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

‘No. I thought it wouldn’t.’

  ‘Let’s party.’ Wayne L. Wormwood reined up the horses. ‘Yo!’ He raised his whip and flung it. A silvered trail hung in the air.

  ‘Let’s do it.’

  The doors opened into the great hall. The horses plunged forward. All red eyes, lathered mouths, sparking hooves and steaming nostrils. It was very apocalyptic.

  As the huge doors opened a dazzling light blazed out across the dance floor. The dancers shielded their eyes. Squinted into the glare and made nimble sidesteps as the Devil rode out. And then they began to applaud. ‘Top of the world, ma,’ cried Wormwood. ‘Top of the world.’

  ‘There’s soldiers everywhere,’ Jack complained. ‘How did we end up out here? This isn’t having an edge.’

  ‘Which way, Rex?’ Elvis asked.

  ‘Up,’ said Rex. ‘We climb. What time do you have?’ ‘Eleven thirty. Eleven thirty? Why do I have that?’

  Rex checked his own watch. ‘For the same reason I do. It’s all coming apart. We climb.’

  ‘Er.’ Jack smiled foolishly. ‘Rex. I do not climb. I get vertigo.’

  ‘Jack, you climb. Believe me.’

  ‘What about this big gun? I can’t climb with this.’

  ‘You could try, chief.’

  ‘Keep out of this, Barry. Rex, why do we climb?’

  ‘Because it’s the only way we’re going to get back inside. Unless you want to use up all your bullets trying to shoot your way back in.’

  Elvis shuffled his blue sueders. ‘Make Jack go first.’

  ‘Go on then, Jack.’ Rex guided Jack’s hands towards the wall. ‘It’s not far. Just up to the first floor. See the open window?’

  Jack saw the open window. It was a nice one. It had once graced a wall in the Palace of Westminster. Its leaded lights were now spray-painted a zany pink.

  ‘I can’t climb up there. It’s a sheer wall.’ ‘Then walk up.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘Try it, Jack. Trust me.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘The edge, Jack. Trust.’ Jack put one foot against the wall.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ he protested. He placed the other foot against the wall. ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Walk.’ Jack walked. He walked up the vertical wall.

  ‘Come on,’ he called down. ‘It’s safe.’

  ‘What the?’Elvis gaped up at the human fly. ‘How?’

  ‘It’s sound, chief. Do as Rex says.’

  ‘No sweat.’ Elvis hoisted the big gun on to his shoulder and followed Jack up the wall. ‘Far out.’

  Rex took a quick look around and then took to the wall. One after another the three men pressed in through the open window and dropped on to the high balcony recently vacated by Jonathan Crawford.

  ‘You gonna tell us how we just did that?’

  Rex winked. ‘Just bear it in mind when the trouble starts.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Jack stepped on his cloak and fell heavily to the floor.

  ‘Take it off,’ Rex advised. Jack took it off.

  ‘Are you having a good time?’ crowed Wormwood.

  ‘Yeah,’ chorused the revellers.

  ‘Let me hear you say yeah.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Let me hear you say yeah.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Let me hear you say . . .’

  ‘Look at that dumb son of Satan,’ whispered Elvis. ‘Let me hear you say yeah? I mean, come on.’ From the high balcony they had a pretty good view of what was going on. Wormwood’s horses frothed and stamped. High upon the throne chair the president offered benedictions and whipped up the crowd. The Gadarene Swine were enjoying a gang-bang in the bar. One of Wormwood’s horses suddenly went stomp upon a lifeless body that no-one had bothered to sweep up.

  ‘Demdike!’ cried Wormwood. ‘Mother Demdike!’

  The crowd went very quiet indeed. Wormwood rose in his throne. Raised his arms and screamed in a cacophony of inhuman voices.

  ‘Mother. Who has done this thing?’ The crowd made with the earnest heart-crossings. ‘Not us,’ they swore to a man, or woman. ‘Truly.’

  Wormwood’s eyes swept over them. An icy wind whipped up from nowhere. ‘Ah well,’ chuckled Wormwood. ‘Never could abide the old bag. Life’s a bitch, ain’t it?’

  The crowd erupted. ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow,’ it sang.

  ‘The double son of a ... Shall I pop him now?’ Elvis asked.

  Rex shrugged. ‘I can think of all kinds of reasons to say no. But it is what we came here for. Why not?’

  ‘Right on.’ Elvis flipped up the trigger guard and climbed to his feet.

  ‘Sure that you can?’ Rex asked.

  ‘He’s sure, chief.’

  ‘Hey, scumbag,’ shouted Elvis Presley.

  Wormwood turned in his chair. Gazed up at his mortal enemy.

  ‘Eat this!’ Elvis pressed the button and the old 7.62mm M134 General Electric Minigun poured out its wrath. The six barrels span on their 3.4kg drive motor. The two 1.36kg recoil adapters held vibration to the very mini-mum and the 7.62mm cartridges left the weapon at the rate of two thousand per minute. And they made a great deal of noise about it.

  The crowd, which was now becoming quite used to making a hasty retreat, did that very thing. Wormwood didn’t though. Elvis let him have the full pack. Six thousand rounds rapid-fire.

  The horses bolted. The priceless throne became a million whirling wasted fragments. Wormwood’s robes became shredded memory. ‘Ratatatatatatatatatatatatatat . . .’ went the big big gun.

  ‘Gotcha.’ The barrels continued to spin but the gun was empty. ‘I gotcha.’

  Rex peered over the balcony unable to see very much. A slim breeze from the open window gently began to waft the carbine fog.

  ‘You have to be joking,’ said the voice of Wayne L. Wormwood. ‘You really do,’

  Rex looked at Elvis. ‘Aw shoot,’ said Elvis. ‘Is it run?’

  ‘It’s run,’ said Rex. ‘And now.’ They ran.

  Wormwood’s laughter pursued them. He was standing in the ruins of his chariot. He was tall and mean and naked. But he wasn’t human.

  But for the head and hands there was no skin. The body, arms and legs were glossy black titanium steel alloy. A product of the Crawford Corporation. Impenetrable to anything less than nuclear assault. And probably not even that. Total body prosthesis. Courtesy of Mr Russell and his associates, who, under constant torture, had made great strides forward in the field of cyborg automation.

  ‘That the best you’ve got?’ guffawed Wormwood examining his parts and finding all in perfect working order. ‘Haw haw haw.’ He stiffened. ‘Guards. Bring them down. In one piece, please.’

  Soldiers stormed from nowhere. Up the stairs and on to the balcony.

  ‘It’s a fair cop.’ Jack stuck his hands up. ‘Don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot.’

  ‘It’s broken.’ Byron flinched.

  The controller looked down upon him. ‘You’ve broken it, haven’t you?’

  Byron nodded sadly. ‘Bits keep dropping off, lordship.’

  ‘Bits keep dropping off. Well, la de da. How would you rate your chances of promotion, Byron?’

  The lad made a ‘so-so’ sort of face. ‘As of the now?’ he asked.

  ‘Someone is going to have to go up and sort this mess out. Who do you think that should be?’

  ‘You, sir?’

  The controller shook his snowy head.

  ‘Me, sir?’ Another shake.

  ‘Mr Smith, sir?’ Mr Smith shook his head violently.

  ‘No,’ said the controller.

  ‘I give up then. Who sir?’

  ‘Me,’ said Gloria Mundi, for it was she.

  ‘Oooh,’ said Byron. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘Who are you?’ Wormwood asked. The three kneeling men in the handcuffs made strained faces. There were an awesome variety of weapons pointing down at them.

 
‘Mundi,’ said Rex Mundi. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Charmed I’m sure. And this creature?’

  ‘Screw you,’ said Elvis. A gun butt hit him in the neck. ‘I’m the King. That’s all.’

  ‘I see. And you?’

  ‘Jack Doveston,’ said Jack Doveston. ‘I’m not with these two. They kidnapped me.’

  ‘I think not.’ Wormwood shook his head. ‘What is that you’re wearing?’

  ‘Just a holographic suit. Jonathan Crawford gave it to me. He’s a big friend of mine. Can I go now?’

  ‘No, you can’t.’ Wormwood shook his head once more. His neck seemed to strain against the black carapace of his chest. ‘I think you and I have much to say to one another.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Jack.

  ‘Well I do. Who am I, Jack?’

  ‘You’re the president, Mr President.’

  ‘And what else am I?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why should I?’

  ‘I think you know. Rex, do you think he knows?’

  ‘Oh yes, he knows. That’s why he hired us to kill you,’ Rex lied.

  ‘Rex? What are you saying?’ Jack shook his head violently.

  Wormwood turned away. ‘No-one is going to kill me. All history has led to this moment. You do not understand.’

  ‘Would you care to explain?’ Rex thought away his handcuffs. He stuck his hands in his pockets. Wormwood seemed unperturbed.

  ‘Nearly midnight,’ said he. ‘And then you-know-what.’

  ‘The big bang? The NHE?’

  Wormwood passed Rex the brandy balloon. The two of them were suddenly seated in high leather chairs. The room housed some empty bookshelves. A carpet of Indian extraction. A chrome jukebox. Nothing else.

  ‘It’s a poser,’ said Wormwood.

  ‘What? Life and things of that nature?’

  ‘Things of that nature. Yes.’

  ‘You’ll lose,’ said Rex. ‘You must,’

  ‘Possibly. But if I win then I take all.’

  ‘But you never do.’

  ‘There is a time. There is always a time. And when there is then I must be here.’

  ‘The time,’ said Rex. ‘Tell me about the time.’

  ‘Ah.’ Wormwood tapped his nose. ‘It is always now. People remember the past and fear the future. But there is only the now. The past is dead and the future cannot threaten you until it becomes the now.’

  ‘Dead profound,’ said Rex.

  ‘As of the now, Rex. That is all. We are always here. You and I. Protagonist and antagonist. That’s movies. That’s life. Yours and mine forever.’

  ‘I’d like to go now,’ said Rex.

  ‘Escape? To where? To Utopia? I would be there. I have to be. The serpent in Eden. The ghost in the machine. The glitch in the system. I am always there and it’s always today.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The balance of equipoise. That’s what it’s all about.’

  ‘Sounds somewhat esoteric to me.’ Rex angled the shotgun across his knees and blasted Wormwood from his chair. ‘Whose dream is this anyway?’ he asked.

  30

  Church of Runeology

  7 Mafeking Ave

  Brentford

  Dear Mr Rankin

  I write regarding my special ‘guest’ appearance in your latest tome. I was given to understand by Sir John Rimmer that I would not only receive a cover credit, but that extracts from my masterwork The Book of Ultimate Truths would appear at the head of each and every chapter in I8pt Gothic Bold and that characters would make frequent reference to my wit and wisdom. Also, to quote an editor, who was unwilling to divulge his name, that I would be ‘bunged the readies and seen all right’.

  Thanks to a certain literary contact, whose name I am unwilling to divulge, I have now become privy to a proof copy of They Came and Ate Us.

  Imagine therefore my horror and dismay when I discover that:

  1 I have no cover credit.

  2 Quotations from T.B.O.U.T. have been annotated by Sir John Rimmer in the guise of extracts from numerous books supposedly written by him.

  3 I have not been bunged any readies or seen all right.

  My solicitor informs me that to press any claim against Far Fetched Books Inc would not only be courting financial suicide but be running the very real risk of finding myself in a concrete pillar supporting the M27 Brighton Bypass.

  So, in the light of Glasnost, the Poll Tax and the Salmon Rushdie affair. And in the view of Sir John Rimmer’s recent retirement to Memphis on the strength of substantial ‘introduction’ fees received from Far Fetched Books, I feel that you might at least stand me a Chinese meal by way of compensation. I shall therefore look forward to meeting you in the CRUSTY NOODLE EAT IN AND TAKE AWAY, High St, Brentford, on Thursday next at eight pm. You will recognize me as the tall distinguished gentleman with the shaven head and plaited goatee. Should you fail to keep this appointment, I will have no other option but to call forth numerous Satanic agencies which are under my direct control and loose them against you.

  You have been warned.

  My very best wishes,

  Hugo Rune (perfect master)

  PS. I enclose the Black Spot for you to be going on with.

  The room containing Wormwood and Rex dissolved.

  They were in the pleasuredome once more.

  ‘Mr President. Would you care to say something to the nation?’

  Wormwood smiled benignly. He slicked back his hair and straightened the lapels of the immaculate suit he was now wearing.

  ‘This camera?’

  ‘The one with the light on. Yes sir.’

  Wormwood spoke into the reporter’s pencil-slim microphone.

  ‘Fellow Americans. My own dear people. How’re you doing out there? OK? Got enough to eat and enough to watch I hope. Sure you have. Sure you have. Fellow Americans, tonight is a very special night for all of us. Dawn of the new millennium. Time to ring out the old and ring in the new. As you all know, tonight is the final night of my presidency. Seven long and happy years. And they’ve been happy for all of us, I know that. I see the tears in your eyes, oh I do. But do not cry. I shall be with you. I shall always be with you. More than ever you know.’

  ‘I understand that you have named your successor, Mr President. Might we know who it is to be?’

  ‘It is to be me,’ said Jonathan Crawford. The cameras swung around. Panned across the colourful crowd. Focused upon a wall of camouflage-green speared with weaponry.

  ‘I am Jonathan Crawford. Your new president.’

  ‘Oh no you’re not,’ bawled Wormwood. Twenty high-velocity electric carbines cocked in his direction.

  ‘Oh yes I am. This is what is called a military coup.’

  ‘And you’re seeing it all live on Buddhavision folks, the station that’s first with the news.’

  ‘Crawford,’ roared Wormwood, his titanium steel combat-chassis expanding to burst out the shoulders of his suit. ‘What is this crap? Guns? Are you mad or what?’

  ‘It’s a political statement. Ring out the old and ring in the new. Pure and simple.’

  ‘It is nothing of the sort. It is treachery, you mutinous maggot.’

  ‘Language.’ Jonathan raised a cautionary finger. ‘All things must pass you know. To every whatsit there is season and a time for every doodah under heaven. And such like. Now if you will kindly swear me in I have prepared a speech.’

  ‘Over my dead body.’

  ‘You don’t have a dead body. You don’t even have a .live one.’ Jonathan took from his pocket a small remote-control unit. ‘You’ll not like this. A little innovation of my own.’

  ‘Oh no you don’t.’ Wormwood plunged forward, toppling cameras, spilling newsmen. He leapt upon the upstart. Hands crooked to kill.

  Jonathan calmly fingered the controller. Wormwood froze in mid-plunge.

  ‘Pause button,’ Jonathan explained. ‘Mr Russell and his chums had their little schemes, I had mine. I let them finish Proj
ect Wormwood, but I wisely saw to it that the now legendary Directive-Four fail-safe was installed. I’m a clever son of a bitch, ain’t I?’

  Wormwood’s head was not on pause. It was ranting. ‘You fool. You can’t stop it. You can’t change history. Tonight the whole world becomes mine.’

  Rex, Elvis and Jack were quietly drifting towards the rear of the excited crowd.

  ‘How did you do that trick with the handcuffs?’ Elvis asked.

  ‘None of it’s real. Don’t you get it?’

  Elvis shook his befuddled head. ‘Not as such.’ He strained at his handcuffs. They became rubber. He pulled them from his wrists.

  ‘How’s it done? We’re here, ain’t we? Wormwood’s here.’

  ‘Is he? Jack, up to the balcony. I want to see something.’

  ‘Sure enough.’ Jack flung away his handcuffs and the three scuttled across the expanse of empty floor and up the staircase to the high balcony.

  Below them the tableau was set out. The stars of the show, Wormwood and Crawford, glared poison arrows at one another. The news teams ducked and dived, getting all the right angles. The cast of thousands craned their cosmetic necks to get a glimpse of the action.

  ‘Jack. Stand up on the balcony rail.’

  ‘I will not. I might fall.’

  ‘I’ll hold you. Do it now.’ The complaining Jack was helped up to take an unsteady stand. ‘What now?’

  ‘Holy roller,’ gasped Elvis, who was standing behind them.

  Rex turned to him. ‘Can you see it?’

  ‘Clear through, Jack. Take a look. Lordy Mr Crawdy.’

  Rex took a look. Jack’s outline shimmered electric blue. But through the suit the scene below was clearly visible as the thing it truly was.

  There was no great dome. No rich adornments. No floors of inlaid marble. No pleasure palace of human chandeliers and perfumed fountains. A blood-red sky hung above a terrible wasteland of blasted earth.

  Crawford was still there bobbing around. The camera teams were still there and so were the soldiers. The crowd still swayed. But where Wormwood should have been standing something hideous heaved and throbbed. It bore Wormwood’s head, but it was vast and reptilian. It spread away, seeming to penetrate the earth and trail off into the crimson heavens. It was a dark scaly mass. It was the opposite of all which was known, safe and normal. It was very nasty indeed.