The Moorlock opened its mouth wide and bit into Beadle’s shoulder. Beadle grabbed it by the scruff of the neck and pulled, but the Moorlock wouldn’t come loose. Hamner came out of his seat and jumped at the Moorlock, sticking his thumbs in its eyes, but even though Hamner pushed at the beast’s head, causing its eyes to burst into bleeding lumps, still it clung to Beadle.
Beadle beat dramatically at the Moorlock’s side, but still it held. Both men hammered at the beast, but still, no go. The old boy was latched in and meant business.
Then John Feather, bloodied and as crazed as the Moorlock, appeared. He had a knife in his teeth. He put it in his hand and said, “Step back, Hamner.”
Hamner did, and John Feather cut the Moorlock’s throat. With a spew of blood and a gurgle, the Moorlock died, but still its dead head bit tight into Beadle’s shoulder.
John Feather sheathed the knife. He and Hamner tried to free the head, but it wouldn’t let go. Its teeth were latched deep.
“Cut the head off,” Beadle said.
John Feather went to work. As he cut, Beadle said, “I thought you were dead.”
“Not hardly,” John Feather said. “I got some bumps and my ass hurts, but the Moorlocks cushioned my fall, and I cushioned this guy’s.”
“Shit,” said Blake, who, with his injured leg had not left his chair, “he’s on us.”
*****
The Dark Rider, moving at an amazing clip, was riding lickety-split around Steam, and he was whirling above his head a hook on a long-ass rope. He let go of the rope with one hand and the hook went out and buried itself in the right tin leg of Steam and held.
The Dark Rider continued to ride furiously around Steam, binding its legs with the rope, pulling them tighter and tighter with the power of the mechanical horse.
Beadle, the head of the Moorlock hanging from his shoulder, struggled at the controls, tried to work the legs to break the rope. But it was too late.
Steam began to topple.
(6)
Steam All Messed Up
Steam fell with a terrific crash, fell so hard his head, containing Beadle and his crew, came off and rolled over the Dark Rider and his horse, knocking Clockwork for more than a few flips, causing it to shit horse turds of clockwork innards. Steam’s head rolled right over the Dark Rider, driving him partially into the ground, but it had no effect.
Inside Steam’s torso Beadle unfastened his seatbelt, fell out of his seat, got up and wobbled, trying to adjust to the Moorlock’s head affixed to his shoulder.
One glance revealed that Hamner was dead. His seat had come unfastened from the floor and had thrown him into Steam’s right eye, shattering it, poking glass through him. Blake was loose from his seat and on his crutch. He reached and took a Webb rifle off the wall.
John Feather reached his bow and arrows from the wall, unfastened the top of his quiver and threw it back, slipped the quiver over his shoulder and took his bow and drew an arrow.
Beadle took a Webb rifle off the wall. Beadle looked at John Feather, said: “Today is a good day to die.”
“It’s night,” John Feather said, “and I don’t intend to die. I’m gonna kill me some assholes.”
Actually, it was Asshole himself who was approaching the beheaded Steam, and with him was a pack of Moorlocks previously scattered from the remains of Stick.
Beadle and his crew went out the hole under Steam’s ear. “I’m gonna die,” Beadle said, “I’d rather do it out in the open.”
Nearby lay Steam’s body, leaking from its neck the remains of the exploded furnace: embers, fiery logs, lots of smoke and steam.
The Moorlocks came in a bounding, yelling, growling rush. Strategy was not their strong point. All they really knew was what the Dark Rider told them, and a good, old-fashioned, direct ass whipping. The Webb rifles cracked. Arrows flew. Moorlocks went down. But still they closed, and soon the fighting was hand to hand. The Moorlocks were strong and would have won, had not their leader, Asshole, leaping up and down and shouting orders, received one of John Feather’s arrows in the mouth.
Asshole, still talking in his barking manner, bit down on the shaft, shattering teeth, then, appearing more than a bit startled, turned himself completely around and fell on his face, driving the shaft deeper, poking it out of the back of his neck.
In this instant, the Moorlocks lost courage and bolted.
The Dark Rider came then, called: “Get the fuck back here, or I’ll impale you all myself.”
These seemed like words of wisdom to the Moorlocks. They turned and began to stalk forward. Beadle picked out the Dark Rider and shot at him, hit him full in the chest. The bullet went through him with a jerk of flesh, an explosion of cloth and dust.
The Dark Rider, though knocked down and dazed, was unharmed.
Slowly, the Dark Rider stood up.
“That’s not good,” said Beadle.
“No,” John Feather said. “It’s not. I guess tonight is a good night to die. And while we’re at it, if we’re gonna go, I must tell you something, Beadle.”
“What?”
“I’ve always wanted to fuck you.”
“Huh,” said Beadle, and John Feather let out with a laugh and loosed an arrow that took a Moorlock full in the chest, added: “Not!”
Amidst laughter, Beadle began to fire, and the Moorlocks began to drop.
But the ole Dark Rider, he just keep comin’ on.
*****
The Dark Rider was on them in a rush. He tossed John Feather hard against Steam’s head, grabbed at Beadle, missed, grabbed at Blake who was hitting him with his crutch.
When Beadle regained his feet, the Dark Rider had Blake down and was poking at his ass so hard with the crutch, he had ripped a hole in his pants.
Before the Dark Rider could impale him, Beadle shot the Dark Rider in the back of the head. It was a good shot. No blood came out, just some skull tissue, and the Dark Rider flipped forward and over and came up on his feet, hatless.
He reached down and picked up his hat, dusted it on his knee, and put it on. He looked mad as hell.
*****
John Feather had recovered. He let loose an arrow and it struck the Dark Rider in the chest with a thump, stayed there. The Dark Rider sighed, snapped the arrow off close to his chest.
The Moorlocks surrounded them.
The Dark Rider said, “And now it ends.”
Then the Moorlocks swarmed them. Shots were fired, an arrow flew. But there were too many Moorlocks. In a matter of seconds, it was all over.
(7)
Getting the Shaft
They were carried away to a place outside of the museum, stripped nude, tied with their hands behind their backs, then surrounded by Moorlocks.
Though Hamner was dead, he was the first to be impaled. His body was partially feasted on by the Dark Rider and the Moorlocks, then he was raised into the moonlight with a freshly cut wooden shaft in his ass. The end of it was dropped into a prearranged hole. His dead weight traveled down the length of the stake and the point of it gouged out of his right eye. He continued to slide down it until his bloody buttocks touched the ground.
Second, the Dark Rider, out of some perverse desire for revenge, had Steam impaled. A large, sharpened tree was run through the trap door in the steam man’s ass, poked through his neck, then the battered, steeple-topped head was placed on top of the stake.
With arms tied behind their backs, Beadle and his Moorlock head, John Feather, and Blake, who could not stand because of his leg, awaited their turn. The Moorlocks were salivating at the thought of their blood and flesh, and Beadle was reminded of a pack of hunting hounds at feeding time. He regretted that he had not gotten to his derringer in time, but the derringer was no longer an issue; like his clothes, it had been taken from him.
The Dark Rider, his hat removed, his face red with Hamner’s blood, strands of Hamner’s flesh hanging from his teeth, said, “I’m going to save you, Mr. Beadle, until last, and just before you the Indian. An
d you, what is your name?”
“Blake. Mr. James Blake to you.”
“Ah, Blakey. Defiance to the last.
“Moorlocks …” the Dark Rider said.
The Moorlocks all leaned forward, as if listening at a keyhole.
“Gnaw his balls off.”
They rushed Blake, and there was an awful commotion. Beadle and John Feather struggled valiantly to loose themselves from their bonds and help their friend, but the best they could manage were some lame, ignored kicks.
Blake was lifted up screaming, and while his legs were held apart by Moorlocks, the others, their heads popping forward like snapping turtles, tore at Blake’s testicles, and when they were nothing more than ragged flesh (they got the penis too), a stake was rammed in his ass and he was dropped down on it. He screamed so loud Beadle felt as if the noise was rocking his very bones.
The Moorlocks carried Blake to a prearranged hole, dropped him in, pushed in dirt, and left him there. Courageously, Blake yelled, threw his legs up as high as he could. The movement dropped his weight, and the sharpened stick went through him and out of his throat, killing him quickly.
“That will be the way to do it,” John Feather said. “It’s how we should do it.”
Beadle nodded.
The Dark Rider, who sat in a large, wooden chair that had been brought outside from the museum, said, “My, but he was brave. Quite brave.”
“Unlike you,” Beadle said.
“Ah,” the Dark Rider said, “I suppose this is where you are going to challenge me, and with my ego at stake, and your ass at stake, so to speak, I’m going to take you on, one on one, and the winner survives. If I win, you die. If I lose, well, you all go to the house.”
“Are you too much of a coward to do that?” Beadle said.
The Dark Rider removed a handkerchief from inside his vest and wiped Hamner’s blood from his face and put on his hat. He tossed the handkerchief aside. A Moorlock grabbed it and began to suck at the blood on the cloth. A fight broke out over the handkerchief, and in the struggle one of the Moorlocks was killed.
When this moment had passed, the Dark Rider turned his attention back to Beadle.
“I don’t much care how I’m thought of, Mr. Beadle. Since very little causes me damage, and I have the strength of ten men, it’s sort of hard to be concerned about such a threat. And besides, in the rare case you did win, my Moorlocks would eat you anyway. In fact, if I should die, they would eat me. Right, boys?”
A murmur of agreement went up from the Moorlocks. Except for those eating the corpse of the loser of the handkerchief battle. They were preoccupied.
“No, I’m not going to do that,” the Dark Rider said. “That would be too quick for you. And it would give you some sense of dignity. I’m against that. In fact, I actually have other plans for you. You will get the stake, but not before we’ve had a bit of torture. As for the red man, well, I can see now that the stake, if you’re courageous like your friend, can be beat. I could tie your legs, Indian man, of course, stop that nonsense. But no. I’m going to crucify you. Upside down. And keep the boys off of you for a while so you’ll suffer. As I remember, a saint was crucified upside down. Perhaps, Mr. Red Man, you will be made a saint. But I doubt it.”
*****
A cross was made and John Feather was put on it and his hands were nailed and his feet, after being overlapped, were also nailed. John Feather made not a sound while the Moorlocks worked, driving the nails into his flesh. The cross was put in the ground upside down, John Feather’s head three feet from the dirt, his long hair dangling.
Beadle was taken away to the museum. The Moorlocks were given Blake’s body to eat, all except the left arm which was wrapped in cloth and given directly to the Dark Rider for later.
Beadle was placed on a long table and tied to it. The Dark Rider disappeared for a time, about some other mission, and while Beadle waited for the horrors to come, the lone Moorlock left to watch him played with Beadle’s dick.
“Lif id ub, pud id down,” he said as he played. “Lif id ub, pud id down.”
“Would you stop that, for heaven’s sake?” Beadle said.
The Moorlock frowned, popped Beadle’s balls with the back of his hand, and went back to his game. “Lif id ub, pud id down …”
(8)
A View from Doom
John Feather, in pain so intense he could no longer really feel it, could see the horizon, upside down, and he could see the ground and a bunch of ants. He had been taught that the ants, like all things in nature, were one, his kin. But he didn’t like them. He knew what they wanted. Pretty soon they’d be on the cross, then the blood on his hands and feet. Then would come the flies. With kinfolks like ants and flies, who needed enemies? He could kind of get into accepting rocks and trees as his kinfolk, though he was, in fact, crucified on one of his kin, but ants and flies. Uh-uh.
He heard a squawk, lifted his head and looked up. At the top of the cross, waiting patiently, a buzzard had alighted.
John Feather remembered he had never had any use for buzzards, either. Come to think of it, he didn’t like coyotes that much, and the way his luck was running, pretty soon they’d show up.
They didn’t, but he did hear flies buzzing, and soon felt them alight on his bloody hands and feet.
*****
When the Dark Rider showed, the first thing he did was light a kerosene lamp, and the first thing he said was, “I suppose we shall remove the Moorlock head. This will give us a wound to work with.”
The Dark Rider took hold of the Moorlock’s jaws, pried them apart, tossed the head, sent it bouncing across the floor. The assisting Moorlock watched it bounce. He looked longingly at the Dark Rider.
“Do your job here,” the Dark Rider said, “and you can have it all to yourself.”
The Moorlock looked pleased.
The Dark Rider, who had brought a roll of leather, placed it just above Beadle’s head and uncoiled it. It was full of shiny instruments. The first one he pulled out was a long metal probe, sharpened on one end.
He held it up so Beadle could see it. It caught the lamplight and sparkled.
Beadle told himself he would not scream.
The Dark Rider poked the probe into the bite wound on his shoulder, and Beadle, in spite of himself, screamed. In fact, to his embarrassment, he thought he screamed like a girl, but with less restraint.
*****
Inside the great time and space cosmic rip, the metal ship hurtled by again, and inside the ship, or as they called it, the shuttle, peering out one of its portholes, was an astronaut named McCormic. He was frightened. He was confused. And he was hungry. He and his partners, a Russian cosmonaut and a French astronaut, had recently finished their last tube of food and the water didn’t look good. Another forty-eight hours they’d be out of it, another three or four days they’d be crazy and drinking their urine, maybe starting to think of each other as hot lunches.
Through a series of misfortunes they had lost most of their fuel and could not return to Earth. They were the Flying Dutchman, circling the globe. They had lost contact with home base. The radio waves were silent. It was as if the world beneath them had died. To add tension to all this, their air supply was draining. It would in fact play out at about the same time as the water supply, so maybe they would never get to drink their urine or dine on one another.
To top it off, McCormic was having trouble with his hemorrhoids, which was their way, to appear only at the least opportune time.
And then, there was the rip.
No matter where they were while circling the Earth, the rip was always to their left. They watched it constantly, saw inside it strange things. The rip made no sense. It fit nothing they knew or thought they knew. McCormic felt certain it was widening, even as they watched.
McCormic turned to his partners. The Russian was sitting on the floor. His name was Kruschev. Like his companions, he had removed his helmet some time ago. He was reading from the Frenchman’s copy
of Huckleberry Finn, in French. He didn’t understand the jokes.
The Frenchman, Gisbone, said, “I know what you are thinking, my friend McCormic. I am thinking of the same.”
McCormic glanced at the Russian. The Russian nodded. “It is closer than our Earth, comrade.”
McCormic said, “It would be easy to use the thrusters. Turn into it. I say we do it.”
*****
John Feather thought perhaps the best thing he could do was pull with all his might and tear his hands free. The flesh there was not that strong, and if he could pull them through the nails, and was able to free his hands, then … Well, then he could hang upside down by his feet and die slowly of what he was already dying of, only with his hands free. Loss of blood.
But hell, it was something. He balled his hands into fists around the nails and pulled with everything he had.
Boy did it hurt.
Boy did it hurt a lot.
He pulled the flesh of his palms forward until the nails touched his clenched fingers. He jerked forward, and with a scream and burst of blood, John Feather’s hands were free.
*****
At about that time the shuttle, blasting on the last of its fuel, came hurtling through the crack in the sky, whizzed right by him so hard it caused the impaled steam man to rattle and the cross on which John Feather was crucified to lean dramatically.
The shuttle’s wheels came down, but it hit at such an angle they crumpled and the great craft slid along on its belly.
John Feather, from his unique vantage point, watched as the ship tore up dirt, smashed through what was left of the smoldering stick man, turned sideways, spun in several circles and stopped. There was a popping sound from the craft, as if metal were cooling.
After a long moment, the door of the craft opened. John Feather waited for a squid in harness and overalls to appear. But something else came out. Something white and puffy, shaped like a man, but with a bright face that made it look like some kind of insect.