They were frogmarched to the arena where the nightly feast had already begun. The long table on the dais had been replaced with a throne. Apparently, Chaz felt the previous arrangement was too understated. Reed sat to one side, Junkyard Elvis to the other. Rake’s cage was beside the stage. He looked dirty and emaciated, and was paying little heed to what was going on around him. The band was set up on top of his cage, because when it rains it pours.
In the corner of the arena the Taco King van was doing a roaring trade again. Despite the direness of the situation, Smithy had a real hankering for some quality Tex-Mex. They’d each been given another MRE a while ago, but freeze-dried military-issue food designed to keep you alive under enemy fire was no match for some spicy tacos.
Smithy, Diller, Muroe and Wilkins were placed before the throne, and their escort of a dozen guards fanned out in front of the stage in an approximation of military fashion. Smithy was taken aback – one of the few advantages they had in this situation had been that Nowhere seemed to exist in a perpetual state of chaos. This seemed no longer to be the case.
Junkyard Elvis nodded at one of the men.
HEAVEN SAVE THE WORLD FROM FAILED MUSICIANS.
Oh great, thought Smithy. The annoying voice in my head is back.
Junkyard Elvis approached the microphone that stood in a stand in front of the throne.
THAT MORON SINGS AGAIN AND YOU’LL BE BEGGING ME TO TALK.
Smithy couldn’t argue with that.
“Citizens of Nowhere. Pray, silence, and listen to his greatness, our glorious leader, THE EMPEROR!”
The guards arrayed before the stage applauded enthusiastically. Smithy didn’t look behind him, but it didn’t sound as if the general populace was mirroring their wild enthusiasm.
Emperor Chaz, still wearing his gold crown and lamé cape, stepped down from his throne and stood before the mic. He raised his hands to silence the rapturous applause he could hear mostly in his head.
“My brothers, today is a good day. Arrangements are proceeding better than we could have hoped. Soon, we will be ready to put into action my audacious plan, and we will no longer live here in the desert. No – we will soon have our own country!”
He raised his hands again. The guards really went for it on the applause front as nothing was coming from the crowd behind Smithy bar the sounds of spoons scraping against bowls and general chit-chat.
“But, now more than ever, security is of paramount importance, which is why I have appointed a new head of our military command.”
Junkyard Elvis took a bow.
A FAILED ARTIST. WHEN HAS THAT EVER GONE BADLY?
“Sadly, as we strive to achieve our goal, there will be those who do not share our vision.”
Smithy shifted his feet nervously as Chaz stared down at them for the first time. His eyes were bloodshot, his pupils pinpricks in a sea of chaos. Smithy had been scanning their environment for escape routes, but assuming any of the dozen armed men in front of them could shoot straight, their chances of getting out of there if things went sideways were slim to none. Now that Smithy looked at the men again, they looked an awful lot like a firing squad.
I WISH YOU HAD NOT NOTICED THAT.
You and me both.
“There is a traitor in our midst! Someone who connives and schemes against us.”
This seemed to get a bit more interest from the crowd, possibly because it sounded as if something might be about to happen.
Chaz removed the mic from its stand and stepped forward. He looked at Smithy, Diller, Muroe and Wilkins in turn.
“The traitor is …”
The drummer broke off a drumroll that seemed excessive. Chaz looked Smithy in the eye, long and hard. Smithy refused to look away, not wanting to give the guy the satisfaction.
Eventually, the Emperor spun around and to the side of the stage where Junkyard Elvis was pushing forward a figure with its hands bound and a black bag over its head.
“Finley!”
Elvis ripped off the bag to reveal the shell-shocked face of Finley, who looked up at his old schoolmate pleadingly.
“Please, Chaz. No – I … I …”
“Silence!” hollered Junkyard Elvis, walloping Finley in the back of the head. “How dare you address the Emperor directly.”
Chaz jumped from foot to foot and nodded excessively, like a shady preacher building up to asking for your bank details for Jesus. “This reprehensible piece of scum tried to use his money – his dirty money – to compromise the loyalty of my men. Little did he know, my brothers, that you cannot be bought.”
Smithy reckoned that, for a wad of used notes, most of the inhabitants of Nowhere would take out their emperor with a rusty spoon, no questions asked.
“This weasel’s cowardly plan was foiled by a true friend, and my new second-in-command – Vice-emperor Reed.”
Lousy Louis Reed stood up and gave a wave, moving down to stand beside Chaz.
Smithy watched as one of the guards opened Rake’s cage and Junkyard Elvis shoved Finley inside roughly, causing him to fall on top of his new cage-mate, who wailed before being silenced by a guard walloping the bars.
Reed took the microphone and roared into it. “Fellow citizens of Nowhere, I am proud to be one of you.” He pointed to Chaz. “And we are all blessed to have this great man as our leader. Such is his magnanimity that he has taken me in, after others led me astray with their evil deceptions. I now must tell you, I did not find the Lewinsky dress. This woman before you is a liar who deceived me!”
This revelation was met with total indifference by the audience, despite Reed’s vehement delivery.
“Nonsense,” said Wilkins.
One of the guards moved towards him.
Smithy placed a hand on the Englishman’s arm. “Shush.”
Reed handed back the mic to Chaz as if he were awarding him an Oscar. They shook hands.
“Hear me now, brothers,” said Chaz. “If anyone else tries to derail our plans and leave Nowhere, it is your job to stop them.”
Chaz looked directly down at Smithy and his companions again.
“And anyone who does so will get a reward of fifty thousand dollars per escapee!”
This announcement did receive an enthusiastic cheer. Chaz clasped Reed’s hand and held it aloft. They stood there, basking in applause that wasn’t really for them, looking like the presidential ticket from hell.
“OK,” whispered Diller. “Screw that guy.”
Smithy nodded. “Amen.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Smithy and Diller had come up onto the roof of the museum-cum-garage to watch the sunrise. Three of their guards followed them up there, looking hopeful. It seemed everybody was very keen for a shot at the fifty-grand prize for capturing someone attempting to flee. It had not escaped Smithy’s notice that other inhabitants of Nowhere were keeping a close eye on them from atop the nearby buildings and walls of scrap. When they’d opened the door to the roof, Smithy had proclaimed in a loud voice that it wasn’t an escape attempt and that anyone shooting them now would get nothing plus a whole lot of trouble. The response to this had been a couple of shouted swear words but, crucially, no gunfire.
And so, the two friends sat on the roof on a couple of deckchairs and watched the sun begin to rise over the wall of cars. Smithy looked at the three guards sitting behind them watching eagerly, and laughed.