They Came and Ate Us: Armageddon II: The B-Movie

  ‘Well, out you get then, brother. Hope you enjoyed the ride. If you’d like to make a small donation for the Sisters of Mercy.’ He waggled a collecting tin the shape of an open-mouthed nun under Rex’s nose.

  ‘Drive,’ said Rex.

  ‘Only in reverse,’ said the God-fearing trucker.

  Asmodeus was up and he was mean. Shellfire burst around him. Stun grenades and riot gas. There was not a rotary machine-gun to be seen though more’s the pity. Asmodeus flung himself amongst his attackers, rending, ripping, and roaring. Rex was now behind the wheel of the big truck. He revved the engine and sounded the horn. Asmodeus glared him a prial of glares.

  Rex’s driving skills had not improved. He hit the first police car a sort of oblique side-swipe. But he caught the next one head on. Those police not engaged in fleeing Asmodeus, fled Rex. The truck ploughed on. The demon was now full in the headlamps. Rex sounded the horn once more and pressed his foot down upon the accelerator.

  Wheels churned, the engine screamed, Asmodeus roared, Jack ran.

  Rex was closing fast. He gripped the steering wheel, forced his foot nearer the floor. Closed his eyes. Said a little prayer. Said a great big prayer.

  Cut to wheels spinning in close up. Cut to creature’s eyes. Rex’s eyes. Hands on steering wheel. Side shot of thundering truck. Zoom in on creature. Down shot from university roof. Close up on creature and . . .

  The big truck struck Asmodeus a devastating blow, splattering it across the bonnet and up the windscreen, Tigger and all. Nasty visceral horridnesses squished in every direction. It was really most distasteful. But really good cinema, if you know what I mean.

  Rex stood on the brake pedal with both feet. The truck jack-knifed, its rear section overturning. The cab careened around, barely remained upright. Rex clung to the steering wheel and hung on for his life. The cab shuddered and became still. Rex breathed a very big sigh of relief. ‘Now that,’ said he, ‘was a close thing.’

  There was a ripple in the ether, a sound which might have been a sharp intake of air, but was in fact negative cell bodies reincorporating. Then there came a shudder and a terrible rending of metal. Rex was aware of the cab heaving and then of his seat being forced away from its mounts. The hideous claws of Asmodeus drove up through the cab floor, buckling sheet steel like baking foil. Rex was lifted bodily into the air. He snatched up his gun and fired it into the straining body beneath. The futility of this was not slow in the dawning and so Rex clung to his rising seat and fought to kick out the windscreen.

  For those who like a bit of windscreen glass, this was top-quality stuff, 15mm highly durable poly laminate shatterproof, anti-glare tinting as standard issue. The makers would in the future justly claim that it could withstand direct impact with a monster from Hell.

  Rex was now entangled with the rosary beads and coming perilously close to the roof. Asmodeus thrust his head through the floor, three jaws salivating, breath as sulphurous, if not more so, than ever.

  ‘Pressed ham,’ said Asmodeus. ‘My favourite.’

  The cab did not boast a sunroof. It had a nice high tempered-steel job. Rex’s head, a not irresistible force, now struck this immovable object. His eyes rolled and his teeth ground. Pressure popped his ears. What he needed now was a really good miracle.

  His clawing hand closed upon a bottle of Lourdes holy water.

  The demon’s head rose up to take full pleasure from Rex’s final agonies. Rex tore out the stopper and flung the contents of the bottle into the nearest open mouth.

  Asmodeus gave a startled croak. A look of perplexity appeared on the awful visage. And then the ether folded, dimensions crossed, Asmodeus became a tangle of fibrous strands which collapsed into trailing fragments. And was gone.

  Rex’s seat bowed to gravity’s urgent demand and fell. The hero’s head struck the windscreen and Rex Mundi took a well-deserved roadside rest.

  19

  The Lord is my shepherd, but we lost the sheep dog trials.

  Tony O’Blimey

  ‘I’m afraid it’s quite impossible,’ said Deathblade Eric. ‘The divinely inspired one is far too busy at the present.’

  ‘Fatlip or fatwa or what?’

  ‘I’ll just go and see if he’s free. If you’ll kindly take a seat and contain your ire.’ Christeen sat down. There were a lot of other people sitting down within the considerable extension Rambo had added to his hut.

  ‘You making an application, dear?’ The old woman wore a gigantic feathered turban and a plastique mac.

  ‘An application? For what?’

  ‘To register your new religion, of course.’

  ‘Oh, of course.’

  ‘I have been chosen.’ The old one continued in-formatively. ‘They came to me. Just me.’

  ‘Who?’ Christeen asked, out of no particular interest.

  The Extraterrestrials.’

  ‘Oh, those.’

  ‘They said that I am to be the voice of interplanetary parliament.’

  ‘What, you too?’ The youth in the orange boilersuit and shaven head leaned across Christeen to engage the ancient contactee. ‘I was sitting under this Bodhi tree when suddenly I saw it all. The whole damn thing. I kid you not.’

  ‘You saw it too?’ Christeen did not recognize the accent of the thin-faced fellow in the conical black hat and star-spattered gown, who sat several seats along. ‘An angel spoke to me direct. He said go and dig up the two golden tablets of the law. And I did. And I’ve got them here. Well, not actually here. Because they are real heavy. So I buried them again in a secret place. But I wrote down what they said. And I have that here as proof.’

  Christeen ground her teeth. ‘Babylon!’ quoth a very dark chappie right at the end. ‘The lion of Judah say him makin’ de big comeback like him never been away. You Ras?’

  ‘The divinely inspired one will see you now madam,’ said Eric.

  The divinely inspired one had had the decorators in. Early sumptuous Great Mogul style. Exactly where he had come by the craftsmen to hobble it up was anyone’s guess. But then, where did the old woman get the plastique mac from?

  ‘Come to register?’ Rambo asked. He wore a very natty line in tweeds.

  ‘This has got to stop,’ Christeen told him in no uncertain terms.

  ‘Don’t you sometimes feel that a power greater than ourselves controls our destinies?’

  Christeen nodded.‘I have moments of almost psychic presentiment when I become subject to great powers of precognition. These particular faculties enable me to foresee an almost instant expansion in your lip area.’

  ‘May the force be with you,’ said the flinching fellow.

  ‘If you do not stop all this nonsense, I shall not be responsible for the consequences.’

  ‘You can’t hold back progress,’ said Rambo. ‘Any word of Rex?’

  ‘You are heading for big trouble. Believe me, I know.’

  The door did little other than burst open. Eric appeared, white-faced and not altogether shaking from mirth. ‘Sorry to bother you, exalted one,’ he said, making all the appropriate genuflections. ‘But I think you’d better come outside and look at this big black cloud.’

  ‘Problems, always problems,’ said he of the divine enlightenment. ‘I shall have to get back to you later madam, if you don’t mind. Now, what big black cloud is this, Eric?’

  There were heavy big black clouds and a good deal of fire and brimstone whacking about in the president’s office. ‘Not returned?’ screamed Wormwood. ‘Asmodeus, you have lost Asmodeus?’ He swept desktop business of a pressing nature on to the greasy floor and leapt up and down on it. ‘How can this be?’

  Before him the stack of TV terminals glared back. Eleven wore his own ferocious face, one showed only a crackle of interference.

  ‘Gone.’ The voice might once have belonged to Orson Welles, now Astaroth was using it. ‘Gone into the ether. By trickery and magic. We cannot tell where.’

  Wormwood sought something to smash. There wasn’t a
lot left, so he kicked his chair over. ‘Impossible! Impossible!’

  ‘Yet such it is. We must now leave the matrix, it is too dangerous for us here. Give us our bodies, Wormwood.’

  ‘Not yet, not until the UN summit. Then you shall have fine powerful bodies.’

  ‘I will discuss it with my brothers.’

  ‘Away then.’ Wormwood flipped the remote control and his face vanished from the screens.

  ‘Big trouble,’ said Demdike, trimming her warts with a Swiss army knife. ‘It is your Nemesis, sure as sure.’

  ‘I want him dead!’ Wormwood’s head rotated upon his shoulders. ‘Bring him to me.’

  ‘I’ll have him here in half an hour,’ crowed the hag.

  ‘Half an hour?’

  ‘And why not? I know where he is. Now stop your fussing and sing me a song. Al Jolson’s “Mammy” would be nice.’

  ‘This is MTWTV news on the hour every hour. And top of the news this morning the Miskatonic University Massacre. Police were called out in force last night to answer reports of a homicidal maniac on the campus. Four people died and twelve police were injured in the resulting mayhem. Police are anxious to learn the identity of this man, here seen being stretchered away after single-handedly overpowering the psychotic killer. If you know this man please call this station now.’

  Elvis wasn’t watching TV, he was taking a shower. His left arm was now heavily bandaged.

  ‘I’m not altogether convinced, chief.’

  ‘You’re thinking what I’m thinking, right?’

  ‘If you’re thinking that I don’t trust Mr Russell, then we’re both thinking the same thing.’

  ‘A means to an end, Barry, a means to an end.’

  ‘But you wind up a loose end, chief. That I don’t like.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess. But if we can ice Wormwood then that’s the end of the game anyhow, ain’t it?’

  ‘Not as long as I’m with you, chief. I’m keeping you young remember? We could go on and on. Maybe meet up again with Rex in the future. If he’s there, of course.’

  ‘Hey, yeah. I never thought of that. It’d be great to say hello again.’

  ‘Except that when you kill Wormwood the future changes. Rex may not be in it. And if he is, he may not be the same Rex.’

  ‘Take a nap, Barry.’

  ‘Chief?’

  ‘Take a nap is all.’

  ‘Sure thing, chief. I guess you want to scrub your willy, eh? I’ll catch you later.’

  Elvis completed his ablutions, towelled himself down and quiffed up his hair. He posed naked in front of a wall-sized mirror. Apart from the gammy arm he was still mighty fine.

  The entryphone chimed out a golden great. Elvis picked up the receiver and grinned into the telescreen. ‘Uh huh,’ he said. The screen displayed the image of a highly attractive young woman. ‘Special delivery for Mr Never,’ she said.

  ‘Sure thing, honey.’ Elvis pressed the front-door release. ‘Bring it right up. Top floor. Take the penthouse lift.’

  ‘Thank you Mr Never,’ said the indestructible Kim. I’ll do just that.’

  Rex lay in the City Hospital propped up on cushions. Head swathed in the fashion of the Indian swami. Having determined that he was covered by the Crawford Medi-care Plan he had received the full six-star treatment. He was hooked up to all manner of impressive equipment. He even had the machine that goes ‘ping’. In respect of tradition, a police officer had been placed outside his room, issued with a comic and told to take a nap if anyone suspicious appeared.

  Rex did the slight moaning and eye-focusing that was expected of him. ‘You, you bastard,’ said he.

  ‘Me,’ said Jack Doveston. ‘How are you feeling?’ Rex ignored the inane question. He put a tentative palm to his forehead.

  ‘You’re in the City Hospital,’ said Jack. ‘Before you ask.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to ask.’

  ‘Would you like some water, old pal?’

  ‘Yes, go ahead.’ Jack poured from one of those unspeakable plastique jugs which always look as if they’ve had flowers in. The beaker was no better. ‘Thanks,’ said Rex. Jack smiled encouragingly.

  ‘What are you doing here, Jack?’ Rex put aside his beaker.

  ‘I was at the Miskatonic when it all happened. I’ve been promoted. I’m the new Dean.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing. How did it happen? And I don’t mean your promotion.’

  Jack shook his head. ‘The seeker in the system. Some kind of A. I.’

  ‘There is no A. I. It doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Some kind of force then. It was a living thing and it came out of the computer terminal. It was Asmodeus.’

  ‘Asmodeus? Are you sure?’

  ‘Here look, I’ll show you.’ Jack took out a charred and crumpled sheet of paper. ‘I salvaged this from what was left of the library. All those beautiful books. What a crime. I recognized the creature at once. See this.’ Rex examined the page. It was an engraving from The Necronimicon. ‘One of the twelve. The First Hierarchy of Hell. LEGION, Rex. It was in the matrix. A demon, and there’s eleven more in there.’

  ‘Eleven demons and the Antichrist himself.’

  ‘Antichrist? What are you saying?’

  Rex dispensed with the bush beating. ‘Wormwood, President Wormwood. He is the Antichrist made flesh.’

  ‘You getting all this?’ asked police chief Murphy. The chap with the big tape recorder and the headphones nodded.

  ‘I met up with an old friend,’ Rex continued. I won’t destroy more of your brain cells by telling you who. But we have been trying to stop Wormwood, I know him, from the future. This program, the seeker, the demons, all of it is Wormwood. He can’t die while I’m here.’

  Jack had a very slack jaw. ‘But how can you know for sure?’

  ‘I know. That’s all.’

  ‘This is all news to me,’ said Jack into his top pocket. ‘You have been trying to kill the president, eh? There is a big reward out on you. Fancy you confessing to me, Jack Doveston . . .’

  ‘Why are you talking to your jacket?’ Rex asked.

  ‘Nervous habit,’ lied Jack. ‘Is there anything you want?’

  Rex beckoned him closer. ‘Yes?’ said Jack. Rex dealt him a weltering blow to the head. Jack sank to the floor in an untidy heap.

  ‘You can get me your clothes for a start,’ said Rex.

  ‘I know it’s early,’ grinned Elvis. ‘But what would you say to a dry martini?’

  ‘I’d say thank you, Mr Never.’

  ‘Lord have mercy. Take a seat honey. Make yourself comfortable.’

  Kim seated herself on the Conran. The short leather skirt she wore reached new heights of eroticism.

  ‘What’s in the parcel?’ Elvis mixed the drinks.

  ‘Shall I open it?’

  ‘Yeah, be my guest.’

  Kim placed the parcel upon her slim knees, unbowed the string and took out the gun.

  Rex was just getting out of bed when the door opened. ‘Breakfast,’ said the young nurse in the short skirt and surgical mask.

  ‘Ah,’ said Rex. The nurse caught sight of the fallen Jack.

  ‘Don’t worry about my friend. He’s had a long night. He’s just taking a nap.’

  The nurse stepped over Jack and placed Rex’s tray in his lap. ‘Is everything to your liking?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine. Just fine.’

  ‘If you will just roll up your sleeve, doctor says I am to give you an injection.’

  Rex rolled up his sleeve and got stuck into his break-fast. ‘Vitamins is it?’ he asked between mouthfuls.

  ‘Something like that,’ said nurse Kim.

  ‘Hubba hubba,’ said Elvis. ‘And what’s this?’

  ‘It’s a 50mm grenade pistol. Ideal for home defence.’ Kim explained. ‘Place the drinks on the table. You’re coming with me.’

  ‘Uh-huh. And to where?’

  ‘You have an appointment with t
he president.’

  ‘Aha. I get it.’ It was that look again. ‘Mr Russell sent you. Didn’t trust me, huh? Well, no sweat. I was just coming anyhow. Everything set?’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh sure. I get it.’ He placed the drinks on the table and gave his nose a tap. ‘Walls have ears, eh?’

  ‘Get dressed and come with me.’

  ‘In that order?’ Elvis made with the lewd winks.

  ‘Just do it.’

  ‘This is terrible.’ Byron chewed on his fingernails. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘Something drastic.’ The fat sweeper-upper topped up Byron’s cup.

  ‘Perhaps there are some spare parts lying in some storeroom or other that got overlooked.’ Byron’s face brightened; the sweeper-upper’s shaking head dimmed it.

  ‘You tried that.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘On one of your many attempts to get a service replacement.’

  ‘I saw all those order forms. I must have tried at least fifty times.’

  ‘Five thousand times,’ said the fat man.

  ‘Five thousand?’

  ‘And you never tired of it. You couldn’t you see. Each time it was brand-new. “As of the now”.’

  ‘But, the controller. If I’d done it all those times he would have said.’

  ‘He is the controller, Byron. It is his job to control. No matter how many times he has to do it. That’s what he does, he maintains equilibrium. Let me tell you a little story. It’s quite short but it’s worth a listen. Are you sitting comfortably?’ Byron nodded. ‘Then I’ll begin. Once upon a time there was a certain Mr Smith. He awoke on a particular Sunday morning. He rose, washed, dressed, breakfasted and went out to wash his car. His wife busied herself in the kitchen because their friends, the Theakstons, were coming to lunch. The children played on the front lawn and all was as normal as could be.