The Devil's Road To Kathmandu

Once upon a time

ONCE UPON A TIME

The Bedford drew up at the 5 kilometer-stone, in front of a sprawling single-storey fortress. The building looked forbidding, more daunting close-up than from a distance. Like, serious business.

Dark mud walls were crumbling in places, a few bullet holes tattooed a wide circle across the front door, the only door, heavy and faded, reinforced by wide and thick strips of rusted steel nailed across the rough wood.

No one spoke. No one made an effort to leave the bus.

There were no windows or openings of any kind along the wall, which seemed to absorb and consume the grey daylight. Easy on the eyes. A small squat watchtower leaned drunkenly out into the street. The structure was almost too decayed to be in use.

Dan had the distinct feeling they were being watched. Round here, the hills had eyes.

“Well, we’ve come this far…,” his voice trailed off as he tied his long curly hair into a bundle and wiped dark smears of old sweat from his narrow face.

The wind quietly bled around the building’s worn corners. With a hard tug, metal grinding on stone, invisible hands threw the door open to the inside.

“Let’s go. Just remember we’re all pros. We know what we’re doing, don’t we?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

The four companions marched across the road, tucking shirts into trousers and pulling back straggly, wayward hair from their faces. Tim and Thierry were suited up, clean, tatty but smooth. Fred was just Fred. He wouldn’t do any negotiating. The downers he’d popped dulled his eyes but he appeared happy enough. He’d be able to spot quality in any state.

Dan looked himself up and down and felt reassured that style ruled over shabbiness regarding his appearance. He’d managed pants, long sleeves and even shoes.

The light was just right. They even had a gun between them. The wind blew dust around, not in any direction, just around. Dan felt like whistling. The road; the building; and the quartet, trying to stay cool in the heat, ambling across the street. A Morricone moment. The hot tarmac on both sides was deserted and didn’t appear to be leading anywhere good. Nowhere to go, but ahead, into darkness.