They Came and Ate Us_The B-Movie (Armageddon Trilogy 2)

  Had that been the end of the matter then the reader’s verdict might well, as did that of the court, go against Rune. But there is an extraordinary tailpiece to the incident. When, less than an hour later, the jailer opened Rune’s cell, it was discovered to be empty. Within minutes of this discovery a telecommunication arrived from Rio de Janerio. It came from Hugo Rune!

  The message was a simple rhyme, which went as follows:

  They seek him here,

  They seek him there,

  Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.

  Is he in Heaven,

  Or on the moon,

  That disappearing Hugo Rune?

  Sir John Rimmer, The Official Hugo Rune Handbook

  ‘I’m ruined,’ Elvis sobbed. He and Rex were back at the penthouse, huddled over the King’s computer terminal. After the autograph signings, the long and involved lyings and the dramatic oaths of allegiance, Elvis and Rex had waved Jonathan a cheery goodbye and returned to their home base. Elvis was not a happy man. ‘Wiped out.’

  ‘Half the city’s wiped out. That thing is eating everything.’

  ‘What the Hell’s doing it? If it’s not Crawford, then what?’

  ‘I thought you Presleys were First Assembly of God, the thing says it’s LEGION for Chrissakes. Excuse me sir.’ Rex glanced respectfully Heavenward.

  ‘LEGION? That is crazy ape-shed,’

  ‘No. Think about it. Crawford constructs a program to work Magick. He says someone beat him to it. I think in fact someone or something hijacked it from him. What Crawford didn’t know was that something was waiting inside the computer matrix. His program reactivated it, revived it.’

  ‘LEGION?’

  ‘It all begins to make sense, LEGION was a company of demons. Christ cast them out of a man and into the Gadarene swine.’

  ‘Good band, the Gadarene Swine,’ said Elvis. ‘They cover some of my old numbers, I got a piece of them. A bit avant-garde, if you catch my drift. But this is the nineties, ain’t it?’

  Rex shook his head. Sometimes he wondered about Elvis. As he recalled, most times he wondered about Elvis. ‘The Gadarene swine were pigs. Pale things, four legs, snouty faces .. .’

  ‘Buddy, I know pigs.’

  ‘These pigs plunged over a cliff with the demons inside them. As a child I always wondered if Christ paid the pig-keeper, but no matter. The demons didn’t die; they can’t die. What I am saying is that they are now inside the matrix. The matrix is possessed. They are protecting Wormwood. They brought me here as his insurance policy. It’s all part of the same thing. Wormwood has it all.’

  ‘And I’m still ruined.’

  ‘But at least you know for certain now who’s done it to you.’

  ‘But I can’t kill him. Not while you are still in this time.’

  ‘Yes,’ Rex agreed. ‘This does present us with a seemingly insurmountable problem.’

  ‘A seemingly insurmountable problem,’ said the controller. ‘A positive Gordian knot.

  Byron did Saint Vitus impersonations before the curricle. ‘I still need a lateral augmentor. Himself alone knows what’s going on on the surface while the Inter-Rositer is out of operation?

  ‘It’s a poser.’ The controller scratched his nose with a spindly finger. ‘Problems, always problems. The big flywheel won’t run by itself. You had best see to it as of the now.’

  ‘If the malfunction is not corrected there may not be any “as of the now” left.’ But Byron’s words were lost amidst the sounds of the curricle’s scurrying feet.

  ‘Up and away Black Bess,’,’ cried the controller. ‘We ride to York.’

  Anabsolute stone bonker, thought Byron Wheeler-Vegan

  The fat sweeper-upper, who had been shaking his head in amusement throughout this exchange, chuckled to himself and went on pushing his broom.

  16

  Everybody’s somebody’s orang-utan, correct me if I’m wrong.

  Johnny G.

  Robert McKee says that movies are essentially ‘small worlds’. Although the characters may be set against spectacular backdrops, such as the snow-blown wastes of Doctor Zhivago or the sand-blown wastes in Lawrence of Arabia, the actual worlds within them are small.

  The movies are concerned with the characters, their loves and hates, trials and tribulations, goals, ambitions, motivations and whatnot. If the landscape is the star, then the movie has failed. If the music is the star, then the movie has failed. If the special effects are the star, then the movie has failed. He says that it is the small world of the individual. The triumph of the human spirit, which is what it is all about.

  Personally, I don’t believe a word of it. I reckon it’s the special effects.

  But perhaps now might be a good time to explore the small world inhabited by our characters. What are they up to? What do they want, and what are they prepared to do in order to get it? What drives them, what motivates their reasoning and stuff like that?

  But then again perhaps it wouldn’t. So let’s don’t. Let’s scrub around McKee, take once more the advice of Francis Vincent Zappa and ‘mime the hard bits’.

  ‘What does that look like to you?’ Christeen asked. Fido put his paws up on the windowsill and peered at the sky. ‘That,’ said he, ‘looks like a dark cloud, forming on the horizon and moving in from the east. Writhing and turning with strange shapes. Ominous signs and portents, omens of the coming of Ragnarok. Or it could just be a storm.’

  ‘Did I order a storm for today?’

  ‘No, you did not,’ said Fido, with the kind of heavy emphasis that one does not normally associate with a talking dog. ‘I’ve seen your diary. No storm today. Uh-uh.’

  ‘So it shouldn’t be there, should it?’

  ‘No, would be the answer to that particular question, man.’

  ‘I am going to have to have strict words with that Rambo.’

  ‘Oh, er, he’s not calling himself Rambo any more. He’s gone back to using his original name. Artemis Solon Hermes-Aiwass-Crowley the fourth. Exalted magus of the Sacred Order of the Golden Sprout.’

  This really does have to stop.’

  ‘Best go over and have a word, eh? Or you could set me on him if you feel so inclined. I owe you one. Some leg.’

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Christeen.

  Jack Doveston awoke with a smile on his face. He rolled over to Spike. ‘That was wonderful,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve never been pricked all over with needles in the dark before. Who taught you that?’ Spike mumbled words to the effect that she had only just got back and what was he talking about. Then she returned to her slumbers. The befuddled Jack took himself off for a shower.

  Doing a mental rerun of the previous night’s sexual marathon and rising to the occasion, he was more than a little put out when Cecil’s preposterous weapon nosed through the shower curtain and poked him where the sun didn’t shine.

  ‘Hands off cocks, on with socks,’ whispered Cecil. ‘You got an early appointment.’

  Jack had not been particularly taken with the interrogation room the first time round. His second visit did nothing to alter his feelings. Few things concentrate the mind so much as finding yourself in a torture chamber, tied to a cold hard chair and wearing nothing but your socks.

  ‘Good morning Jack,’ said the voice behind the light. It was a new voice this time. A very young voice. But it had a discouraging edge to it. This little voice meant business.

  ‘You are causing me a great deal of grief, Jack.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry. What exactly have I done?’

  ‘Your Zen Terrorist pals are harassing my corporation.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Jonathan Crawford’s head appeared above the light. He stepped around the desk and perched upon it before Jack. ‘Jonathan Crawford,’ he said.

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Jonathan reached down, thrust a forefinger between Jack’s legs. Sparks flew. Jack’s eyes crossed.

  ‘You are costing me, Jack. I ha
ve troubles enough without street pirates cutting into my network.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about it. You’ve got the wrong man. It’s Spike Laine you want.’

  ‘You’d sell your own mother, wouldn’t you? Rex was right.’

  ‘Rex? Rex Mundi?’

  ‘I suppose you thought he was dead. After you ran out on him.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am your benefactor, Jack. I am your employer. I got you the job at the Miskatonic. I wanted access to all the books so I financed the project. I am a millionaire, you see.’

  ‘But, the project ran out of money.’

  ‘Only because the Dean was bleeding the university dry. I put vast sums at his disposal. The man is a criminal. Was a criminal.’

  Jack didn’t like the sound of ‘was’. ‘I didn’t know any of this. I worked hard on the project. Honest.’

  ‘Of course. You are a dedicated man. A literary man. A great writer.’

  ‘I expect Rex told you that.’

  ‘Not Rex. I knew already. But Jack, this Zen business. They are cutting me. My systems are in chaos anyway. If the Zens continue I shall be ruined. We can’t have that, can we?’ Jonathan extended his megawatt finger.

  ‘We certainly can’t. But I don’t know what they’re up to. Honest. I swear to you.’

  ‘But you are a bit of a hero with them. They respect you. You’re a rebel.’

  ‘I am?’ Jack wasn’t too sure.

  ‘Certainly. You organized them. Fed them your library program. Tried to cut the seeker. It was a bold scheme, if somewhat foolhardy. But I would have done the same if I had been in your position.’

  ‘You would?’

  ‘I would.’ Jonathan popped a sweetie into his mouth. ‘And so I am going to offer you promotion.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘How would you like to be the new Dean of the Miskatonic?’

  ‘Very much indeed.’ Who do I have to kill? Jack wondered.

  ‘There would be certain conditions, of course.’

  Here it comes!

  ‘I have a list here,’ Jonathan displayed same. ‘These are the forty-six pirates who have managed to infiltrate my system. They are the best. I want them off my case. I want you to employ them.’

  ‘They might not be all that keen.’

  ‘I think they’d do it for you. We can offer them exceptional salaries. Whatever social drugs they require for their leisure time. All manner of incentives.’

  ‘And I would be Dean?’

  ‘As long as you do what I want. I will update the entire university system, what they have not already stolen, with Bio-tech. You will set the pirates a specific task. To track down the seeker and locate its control. These pirates are many times better than my own operators. If anyone can do this successfully these people can. You will monitor their progress and report directly to me. On a salary more suitable to your needs, you will find plenty of time to work on your novels. This is, I believe, an offer you cannot afford to refuse.’

  ‘Put your trust in me,’ said Jack.

  ‘Oh, I will. Cecil, kindly remove Mr Doveston’s bonds.’ Cecil did so.

  Jonathan was all smiles. ‘Then we have a deal. I look forward to working with you, Jack. Put it there.’ He extended his hand. Like a fool Jack shook it.

  The rains were blowing over now. But the sighs which arose from the drying earth were not of thanks, rather of relief that the downpour had ceased. On the scaffolding which encaged the White House, teams worked around the clock, sealing the stonework beneath a protectrite shell. They pampered the pitted building. Infused synthetic resins to draw out the poisons, dabbed up the chemical stains, cleaned and coated. But it was a losing battle. The fragile balance of equipoise had been drawn down heavily upon its end by Homo sapiens. The Earth was dying. The once lush lawns surrounding the White House were rotting. Packs of wild dogs ranged there at night hunting the rats that fed on whatever feathered carrion the rains had brought down.

  Yet it was not like this all over. The farmsteads of New England were still green, although the sun no longer smiled kindly upon crop or kine. But the White House seemed to receive special attention from the rampaging heavens. As if the very rains knew who poisoned them.

  These bitter waters had etched the Statue of Liberty’s face into a pained sneer, an expression which was rapidly becoming a national archetype. But the people had been promised change. If they struggled a little harder and toiled a little longer, everything would be all right. Because President Wormwood said it was so. And if President Wormwood said it was so, it was so.

  Within the White House, the president’s office showed little of its former glory. The relics of its noble past lay trampled underfoot, or were piled in untidy heaps to each corner. The portraits of Lincoln and George Washington had their faces to the wall. At least they were spared the sight. The rich carpets had been flung back. A huge pentagram defaced the marble floor. In it stood Wormwood, sober suit, polished shoes. Before him terminal screens, heaped into an uncapped pyramid, flickered. He gazed at the twelve screens. From each his own face gazed back at him.

  Wormwood addressed them. ‘LEGION. You of the first hierarchy of Hell, identify yourselves.’ The air became chill. The faces on the screens contorted. In turn, each spoke.

  ‘LEVIATHAN. Prince of the first hierarchy. Ringleader of all heretics. Tempter of the faithful. Gatherer of souls.’

  ‘ASMODEUS. Burner with desires. Prince of wantons.’

  ‘BALBERITH. Tempter to contentiousness, to blasphemy, argumentation and homicide.’

  ‘ASTAROTH. Prince of thrones. Tempter to idleness and sloth, complacency and carelessness.’

  ‘VERRINE. Second in place to ASMODEUS. Tempter with impatience.’

  ‘GRESSIL. Third in the order of thrones. Tempter to uncleanness and impurity.’

  ‘SONNEILLON. Fourth in the order of thrones. The hatred of enemies is mine to give.’

  ‘And you of the second hierarchy.’

  ‘CARRAEU. Prince of powers. Hardness of heart.’

  ‘CARNIVEAN. Prince of powers. Obscenity and shamelessness.’

  ‘VERRIER. Prince of principalities. Breaker of vows of obedience.’

  ‘And of the third hierarchy.’

  ‘BELIAS. Prince of the order of virtues. Tempter with arrogance. Bestower of lewd thoughts upon the minds of women. That they might make wantons of their children. Profane the high mass. Prostrate themselves naked before priests. Defile the . . .’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Wormwood. ‘Next?’

  ‘OLIVIER. Prince of archangels. Cruelty and mercilessness toward the poor do I offer men.’

  ‘Twelve good men and true.’ Wormwood bared his nice white teeth into a nasty white smile. ‘Great to have you back on the team after so long. Would you prefer that I address you singly?’

  ‘Singly.’ Leviathan took voice. ‘LEGION is so anonymous.’

  ‘Can’t say I’m all that fazed,’ yawned Astaroth. ‘Easy come. Easy go.’

  ‘That’s because you are an idle fuckwit,’ coughed Carnivean. ‘May pisspots rain upon your head.’

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen.’ Wormwood raised calming hands. ‘I shall address you singly. Are you comfortable in your temporary accommodation?’ A babble of voices rose from the terminals. That of Leviathan rose above the rest. ‘I shall act as spokesman for my brothers. We are well served for the present.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ hissed Balberith. ‘What do you know?’

  ‘Can we get on with it?’ Verrine demanded. ‘We don’t have all day. At least I don’t.’

  ‘What’s all the rush, brother? Loosen up.’ Astaroth began to whistle. A chamber pot materialized and emptied its contents over his whistling head.

  ‘Nice one,’ chuckled Gressil. ‘A nice loose movement, you know what I mean?’

  ‘Enough!’ Wormwood raised a remote control as a pistol. ‘You will speak only when you are spoken to, or I will blank you out.’

 
‘Big deal.’

  Wormwood blanked Balberith’s screen. ‘Any more?’ The eleven remaining heads of Wormwood shook in untidy unison. ‘Leviathan. What have you to report?’

  ‘You now have control over the five major banks. The industrial corporations, business holdings, the stock market . . .’

  ‘Charities,’ Olivier cackled. Wormwood blanked his screen.

  ‘The military?’

  ‘Soon.’

  Wormwood nodded gravely. ‘Keep at it. Sonneillon. What of my would-be assassin?’

  ‘I hate him.’

  Wormwood’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Don’t know. I am monitoring all CIA, FBI and police computer networks. All forensic reports, scene-of-crime material evidence, and there’s plenty of that. Fingerprints are not on file. Clothing fibres are a possible, very up-market stuff. Exclusive. I am following lines of investigation.’

  ‘Good. But make haste. I want him found and I want him brought before me. Do you understand?’

  That was ranting, glaring and foot-stamping. Jonathan Crawford could learn a lot from this man.

  ‘I am on it, sire.’

  ‘Good. Carry on. All of you, penetrate each and every corner of the network. You know what is required of you. I want every computer system under my direct control. Once you have achieved this then I shall release you. Give you new bodies to inhabit. Powerful new bodies.’ The ten on-screen heads of Wormwood made with the Satanic smiles and then were gone.