The World Without Rain

Chapter 6: A Very Tactical Disguise

Chapter 6: A Very Tactical Disguise

The lingering warmth of Svara’s fingers was still tingled on Jevan’s palm when Elangga ruined the moment by shoving a dusty burlap sack into his chest.

"Put this on," Elangga whispered, his voice vibrating with a grave, tactical solemnity. "Our lives depend on it."

Jevan stared at the rough, scratchy fabric in his hands. It was a giant, oversized potato sack, dyed a highly questionable shade of swamp-green, with dozens of rusted plastic forks pushed through the weave so they jutted out like jagged teeth. On top of the head-hole, Elangga had wired a bright yellow, highly synthetic duster flower.

"Elangga," Jevan said, his voice flat. "What is this?"

"It is the pinnacle of desert camouflage," Elangga said, proudly gesturing to his own sack, which he had already pulled over his tactical vest. The plastic forks crinkled against his armor as he puffed out his chest. "We are going to dress as giant saguaro cacti. We will slowly shuffle down the dune in a synchronized, staggered formation. If a searchlight hits us, we freeze. The guards will think nothing of it."

Jevan looked from Elangga to the barren, white salt basin stretching out before them. "Elangga, look out there. Do you see any cacti? Do you see a single piece of green vegetation within a ten-mile radius?"

"Well, no," Elangga admitted. "The soil acidity is—"

"If the guards see two six-foot-tall, plastic-fork-covered potatoes shuffling across a completely flat, white salt flat, they aren't going to think 'Oh, look, nature.' They’re going to blow us to pieces with a heavy machine gun!" Jevan hissed, tossing the sack back into Elangga’s face. "We are infiltrating a warlord's base, not auditioning for a low-budget community theater production of Rango."

Svara, crouched beside them behind the crumbling barrier, let out a quiet, stressed snicker. She reached out, gently patting Jevan’s shoulder. "I'm going back to the ridge to guard the scooter and watch our exit," she murmured, her dark eyes locking onto his with a sudden, fierce intensity. "Don't do anything stupid, Jevan. I mean it. If you get yourself killed, I will personally dig you up and kill you again."

"I like to keep my survival rates high," Jevan smiled softly, his heart doing a stupid little flutter at her concern. "Go. We'll be quick."

With a silent nod, Svara slipped away into the shadows of the rocks, moving like a ghost. 

"She has a very aggressive way of showing affection," Niskala whispered, crawling up beside Jevan. The teenage thief was wearing a pair of cracked night-vision goggles that were missing one lens, making her look like a cybernetic owl. "Alright, grease monkey. Here’s the play. I’m taking the high route." She pointed to a massive, rusted steel drainage pipe that jutted out from the side of the concrete pool structure, hovering about fifteen feet above the ground. "That vent leads straight into the secondary boiler room, which sits right above the warlord’s personal safe. Once I'm in, I'll unlock the main gate from the inside."

"And what are we supposed to do?" Jevan asked, gesturing to himself and Elangga, who was currently trying to untangle a plastic fork from his red bandana. 

"Create a distraction," Niskala grinned, baring her sharp teeth. "Try to look pretty. Or, in cardboard boy's case, try not to fall down."

Before Jevan could reply, Niskala dropped flat onto her stomach and slid down the sandy ridge with fluid, feline grace, disappearing into the dark shadows near the base of the concrete wall. Within seconds, she was scaling a rusted vertical pipe, climbing with the effortless speed of a spider. 

Jevan took a deep breath, turning to Elangga. "Alright, tactical genius. Your cactus plan is dead. What's the backup?"

Elangga pulled his bandana down, his face instantly hardening into a mask of stoic, military authority. "We execute the Trojan Pipe. Follow my lead."

Five minutes later, Jevan was questioning every single life choice that had led him to this moment. 

He and Elangga were walking openly down the main approach road toward the heavy iron-reinforced gates of the Iron Citadel. Elangga had discarded his burlap sack but was now carrying a three-foot length of rusted copper elbow-pipe over his shoulder like a rifle. Jevan was clutching his heavy steel pipe wrench, trying desperately to look like he belonged there. 

"Halt!" 

The shout cut through the desert air like a whip. Two massive, mean-looking guards stepped out from the shadow of the gatehouse. The one on the left was chewing on a splintered toothpick, a heavily modified, spiked assault rifle slung over his shoulder. The one on the right was a towering wall of muscle, his chest covered in a vest made of overlapping, rusted license plates.

"State your business before I paint the dirt with your fluids," Toothpick growled, leveling his rifle at Jevan’s chest.

Elangga didn't even flinch. He snapped to attention, executing a crisp, incredibly dusty military salute with his free hand. "Stand down, soldier! I am Inspector Wiratama, and this is my chief technical consultant, Jevan. We are here on behalf of the Regional Governor’s Infrastructure Reclamation Bureau."

Toothpick blinked. He looked at License Plate, then back at Elangga. "The who?"

"The plumbing!" Elangga bellowed, his voice echoing with administrative outrage. He waved the copper elbow-pipe in the guard's face. "Our telemetry scans have detected a severe, localized pressure variance in your secondary intake manifold. In layman's terms, your septic lines are experiencing a catastrophic reverse-flow event. If we do not perform an immediate high-pressure flush, your entire compound's toilets will explode."

The guards stared at them. For a long, agonizing second, the silence stretched. 

"Toilets?" License Plate muttered, looking genuinely unsettled. "I told you we shouldn't have hooked up that third pump, Jax. I told you."

"Shut up, Croy," Toothpick hissed. He narrowed his eyes, stepping closer to Elangga. "The Governor? He died of the blue-tongue fever six years ago."

"A common misconception!" Elangga countered without a single millisecond of hesitation. "A tactical decoy to throw off the tax collectors! He is alive, well, and deeply concerned about the state of your drainage pipes. Now, open the gate."

Toothpick’s grip on his rifle tightened. A nasty, mocking grin spread across his face. "Nice try, trench-rats. But the boss doesn't care about the Governor, dead or alive. Show me your digital permits. Tap your wrist-links to the reader." He pointed to a rusted, barely functioning electronic keypad mounted on the spiked concrete gate post.

Jevan’s stomach dropped into his boots. Digital permits? We don't even have electricity in Sector 4!

"Ah, the digital permits," Elangga said smoothly, nodding as if this was a perfectly normal request. He leaned in, whispering to Jevan: "Prepare yourself, my friend. You are about to witness the forbidden martial art of the Southern Tiger. The Crescent Sweep."

"Elangga, don't—" Jevan started.

"KIAI!" Elangga screamed.

With a dramatic, theatrical roar, Elangga spun on his heel, dropping low to the ground. He swept his right leg out in a wide, aggressive circle, aiming directly for Toothpick’s shins. 

It would have been a spectacular move, had his trailing boot not instantly caught on a thick piece of exposed concrete rebar jutting out of the dirt. 

Instead of completing the sweep, Elangga’s momentum went completely horizontal. He launched into the air like a poorly thrown log, spinning wildly. His head traveled in a perfect, tragic arc, connecting directly with the solid, rusted iron gate post. 

CLANG!

The sound was magnificent. It was a deep, hollow, resonant metallic chime that sounded like a cathedral bell tolling for the dead. 

Elangga’s eyes instantly rolled back into his head. He went completely limp, sliding down the gate post like a wet sack of flour, his red bandana slipping down to cover his nose. He let out a soft, whistling snore.

Jevan stood there, his mouth open, staring at his unconscious partner. "You have got to be kidding me."

The two guards were frozen, their eyes wide as they stared down at Elangga. 

"Did... did that guy just knock himself out?" License Plate asked, genuinely baffled.

"I think he did," Toothpick said, shaking his head in sheer disbelief. Then, his face hardened, and his eyes snapped to Jevan. "Alright, pipe-boy. Your turn."

Toothpick lunged, raising his rifle to bash Jevan’s skull. 

Years of working in tight, collapsing machinery spaces served Jevan well. He ducked, the metal butt of the rifle whistling inches past his ear. Acting on pure, adrenaline-fueled instinct, Jevan swung his heavy steel pipe wrench upward. 

CRACK!

The heavy tool connected with the guard's wrist. Toothpick let out a sharp howl of pain, dropping the rifle into the dirt. 

But before Jevan could celebrate, the massive License Plate guard lunged forward. His massive, calloused hands locked onto the collar of Jevan’s grease-stained shirt, lifting him completely off his feet. Jevan kicked his legs wildly, but the guard’s grip was like iron. 

"I'm gonna snap you like a twig," License Plate grunted, raising a massive, fist the size of a ham.

Panicking, Jevan’s hands scrambled desperately over Elangga’s unconscious body dangling nearby. His fingers brushed against the tactical vest, searching for anything—a weapon, a tool, a miracle. His hand locked onto a cold, metallic cylinder tucked into a shoulder strap. 

He yanked it free. It was one of Elangga’s tactical smoke grenades. 

With no other choice, Jevan clamped his teeth onto the metal pin, yanked it out, and slammed the cylinder directly against the license plates on the guard's chest.

"Eat this, plate-face!" Jevan gasped.

HISSSSSSSSSSSSS!

The grenade didn't just release smoke; it erupted with the fury of a localized volcano. A blinding, suffocating cloud of thick, chemical-scented, neon-green sulfur smoke exploded between them. 

The guard screamed, instantly releasing Jevan as the harsh, burning gas filled his eyes and lungs. Jevan crashed to the ground, coughing violently, his eyes stinging with tears. The smoke was so incredibly dense he couldn't see his own hands. Around him, the two guards were stumbling blindly, hacking and cursing in the green fog.

"My eyes! It smells like rotten cabbage!" License Plate shrieked.

Jevan scrambled forward on his hands and knees, dragging his heavy wrench behind him. He blindly pushed against the heavy iron gate, which had been left slightly ajar. He squeezed his body through the gap, stumbling into the inner courtyard of the compound. 

The alarm sirens began to wail, a high-pitched, mechanical scream echoing off the concrete walls. WUUUU-UUUU-UUUU!

Jevan ran through the swirling green smoke, coughing, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. 

As the thick, green fog finally began to clear, Jevan stopped dead in his tracks, his jaw dropping in absolute, stunned silence. 

Standing in the center of the concrete courtyard—built inside the massive, dry basin of the prehistoric swimming pool—was a monster. 

It was a modified drilling truck, a towering beast of steel plates, massive spiked tires, and a giant, multi-tiered rotating drill bit mounted on the back that looked capable of chewing through the crust of the earth itself. 

The driver's side door of the massive cabin was flung wide open. 

And there, sitting high up in the leather driver's seat, her hands gripped tightly around the oversized steering wheel, was Niskala. 

She looked down at Jevan, her night-vision goggles pushed up on her forehead, a massive, wild grin spreading across her grease-smeared face. She waved at him frantically. 

"Hey, grease monkey!" Niskala yelled over the blaring sirens. "Get in! We’re going for a ride!"

But before Jevan could take a single step toward the truck, the heavy steel doors of the warlord's private quarters at the far end of the courtyard slid open with a heavy hydraulic hiss. 

Out stepped a towering, terrifying figure. His right arm was a massive, skeletal prosthetic made of hydraulic pistons and chrome steel, and his eyes were cold, dead pools of malice. 

The Steel-Grip Warlord had arrived. And he was holding a massive, double-barreled revolver pointed directly at Jevan’s chest.