Apocalypso

  Those residents who choose to ignore this warning are advised that the particular chemical toxins are deadly poison.

  Residents are further advised that martial law has been imposed and that anyone caught on the streets will be shot as a potential looter.

  We thank you for your co-operation in this matter. Please await the all-clear signal.

  ‘What?’ said Wok Boy.

  ‘My thoughts entirely,’ said Porrig.

  Wet towels all round?’ asked Rippington.

  ‘Wet towels all round,’ said Porrig’s dad, lurking some way to the north. On the platform of Mornington Crescent Station, to be precise.

  ‘Wet towels,’ said a smart-looking woman. ‘Deadly poison and the likelihood of being shot as a potential looter. It should do the trick for now. It was the best I could come up with at such short notice.’

  Porrig’s dad groaned. ‘I suppose it will do. It will keep them indoors for the time being. But when The Leviathan docks and the creature comes ashore, what then?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the woman. ‘Why are you asking me?’

  ‘I wasn’t asking you. I was asking the pig.’

  ‘Nuke it,’ said the pig. ‘Nuke it now.’

  ‘I can’t nuke it.’ Porrig’s dad shook his head. ‘If I were to nuke it, I’d be responsible for wiping out half the population of southern England.’

  ‘Never,’ said the pig. ‘Most of them will be safely inside, with their doors locked and wet towels over their heads.’

  ‘Yes, but what about the ones who won’t?’

  ‘The unemployed ones, do you mean? The homeless ones?’

  ‘Good point. Let’s nuke the sprout stinker.’

  ‘Stop this at once.’ The smart-looking woman raised a smart-looking hand. ‘I will not be party to the wiping out of innocent people, even unemployed ones.’

  ‘Oh, go on,’ said Porrig’s dad.

  ‘Certainly not. There has to be another way.’

  ‘We could divert The Leviathan to France,’ said the pig. ‘Nuke the monster over there.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Augustus.

  ‘Is it?’ asked the pig.

  ‘It is,’ said Augustus.

  ‘I certainly admire your courage.’

  ‘It doesn’t take courage to nuke France. I’d have got around to it at some point anyway.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean nuking France. I meant the courage you’ll need to go aboard The Leviathan and persuade the monster to change course.’

  ‘Oh, I won’t be doing that,’ said Augustus to the pig. ‘I’ll delegate. I’ll send this smart-looking woman here.’

  ‘Oh no you won’t,’ said the smart-looking woman. ‘I may just be a two-dimensional token female, but I’m not that stupid.’

  ‘I never suggested for one moment that you were. I see you as a Sigourney Weaver figure. The lone woman of strong character and resolve, standing against the alien.’

  ‘Or that bird in The Terminator,’ said the pig.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Porrig’s dad. ‘Although Sigourney is very nice.’

  ‘Very nice,’ agreed the pig. ‘Sigourney is the total package as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘So there you go then,’ said Augustus. ‘And actually you do look a bit like Sigourney Weaver.’

  ‘Do I?’ asked the smart-looker.

  ‘You do,’ said Augustus.

  ‘Better,’ said the pig. ‘More “presence”.’

  ‘Why, thank you.’

  ‘But you’re probably right.’ Augustus made a thoughtful face. ‘It’s not a job for a woman. I’d do better to call in some burly SAS macho man. An Arnie type. Huge muscles, huge ego, huge.weapon. All guns blazing.’ Augustus mimed the all-guns-blazing. He smiled at the smart-looking woman. ‘Best leave the job to a man. Do you think you might fetch me some more coffee in a plastic cup?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No!’ The smart-looking woman shook her smart-looking head. ‘I will go,’ she said.

  ‘I wouldn’t hear of it.’ Augustus shook his head too. ‘It was a silly idea. I’ve been under a lot of strain lately. Not thinking clearly.’

  ‘I will go,’ said the smart-looking woman. ‘There will be no all-guns-blazing. And there will be no nuking of France or anywhere else. A. woman’s touch is required here. This creature can read men’s minds, but I’ll bet he won’t be able to read mine. I will find some way to stop him. You leave it to me.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely sure.’

  ‘Well . . . if you’re absolutely sure.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘She is,’ said the pig.

  ‘All right. Go up to the operations room. I’ll phone through to tell the controller that you’re to be given everything you require.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ The smart-looking woman saluted (smartly)

  Augustus saluted back. ‘Take care,’ he said.

  ‘I will, sir.’ And with that, the smart-looking woman turned smartly and marched away.

  Augustus took out his mobile phone and pushed a few buttons. ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘Smudger? Naseby here. The bimbo took the bait, she’s on her way up to you. Make sure the bomb goes into her handbag and make sure she doesn’t know it’s there. Cheers then. Ta-ta for now.’

  The pig looked up at Porrig’s dad.

  Porrig’s dad looked down at the pig.

  ‘You total scumbag,’ said the pig. ‘You treacherous, double-dyed monstrous horrible scumbag.’

  16

  The other scumbag, green and gruesome, thought his terrible thoughts and sent them out with a smile upon his face.

  The first wave of pain hit a certain coastal town of southern England at precisely ten-twenty-three and fourteen-seconds-almost that morning.

  Lords and ladies, lads and lasses, the great and the good and the dull and the dreadful hollered and howled and fell groaning to their floors.

  CONTAMINATION CONTAMINATION

  CONTAMINATION CONTAMINATION

  they thought.

  Porrig, now dressed, had been preparing to take a quick shufti outside, having come to the not altogether surprising conclusion that something was going on. He was at his shop door when the pain blasted him from his feet.

  Wok Boy, halfway up the stairs, screamed loudly and tumbled down.

  Rippington stood looking puzzled.

  From The Leviathan, now lying half a sea mile off Brighton, the pain arced out. Dilbert grinned and thought more horrible thoughts and his thoughts took flight and hurt like hell.

  Folk were rising now and, driven by a compulsion they were powerless to resist, were taking to the streets. They flooded into the thoroughfares in wave after wave, human flotsam borne upon a tide of pain. ‘Come and greet your God,’ called the thoughts of Dilbert, ‘Come and greet me now.’

  Forward, forward, at the double they came, tumbling and treading down the weak, scrambling and clawing into the main roads and onward to the sea.

  In their thousands.

  Onto the promenade, that Victorian prom where elegant gentlemen and ladies in lace had strolled arm in arm to the bandstand refrains, came the folk of this age in a staggering horde. In a crush of confusion, in agonized terror, herded and driven, forced ever onwards over the railings and down to the beach.

  And onwards.

  Into the sea.

  Knee-deep now, the old ones sagging, children parted from their mothers, lover torn apart from lover, all apart but all together, thousands, thousands, fear and horror.

  Then the silence, dry mouths open, frightened eyes all staring forward . . .

  For He comes.

  The God comes now.

  White ship splendour.

  Wave-crest bow-break.

  Lifeboats lowering.

  And His seven-pointed star.

  And I stood upon the sand of the sea and saw a beast rise up out of the sea . . .

  Revelation 13.1

  And
so they fell, one upon another, forced down to give homage. To worship their new God. He who was their old God. Come once more among them.

  Man bow down before your master.

  Porrig fought to keep his face above the waves, but the pain forced him down, down. You will worship. You will kneel.

  And Porrig’s face went down into the waves and the pain drove into his head and his breath was gone and the water flooded into his lungs and Porrig floated lifeless in the sea.

  ‘This is bad. So very bad.’ Augustus Naseby gazed up at the big world map that had once more been translated into a giant TV screen and now projected images received from Brighton’s street surveillance cameras.

  ‘He’s driven them into the sea.’ A man in a white coat crossed himself. ‘The entire population of the town, they were helpless to resist him.’

  ‘He’s making his point.’ Augustus Naseby turned away. ‘He’ll come to us. For us. We must leave now, enter the escape pod, travel north. Stay beyond the range of his influence.’

  The man in the white coat turned a cold eye upon Augustus. ‘No, sir,’ he said.

  ‘No? What do you mean, no?’

  ‘Sir, I mean: no. We cannot just run away.’

  ‘It is called a strategic withdrawal.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn what it’s called. We can’t do it.’

  ‘We can and we will. The Ministry of Serendipity must remain in control. We must co-ordinate. This situation can be contained.’

  ‘It cannot be contained, sir. The creature is too powerful. He treats people like dirt. They are nothing to him. He’ll cut a swathe across the country, killing thousands. We must stand and fight and we must do it now.’

  ‘Where is the woman with the handbag?’

  ‘Agent Artemis?’

  ‘Agent who?’

  ‘Artemis, sir. In Greek mythology she was the virgin goddess of the hunt and the moon. The twin sister of Apollo. The Romans called her Diana and she—’

  ‘Yes, all right. Agent Artemis. Where is she?’

  ‘I called her a cab, sir.’

  ‘Called her a cab! Why didn’t you send her off in one of the unmarked helicopters with the big guns all over it?’

  ‘She said she’d prefer to take a cab.’

  ‘All right. Forget her. Get me the Ministry of Defence on the blower. Patch me through to the Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces.’

  ‘So we are going to stand and fight, sir?’

  ‘There will be standing and there will be fighting. I shall lurk and you will fetch me some coffee in a plastic cup. Agent Artemis indeed!’

  Agent Artemis-indeed sat in the back of a London black cab. The driver, who ‘recently had that Chris Evans sitting just where you’re sitting, ginger git that he is, but you have to like him, don’t ya, because he’s a laugh and having a laugh is what it’s all about, ain’t it, and what line of trade are you in if you don’t mind me asking, rag trade, is it, because I had that Versace in here once, well, not had him if you know what I mean, but had him in this cab, before he was gunned down, “shoot you, sir” eh? ha ha ha’, viewed her in the driving mirror.

  Agent Artemis ignored the driver. She studied her reflection in her make-up mirror and, finding it pleasing to behold, smiled secretively, recrossed her impossibly long legs and gazed through the window at London and its life. Knowing well, as most women do, the wicked ways of maledom, she had taken the greatest care to check through her belongings. It hadn’t taken all that long to find the hidden bomb. She had stored it in a secret place that was not a euphemism, and had tooled herself up with certain pieces of restricted hardware that she was unauthorized to carry.

  Agent Artemis smiled once more, said, ‘Drive me to Brighton,’ and settled back upon the seat which had known the rear ends of famous folk.

  The infamous one sat on His fat rear end and waved a limp green hand at His subjects. They were up from the beach now, those who still lived; they lined the way and they cheered through their tears and they hated and feared and they hurt.

  His Nubians carried Him on His cushions in His seven-pointed star. Others, too, jostled to lift Him. And three men walked before, wearing nought but their Y-fronts, strewing rose petals and singing Him praise.

  Sir John Rimmer sang through gritted teeth. He lurched along upon buckling legs, all thousand-yard-stare and no stiff-upper-lip. Danbury dawdled and swore when he could, the doctor just marched and recited His words as a robot.

  Praise be unto Him. Praise be unto Him.

  The crowds took up the chant, for it hurt less to do so, and followed after Him as His obscene parade moved on towards the railway station.

  And praise be unto Him.

  And praise be unto Him.

  And . . . ‘Aaaaaghooooohuuuuurgh . . . urgh urgh urgh.’

  From somewhere far away and long ago and god knows where and how, came Porrig. ‘Aaaaaaaaaaghoooooh,’ and, ‘urgh urgh urgh.’

  ‘Cough it up, you no-mark, it might be a gold watch.’

  ‘Urgh, urgh, urgh,’ and ‘Get the hell off me!’

  ‘You’re showing some definite signs of improvement.’

  ‘Get off my face, you . . . urgh urgh urgh.’

  ‘Spit it out, it’s only water. Though not mine this time.’

  Porrig sat up. He coughed some more and then he was sick all over the place.

  ‘Look out where you’re chucking up. Oh dear me.’ Rippington scuttled for cover.

  Porrig blinked seawater from his eyes. He was beneath the pier. Evidently still in the land of the living.

  And the dead.

  For the dead lay all along the beach, tossed by the tide, broken dolls alive only in memory.

  Porrig was sick once again.

  ‘Mostly green tea,’ said Rippington, peering down at the puddles of puke. ‘You really should eat a good breakfast. Most important meal of the day, breakfast—’

  ‘Shut up,’ Porrig spluttered. ‘What happened here? These people, all these dead people!’

  ‘It was Dilbert Norris,’ said Rippington. ‘He’s a vegetable.’

  ‘This is no time to take the Mickey, you little—’

  ‘I’m not taking the Mickey. It was Dilbert Norris.’

  ‘Dilbert who?’ Porrig coughed some more. ‘How did I . . . How did I . . . ?’

  ‘How did you survive? I pulled you out of the sea. It was a right struggle, I can tell you. And I had to stick my foot right down your throat to clear your windpipe. And then, when you still wouldn’t wake up I—’

  ‘Urgh urgh urgh, you dirty little…’

  ‘Some thanks,’ said Rippington, folding his spindly arms. ‘Perhaps I should have left you to feed the little fishes like . . .’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘Like who?’ Porrig’s red-rimmed eyes fixed on the small grey fellow.

  ‘I couldn’t find Wok Boy,’ said Rippington. ‘And I can’t hear his thoughts any more. I think he might be . . .’

  Porrig buried his face in his hands. ‘Oh no,’ he wept. ‘Oh no.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Rippington. ‘But he did take up a lot of room in the bed. And those jeans of his smelled really bad and—’

  ‘Shut up.’ Porrig staggered to his feet. ‘This is madness. What happened here? Why? Who?’

  ‘Dilbert. I told you.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Porrig stumbled back and nearly stepped on the corpse of a woman. ‘All these people. This is Brighton beach, for God’s sake. Is this the end of the world? Are we at war, or what?’

  ‘He came off that ship out there.’ Rippington pointed towards The Leviathan. ‘He isn’t human, he comes from another world far far away. And he isn’t made of flesh and blood, he’s a vegetable.’

  ‘How do you know what he is?’

  ‘Because I can hear his thoughts, Porrig. He’s got the loudest thoughts on the whole planet. His thoughts are so strong that he can control people with them. And he doesn’t like people at all, because he’s a vegetable. On his, planet it was
vegetables that evolved, not mammals. He has as much concern for people as you would for the welfare of a carrot.’

  ‘I quite like carrots.’

  ‘Cooked is how you like carrots. Which is just how Dilbert likes people.’

  ‘No!’ Porrig’s greeny-grey face became more greeny-greysome. ‘He eats people? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘He intends to farm them. Once he’s taken over.’

  ‘No.’ Porrig shook his head violently, making himself feel sicker. ‘This is a nightmare. I’m dreaming this. Tell me I’m dreaming this.’

  ‘You’re not.’ Rippington shook his own head. ‘But if you’d like to be absolutely certain, I wouldn’t mind sticking my little wand right up your bu—’

  ‘No!’ Porrig tore at the hair on his head. ‘Stop, just stop. This thing. This Dilbert thing. It has to be stopped.’

  ‘So how do you intend to stop it?’

  ‘Me?’ Porrig looked down in horror at the imp. ‘Me? How do I intend to stop it?’

  ‘I give up. How do you intend to stop it?’

  ‘I don’t! I’m off out of it. Off to foreign parts. I’ll go to ALPHA 17 with you.’

  ‘But we can’t go, can we? We don’t know the magic ritual.’

  ‘Where is the old bloke?’

  ‘I give up,’ said Rippington. ‘Where is the old bloke?’

  Porrig, who had given up on the hair-tearing owing to the pain, threw up his hands in despair. ‘Someone has to do something. Someone. I know. I know!’ He shook his hands about in an I-know kind of fashion. ‘I know who can do something.’

  ‘Do you want me to make a guess? Or would it be easier if I just gave up again?’

  ‘The one person,’ said Porrig. ‘The man in charge.’

  ‘God?’ said Rippington. ‘That’s a bit of a long shot, asking God.’

  ‘Not God. My dad.’

  ‘Ah . . .’ said Rippington. ‘Your dad. Ah . . .’