the naked man had colour-coded himself – if he had friends that were so inclined, they’d at least be able to identify which bits of him were which as they collected him off the floor.