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

  In the curricle’s wake trotted a gaggle of oddly dressed figures. These wore romantic uniforms, heavy with braid and filigree. But they puffed and bustled, the heels of their polished high-boots raising sparks on the marble floors as they collided with one another at each of the curricle’s unexpected stops. They carried bundles of paper bound with gaily coloured ribbons. Calculating devices composed of tubes filled with bright liquids. Transparent globes within which spheres floated free of gravity. Mechanical hocus-pocus. These men, the retainers, were as musty theatrical relics, grave-faced and self-important. They fussed and fretted when still and were never at ease. The controller appeared for the most part unaware of their presence. When he addressed one it was never by name. The nature of the question being such as to identify the one individual that possessed the answer. Each of the retainers being alone knowledgeable in one particular aspect of the great work.

  ‘Are the blues above the yellow?’ the controller asked. His curricle swinging violently about.

  ‘Indeed Lord.’ A portly fellow in a rich uniform of pink, high-waisted, green-sashed, fought his way to the van-guard. ‘They are constant.’

  ‘And the red bands are up. How far?’

  A shorter body with enormous side whiskers eased forward. He gazed into the transparent globe he clutched to his bosom and gauged the swing of the spheres. ‘Above the meridian, but only by a degree.’

  ‘Only by?’ The controller raised a naked eyebrow. ‘Not good. Not good.’

  ‘We can compensate, Lord. Readjust.’

  ‘Then do it. Do it. And as of the now. Tish and tosh.’ A frail hand tilted a guiding rod and the curricle turned and jerked up the gallery at a breakneck pace. ‘Keep up. Keep up,’ cried the controller. ‘So little time, so much to do.’

  Rex Mundi was now lodged in less than grandiose quarters. He occupied a small stone cell, which according to the graffiti had previously housed a certain Kilroy and a host of dyslexic anarchists. Rex was barefoot, clad in nothing more than his underpants and a pair of hand-cuffs. As furniture was unavailable he sat on the floor. A single bulb illuminated the windowless den. The door was a steel slab with no interior keyhole. The prospect of escape held considerable charm to Rex. The means of affecting it was as yet unapparent.

  Rex shivered. He thought about his little hut in Eden. He thought about Christeen of the golden limbs and soft red mouth. He thought about what an utter pillock he was for being discontented with his lot. He thought about food. He thought about how Aunty Norma had assured him that sitting on cold stone floors was a highway to haemorrhoids. He thought about the lavatory. He was dying to go. He thought about torture chambers and electric shocks. He thought about his father-in-law.

  ‘God,’ said Rex Mundi, ‘I wonder if you might see your way clear to getting me out of here.’ A key turned in the unseen lock.

  ‘Well, much thanks,’ said Rex.

  ‘On your feet,’ said the guard.

  These rooms rarely seem to vary. They are usually cold, dank and smelling of stale fear. There is almost always a desk and a bright light which hides the man sitting behind it. There is often a big fat sadistic jailer, who sweats a lot and hits even more. The congealed blood and excrement on the floor offer small comfort.

  Rex was forced to enter this room at somewhat greater speed than he considered altogether necessary. He bowled on to the evil-smelling floor and came to rest against the desk. Before he could voice any protests, and many did spring immediately to his tongue, he was dragged up by a big fat sweaty and sadistic jailer and thrust into a wooden chair. He squinted into the desk light. ‘Now see here,’ said Rex Mundi.

  The big fat jailer struck him in the ear. Rex turned his head to view his attacker with a bitter eye. A voice from behind the light said, ‘You’re in deep shit, mister.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ said Rex. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Do you want to tell me all about it or . . .’

  ‘Or what?’ Rex had no idea why he said it really. The ensuing clump across the ear came as no surprise at all. But then he was not feeling in a particularly cooperative mood and he still held out some hopes that God might choose to intervene sooner rather than later.

  ‘Hard man, is it?’ the voice enquired. ‘We’ve seen hard men before and they always end up spilling their guts and crying for their mothers.’

  I don’t think I’m going to like it here, thought Rex. ‘How might I assist you, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s more like it. Let’s start with your name.’

  ‘Rex Mundi, sir.’ Rex saw it coming but he didn’t have time to duck. It hurt as much as the others. Possibly even more so.

  ‘Cut the Rex Mundi crap. There ain’t no Rex Mundi. You got no ID. Your prints don’t match any. You ain’t no American.’

  ‘I never said I was.’

  ‘Aha. So where you from, boy? South America? United Russian Territories?’ As telling the truth was clearly out of the question, Rex wondered which of the two options he should settle for. Possibly neither. The way the man behind the light spat them out they were clearly not allies. And he didn’t want to get in any deeper than he already was. If that was possible.

  ‘Or perhaps you’re some Limey agent. You got a weird accent. What is it? P45? You SAS boy?’

  A sudden thought entered Rex’s mind. It was the proverbial long shot. Or was it? No it wasn’t, Rex concluded. ‘I am Commander Rex Mundi. Special Service Network,’ he announced.

  ‘S. Net?’ The invisible man drew breath. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Here on assignment to SAG-COM out of the 117th under Hartog.’ Rex hoped he had remembered it correctly. ‘Where is my target?’

  ‘Target?’

  ‘Jack Doveston.’

  ‘I gotta check this out.’

  Rex leapt to his feet. ‘Check this out? How are you going to check it out? You got clearance with SAG-COM? You think Hartog is going to identify one of his own agents? This is an S-Net operation. Top security. Why do you think I have no ID, no prints on match? I’m tagged internally and if you don’t let me the Hell out of here goddamn quick, the 117th gonna be using your arse for an ashtray. Do I make myself clear, soldier?’

  There was a momentary silence behind the desk, and then a still small voice said, ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Get these cuffs off me.’ The big fat jailer dithered. The invisible man said, ‘Do it.’ The jailer fumbled with the keys, clicked off the handcuffs.

  Rex rubbed at his wrists. They were red and raw. Diving forward he swung the lamp about and stared hard into the face of his former interrogator. ‘Where’s the toilet?’ he asked.

  The sun rose over Brooklyn. Some might have found the rooftops gilded with romance. Well, they might! One young man on a high balcony certainly did not. Elvis Aron Presley sipped bourbon and stared vacantly at the new day. The balcony extended from a glorious pent-house atop an apartment block of black glass and steel, which bore an uncanny resemblance to an enormous upright guitar. Elvis had designed the building himself and was the sole resident. The basement garage housed numerous cars, vans and motorcycles. The floors between this and the penthouse were given over to an extra-ordinary diversity of paraphernalia. There was sufficient weaponry to arm a regiment and stage a fair-sized military coup. Uniforms, costumes, suits and disguises. Provisions, scanning equipment, computer terminals. A gymnasium, a solarium, an indoor pool of Olympic proportions. Each was under minute security. There were video scans, laser trips, press pads and sonic sensors. All kinds of crazy stuff. The work of the previous fifteen years and some previous. But now to what end?

  Elvis sighed and took another sip. A voice in his head, which wasn’t his conscience, said, ‘So you couldn’t go through with it, chief?’

  Elvis took a final sip, rose from his white pool-chair, refilled his glass. ‘Run a man down in cold blood like that?’

  ‘Not a man, chief. Not a man.’

  ‘I guess I chickened, didn’t I?’

  ‘First-night nerves, chief. You’ll g
et him next time.’

  ‘We’ve been searching for him since 1958 and now I

  ‘You’ll get him. It’s your divine mission, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sure, but perhaps it’s just not meant to be.’

  ‘Of course it’s meant to be. You’ve seen the future. You know that Wormwood is old Nick himself. He blows up the world in 1999. Or he does if you don’t stop him first.’

  ‘But can I stop him? Can I kill a man? I can’t kill a man.’

  ‘The guy at Grand Central got killed.’

  ‘That wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘He’s still as dead.’

  ‘Maybe if I talked to Wormwood.’

  ‘Oh chief. Come on now.’

  ‘No, listen. I was given another chance. I changed.’

  ‘He doesn’t want to change. He is the Antichrist. The all-round bad guy. The terminal stinker. He will become president. He will stockpile. He will press the nuclear button. You know this.’

  Elvis hung his head. He did know this. ‘How come I didn’t just dodge the draft like the Phnaargs wanted? I’d have been president by now.’

  The sprout seemed strangely silent for once.

  ‘Well, how come?’

  ‘You had this revelation, if I so recall.’

  ‘Came like a voice in my head. If I so recall.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that, chief.’

  ‘Oh, wouldn’t you though?’

  ‘Lighten up, chief.’ The sprout became suddenly chirpy. ‘You’ll fix it. Haven’t I kept you young and pretty all these years? Trust me. Say, how about if I chivvied up your erogenous zones for you?’

  ‘You just keep out of my erogenous zones. I gotta do me some heavy-duty thinking. And I do mean I. Take a nap small, buddy.’

  Ten-four, chief. Zzzzzzzzzzz.’

  The sun was now fully up upon the Miskatonic river. The New England landscape shimmered in the new day. Beneath the great university the grasslands poured down toward old Arkham, where the gabled rooftops of the ancient houses and the crooked cobbled streets that wound between them were scarcely visible. Arkham seemed a ghost town wreathed in mist.

  High on a hilltop, but sheltered beneath a bank of firs, was an army jeep. In it sat two men. One now wore military fatigues and sported a bright red ear. The other cowered in a canvas sheet. He had a bloodied nose and multiple abrasions.

  ‘What did you tell them?’ Rex asked.

  Jack shook his head. It hurt. ‘I don’t know. Anything, everything, whatever they wanted to hear.’

  ‘About me?’

  ‘What could I tell them? Your name? I told them your name.’

  Rex patted him on the shoulder. ‘You look pretty sick.’

  ‘What is my wife going to say?’

  ‘I give up. What is your wife going to say?’

  ‘Nothing kind.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Rex. ‘It’s like that, is it?’

  ‘And some. But who were those people? What did they want with us?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I mean to find out.’

  ‘You’ll do it on your own then.’

  ‘Some thanks. I got you out, didn’t I?’

  ‘If you had got me out before I got the beating I would have liked you all the more for it. How did you get us out anyway?’

  ‘I lied.’

  ‘But what did you say to them? It must have been good. They gave us the jeep and everything.’

  Rex winked. ‘Something I heard one time. Something Uncle Tony read me out of one of your books. He always said they were based on fact. I reckon he was right.’

  ‘Well, it worked. God, I’m hungry,’

  Rex gazed out over the landscape. So this was what it was like before the Nuclear Holocaust Event. It felt right, natural. There was an unreal quality to the Eden of 2060. Something dream-like, although he had not been fully aware of it at the time. But then, that’s what Eden was, a dream. Bluejays fluttered up from the firs. Jack flinched, his nerves had never been up to much. ‘We’d best be getting back,’ he said.

  Rex stretched and took deep breaths of New England air. ‘Back to where?’

  ‘To home.’

  ‘I wouldn’t advise that. Your house will certainly be under surveillance.’

  ‘You mean . . .’

  ‘I mean, Jack, that they will surely by now have realized that I lied to them. We are wanted men.’

  ‘But wanted for what?’

  Rex shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But my job. My wife, my home . . .’

  ‘Life’s a bitch,’ said Rex. ‘That’s an old twentieth-century expression. Perhaps you’ve heard it?’ Jack maintained a sulking silence. At length Rex said, ‘How are you for credits?’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Money. Do you have any money?’

  Jack patted at his pockets. He groaned. ‘They took my wallet. Everything.’

  ‘All right.’ Rex keyed the engine. ‘Let’s go down into town and steal some breakfast. Then we shall plan our next move.’

  ‘I can hardly wait,’ said Jack Doveston.

  6

  A-Z or ALLOCATED ZONES: It can now be revealed that the London Street Directory, in keeping with those of all other cities throughout the world, conceals a good deal more than it pretends to reveal. Large areas, the forbidden zones, are cunningly hidden through the use of one-way systems. Pedestrians who wander into these are never seen again.

  Hugo Rune, The Book of Ultimate Truths

  In his book The Incredible Mr Rune (now sadly out of print) H. G. Wells describes Rune working with the pages of an atlas and an inflated weather balloon that he had ‘acquired’:

  ‘He went about it as one possessed, there were pieces of paper all over the room. He had been attempting for hours to glue the atlas pages on to the balloon to see if they could be made to fit. At length he threw up his hands in defeat and cried.

  “It can’t be done. It can’t be done. Be hanged with it, H. G. Let’s go and have a ‘Chinese’ and I’ll tell you this great idea I have for a book about the world being invaded by men from Mars.”

  I cannot remember anything about his idea but I do remember him being taken sick in the restaurant.

  Sir John Rimmer, The Amazing Mr Rune

  This house was old and rotten. The low ceilings sagged between greasy beams carved with the names of sailing ships. For this house grew up upon a clifftop, wrought from daub and wattle and the bones of schooners broken upon the reef. From the bottle-glass windows faint light welled. The door, an oaken slab, the grain deep etched and bound with hasps of rusted iron, swung in. The hinges groaning mournfully. Wormwood stooped in the low portal as he crossed the threshold. The door crashed back behind him.

  His footfalls echoed dull on the damp flags. He felt his way along a short corridor and down into the evil-smelling kitchen. There, seated in the inglenook, her bulk all but obscuring the thin fire which stuttered beneath the cauldron, sat the old woman.

  ‘What do you see in the flames, mother Demdike?’

  The creature turned the eye of a dead fish toward her visitor. ‘I spy a cop who isn’t a cop. And should I tell you more?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Won’t you cross the gypsy’s palm, my deary?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘The young are in such haste. Where might they be running to?’

  ‘Speak, crone.’

  ‘Why have a care? I sent him away.’

  ‘Then there is danger?’

  ‘There is always danger.’ Wormwood crossed the stone floor. Reached out his hand toward the old woman. A tongue of flame darted from the fire and stung him back. ‘Have a care my dear,’ squeaked Demdike.

  Wormwood nursed a singed knuckle. ‘Who is he? This cop who isn’t a cop?’

  ‘How can a man be yet a boy? I know not. The seer’s eye is closed and the flames will not speak to me. But hear me well, my little Wayne. Never travel alone. Be watchful. Your Nemesis has marked you down.’
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  ‘My Nemesis?’

  ‘I will weave for you a cloak of darkness. When it is done you shall have it. Go now and return not here. And shut the door on your way out, my old bones fair take the chill.’

  ‘To Hell with your old bones.’

  ‘They’ve been there, deary. There and back.’ Demdike’s cackling laughter followed him from the room.

  It was all very Lovecraftian and not a little unpleasant. And it was also far too over-the-top to be taken too seriously. But then that’s Satanism all over, isn’t it?

  ‘That big fat jailer gave me a Chinese burn,’ Jack complained.

  Rex ignored him. He steered the jeep down towards old Arkham, taking in the scenery like the first-time tourist that he was.

  ‘What are those?’ he asked eagerly.

  ‘Cows? Are you for real?’

  ‘Cows,’ said Rex. ‘Far out.’

  Jack moaned anew. ‘Are they still saying “far out” in the twenty-first century?’

  ‘My dog does.’

  ‘Your dog? Fine. Don’t tell me any more.’ They drove on.

  ‘I’d tell you about my wife,’ said Rex. ‘But that would really mess you up.’

  ‘Now that does surprise me.’ They drove on some more.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s a pig. Will you be keeping this up all day?’

  ‘Just trying to acclimatize. This is all quite new to me. I don’t want to appear culturally illiterate.’

  Jack shook his head. ‘That’s a pig and that’s a sheep and those are chickens and that’s a soldier with a gun. Aaaaaagh!’

  Rex flung the steering wheel around. Shots whistled over their heads. The jeep plunged off the road and through a neatly clipped hedge. Then out over the fields.

  ‘We’ll have to lose this,’ cried Rex. Bump Bump. ‘There must be a homing device in it. They knew exactly where to find us.’ Bump Bump Bump. ‘If we can outrun them for now we’ll dump the jeep and make a run for it on foot.’ Bump Bump Bump Bump. ‘I think I’m going to be sick, Rex.’