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

  ‘Me?’ Rex turned a bitter eye on Jack Doveston.

  ‘Er, scuse me,’ Elvis interrupted. ‘But all this dumping on and stuff. Call me a dumb son of a bitch . . .’

  ‘You’re a dumb son of a bitch,’ chorused the cast of thousands.

  Elvis gave a serious lip curl. ‘Uh huh. Fine. Call me that. But who brought you back, Gloria? It wasn’t Wormwood. It wasn’t Crawford. It wasn’t the gods of God knows where. Was it you, Jack?’

  ‘Not me,’ said Jack, all innocence for once.

  ‘Then who in the word of four letters was it?’

  ‘It was me.’ There was a scratching and a scraping and a knackered-looking curricle, walking upon two uncertain birdlike legs, limped through the crowd.

  ‘Aw shit!’ cried Jonathan. ‘Dad.’

  ‘Dad?’ Elvis threw up his hands in defeat. ‘Who’s dad?’

  ‘I am the controller,’ said the controller. ‘And that hooligan is my wandering boy.’

  ‘The controller.’ Elvis thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘The dude with the big flywheel and all that hokum.’

  ‘All that hokum, yes.’ The ancient ground his shrunken gums.

  ‘The family firm not good enough for you, Jonathan? You had to strike out on your own. Use all our knowledge. Bring the firm into disrepute.’

  ‘Change things.’ Jonathan took to ranting once more. ‘You fiddled about. Let it all go to pot. I went out and did it. You should be proud of me.’

  ‘Proud? You did it all for your own greed. We serve mankind. That is our duty.’

  ‘Serve mankind? Ha ha ha. You’ve got the contract with the Big Figure.’ (‘God,’ said Elvis. ‘Of course, chief. We know that.’) ‘He lets all the scenarios run, one after another. You try them all out. Entertain him. Then when each one fouls up you rewind. Start it all off again. You don’t serve mankind. Mankind is just an entertainment. Always was. But now the show’s over. Time just ran out.’

  Elvis checked his watch with Rex. ‘It just did,’ they agreed.

  ‘Counting down,’ said Jonathan. ‘All systems locked.’

  ‘Go on then, Elvis,’ said Rex. ‘Do something.’

  ‘Me? What can I do?’

  Rex shrugged. ‘Why don’t you punch his lights out?’

  ‘Yeah. Why not?’ Elvis stepped forward.

  ‘Holy God.’ Jack gazed down at his groin. ‘There’s a dog’s head coming out of my crutch.’

  ‘Hi Rex,’ woofed Fido. ‘Hey Christeen, I’ve found them, they’re here.’

  ‘And about time too.’ The dog and its mistress stepped from Jack’s suit.

  ‘Neat trick,’ said Jonathan. ‘But too late now.’

  ‘Rock off.’ Elvis stepped forward and punched Jonathan’s lights out.

  ‘Don’t come near me.’ Elvis examined his fist. He hadn’t said that. ‘Where am I?’ he asked.

  ‘You know where you are. You’re in the bunker beneath the Pentagon. You’ve come to kill me.’

  ‘Kill you?’ Elvis focused his eyes. He was staring at Wayne L. Wormwood. ‘But you’re dead.’

  ‘You’d like me to be. You’re the assassin. I know you. You’ve tried to kill me again and again.’

  ‘Yeah sure. But . . .’

  ‘You won’t get me.’ Wormwood’s hand was hovering above a big red button.

  The big red button. ‘You’ve driven me to this. Driven me mad.’

  ‘What am I doing here, Barry?’

  ‘I think it’s an alternative, chief. Another possible ending. When you punched out Crawford you stepped into it. I think.’

  ‘Hey buddy.’ Elvis hailed the would-be button-pusher. ‘Let’s talk about this.’

  ‘Talk? Talk? You won’t get me to talk. I’m the president. All I’ve ever done was for the good of all. Why me? Why try to kill me again and again?’

  ‘You’re the bad guy, for pity’s sake.’

  ‘It’s not him, chief. It’s the other one.’

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘What other one, Barry?’

  ‘The one that isn’t the Antichrist. The real Wormwood. He’s a good guy.’

  ‘There ain’t no real Wormwood. Is there?’

  ‘Aw shit, chief. This is what Rex was talking about. You’ve got to stop him pushing that button.’

  ‘Hey pal,’ Elvis called cheerily. ‘Don’t push that button. Let me explain. There seems to have been some kind of mix-up.’

  ‘Mix-up? Mix-up?’ Wormwood had those crazy eyes. But the sprout was right. He wasn’t the Devil. He was just a man. The real Wayne L. Wormwood.

  ‘Listen fella. It’s the New Year. You don’t wanna push no buttons.’

  ‘You haunt my dreams. You have driven me to this.’

  ‘Me? No. Tell him, Barry.’

  ‘You tell him, chief.’

  ‘Who said that? How many are there of you? You’re possessed. That’s it. The Devil is in you. I should have known. The world must be purged of you. And now. Better that we all die.’

  ‘You can’t reason with the guy,’ whispered Barry. ‘All those assassination attempts have driven him over the edge. He’s going to push the nuclear button because of you. Best punch his lights out, chief. Save the world, eh? Now would be the time.’

  The president reached towards the button.

  ‘Look out behind you,’ cried Elvis. ‘Zulus, thousands of them.’

  The president spun around.

  Elvis stepped forward and threw the big big punch.

  The president slumped to the floor in a crumpled heap.

  And all over the world bells chimed in the twenty-first century.

  Elvis breathed a very big sigh of relief.

  ‘You did it, chief.’

  ‘I did? I did. Barry, I did it.’

  ‘You did it, chief. You saved the world. You changed history. You did it.’

  ‘I did. I did.’ Elvis clapped his hands together. ‘Barry. I just saved the world.’

  ‘You’re a goddamn prince, chief.’

  ‘I’m a goddamn King.’ Elvis punched at the sky. Turned around and sat down.

  Sat down on the big red button.

  ‘Aw chief.’

  ‘Aw Barry.’

  ‘Aw sh . . .’

  ‘Ha ha ha ha ha. Fooled you.’ Jonathan sprang to his feet. ‘He walked right into it. Just like he had to. You can’t change history. Everybody knows that. Even him.’ Jonathan pointed at his dad. ‘You can only manipulate the present. Wormwood had to be in that place at that time for the big button push. History records it. Doesn’t it, Rex?’

  Rex nodded sadly. ‘But not the details. Seems like you win.’

  ‘Yes. It seems like that, doesn’t it?’ Jonathan smiled sweetly.

  ‘Except that you don’t.’

  ‘Oh don’t I though?’

  ‘The future,’ said Rex. ‘You’re still not in it. You never were. Not even a footnote.’

  ‘He gets a mention in my book,’ said Jack. ‘I change his name, of course.’

  ‘You just went off the shelves, buddy. I publish you, remember?’

  ‘You still lose,’ said Rex. ‘That’s it.’

  ‘No.’ Jonathan flapped about. ‘I don’t lose. I’ve got media coverage. I’m on TV.’

  ‘Can’t see any news teams,’ said Jack. And indeed there were none to be seen. ‘I expect they’re covering news from the president’s bunker about now.’

  ‘I recall the footage,’ said Rex. ‘The Nuclear Holocaust Event. Big world news. Nothing about you or this pleasuredome. I expect it all goes up in the blast. Or perhaps it’s just a bit of history that never really happened.’

  ‘No. No. I set this up. I made history. I am history.’

  ‘You’re a pain in the ass,’ said Gloria. ‘One more line. Is that all I get?’

  ‘It’s over,’ said Christeen. ‘Best go home with your father now, Jonathan.’

  ‘Just try and make me.’ Jonathan pressed circuits on his wrists. ‘Just try.’

&nb
sp; The controller twiddled knobs upon his curricle. Jonathan’s wrists fused. ‘You really are a naughty little boy,’ said he.

  ‘No!’ shouted Jonathan. ‘And no and no and no. You won’t get me. I shall return.’ He lurched forward, thrusting Gloria into Rex. Forced his way past Christeen and plunged at Jack.

  Jack threw up his hands and Jonathan passed into the Tomorrowman and was gone. ‘He’s gone,’ Jack belched. ‘Bloody Hell. This suit.’

  Rex held Christeen. ‘Where did he go? Forward? He’s escaped.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure.’

  ‘Ha ha ha ha ha.’ Jonathan swam through time. ‘Even better,’ he chuckled. ‘They’re all back there. The lot of them. I know where they came from and I know where I’m going. And it will all be mine.’

  ‘All of what?’ Rambo Bloodaxe addressed the materialization.

  ‘And who’s this?’ asked Deathblade Eric.

  ‘I do believe it’s a present, Eric.’

  ‘A present, Rambo?’

  ‘A present. As in past, present and future. It’s the sacrificial offering.’

  Eric hauled Jonathan to his feet. He grinned ruthlessly into the lad’s face. ‘We got this part last time,’ he explained. ‘It’s what we do best. It isn’t subtle but . . .’

  ‘Shall I be mother, Eric?’

  ‘No,’ croaked Jonathan. ‘Let me explain.’

  ‘Let’s eat,’ said Rambo. ‘We haven’t had a good meal since I don’t know when.’

  ‘Is that it?’ Rex asked. ‘I mean, is it over?’

  ‘I think that’s about it.’ The controller cranked up his controls. ‘If you’ll just give me a bit of a wind up, I’ll be heading back.’

  ‘But your son?’ Christeen turned the key. ‘You need a bit of flux on this,’ she added.

  ‘My son? He will have learned his lesson. He can’t die in the future. He’ll be down amongst the Inter-Rositers by now. Remember that computer you saw just before you came back into the past?’

  Christeen nodded.

  ‘Jonathan builds that. It’s the new flywheel, micro-processed. One of his own little innovations. He really is a clever little innovator. I suppose this is all my fault really. I should have listened to him. He wanted to update the system, computerize, modernize. But I wouldn’t have it. Old habits die hard. And mine are very old indeed. That’s why he ran off. But I shall give him his head now. Let him rebuild the entire operation. He won’t foul up again. I will see to that.’

  ‘Well,’ said Rex. ‘And well again.’

  Gloria was appalled. ‘So that’s it? That is all I get?’

  ‘What more do you want?’ the controller asked. ‘It’s got a reasonably happy ending. The gods are appeased. You can go back home now. Pity about the Nuclear Holocaust Event. But you can’t have everything.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Jack. ‘I survived. Rex said I didn’t.’

  Rex shook his head. ‘You’ve got me on that one, Jack. The blurb in your final book says that you were run down by a big truck on New Year’s Eve 1999. Must be a misprint.’

  ‘Phew,’ said Jack. ‘And I really thought I lost out.’

  It really wasn’t fair. The big truck simply materialized out of nowhere. No-one saw it coming. Especially Jack Doveston.

  Evidently Byron and Mr Smith, even with the aid of Jonathan, had not yet quite ironed out all the little wrinkles Inter-Rositer-wise.

  ‘Look out,’ screamed Ella Guru, slamming on the brakes. But it was all too late.

  ‘Aw Jack.’ Spike climbed down from the cab to view Jack’s head which was protruding from beneath one of the big big wheels.

  ‘Jack, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It hasn’t ruined the suit, has it?’ Christeen asked. ‘It’s our only way home.’

  Spike gaped up at her. ‘That’s a bit dispassionate, isn’t it? There’s a dead man here.’

  ‘The suit will be fine,’ said the controller, engaging gear and setting off. ‘Trans-dimensional. No creases. Just step through. I’ll have someone pop it round to the cleaners tomorrow. Bye.’

  ‘Bye,’ said Rex, waving lamely. ‘Some part I had.’

  ‘Some part you had?’ Gloria raised her voice once more in anger.

  ‘What about Jack?’ Spike pointed towards the defunct author.

  ‘Please keep out of this,’ said Christeen.

  ‘Keep out of this?’ Spike sprang to her feet. ‘Who are you, anyway?’

  ‘I am Christeen,’ said Christeen. ‘Rex’s wife, as it happens. Not that it’s any of your business.’

  ‘Wife?’ Spike turned upon Rex. ‘What is this? I’m your wife. You’ve got two children at home wondering where their father is.’

  ‘Two children?’ gasped Rex.

  ‘Two children?’ Christeen delivered a weltering blow to Rex’s head.

  ‘Don’t hit my husband.’

  ‘I’ll hit you in a minute.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Just you try it.’

  ‘Where am I?’ said Jack Doveston. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Jack. You’re alive!’

  ‘Hello Spike. Must be this magic suit. What a happy ever after, eh?’

  Rambo stuck his head out of Jack’s chest. ‘Hello,’ said he. ‘Has anyone seen our lunch?’

  In the Flying Swan, Brentford, Jim Pooley turned the page. ‘And is that how it ends?’ he asked.

  Omally returned from the bar and placed a pint of Large before him. That’s it.’

  ‘Most unsatisfactory.’ Jim took a small sip and then a much larger one. ‘Never ended all up in the air like that in any of our books.’

  Omally pulled a face. ‘Oh I don’t know. Rankin killed us off at least twice to my reckoning. It’s typical of the fellow. Probably supposed to be avant-garde or post-modern or one of those literary lads. It’s got more holes in it than a pair of Norman’s Y-fronts.’

  ‘Well, I shan’t buy it.’ Pooley took up the purloined proof and consigned it to the spittoon.

  ‘Ah well.’ Omally took up his pint. ‘Here’s to a happy New Year. Drink up, Jim. It’s your round next.’

  ‘Last orders, gentlemen,’ called Neville from the bar. ‘And I do mean last, they’ve just called the four-minute warning.’

  ‘Six more over here,’ cried Jim Pooley.

  Rankin pulled the page from the typewriter and worried at the bad spellings with his biro. ‘I think that’s quite enough trick endings,’ said he. ‘The secret is in knowing just where to stop.’

  ‘And you can stop right there.’ Elvis appeared at the French windows. ‘You and me got words to say.’

  ‘You tell him, chief.’

  ‘I will. You can’t leave me like this. I had a whole trick ending of my own worked out with the Gadarenes’ computer. I got fans out there and they ain’t gonna be too pleased about you having me blow up the world. And what about Mother Demdike, huh? Where did she go? And if Jonathan was the controller’s son, then how come . . .’ A fat hand fell upon the King’s shoulder.

  Elvis turned to view its fat owner. ‘And who the sweet mercy are you?’

  ‘The name’s Sam Maggott,’ said Sam Maggott. ‘Memphis PD. And I hereby arrest you on the following counts. That you did conspire with one Hugo Rune to murder Sir John Rimmer, whom you did then substitute for yourself in order to fake your own death and pick up $4,000,000 life insurance. Tax evasion. Unlicensed handling of a 7.62mm M134 General Electric Minigun. The murder of Lefty Malone, blown up by you in Grand Central Station. The murder of Cecil the henchman. Shit, fella, I got eight attempted assassinations of the president. This list is as long as a donkey’s dongler. You want I should continue, or just read you your rights?’

  ‘Do something, Barry.’

  The Time Sprout did some hasty trans-dimensional thinking. ‘Ask him if he’s got a deportation order, chief. This is merrie England, after all.’

  ‘Yeah buddy. You got one of those . . . what Barry said?

  Maggott made a worried face. No-one had told him he’d wind up
in England. ‘Hey you,’ called Sam. ‘Humpty-backed fella at the typewriter. That’s right, I mean you.’

  Rankin put his hands up. ‘Roll end credits,’ he said, backing from the room. ‘And good night.’

  ‘Good night?’ Elvis made with the open mouth. ‘He can’t just leave us like this, can he?’

  ‘Seems like he just did, chief. You want we should go back to 1958 and have another crack? I think I could just make it.’

  Elvis looked back at Sam who was rooting through sheaves of paper. ‘Got anything?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m sure I got it somewhere. Ah yeah.’

  ‘What do you say, chief?’

  Elvis studied the Brighton skyline. There were roofs and chimneys and nasty TV satellite dishes, the sky and the stars. A look of supreme enlightenment appeared on the King’s famous face.

  ‘Barry,’ said he. ‘I’ve just had me a revelation.’

  THE END

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