Armageddon: The Musical Read online

  ARMAGEDDON

  THE MUSICAL

  ROBERT RANKIN

  Armageddon

  The Musical

  Originally published by Bloomsbury

  Bloomsbury Edition published 1990

  Corgi Edition published 1991

  Kindle Edition published 2012 by Far Fetched Books

  Diddled about with and proof-read by the author, who apologises for any typos or grammatical errors that somehow slipped past him.

  He did his best, honest.

  Copyright Robert Rankin 1990

  The right of Robert Rankin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Design and Patents Act 1988.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Follow Robert on Facebook or visit

  http://thegoldensprout.com

  This edition is dedicated to my good friends Jason and Andrea.

  Prologue

  1

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  3

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  33

  VIEW WHAT THOU WILT SHALL BE THE WHOLE OF THE LAW

  Planet Earth rolled on in ever decreasing circles around the sun. As it had been carrying on in this fashion for more years than anyone cared to remember, there seemed no cause for immediate alarm. Not that things were exactly a bundle of laughs down on old terra firma at the present time, oh dear me, no. Things had never been quite the same since, in a moment of gay abandonment, outgoing US president Wayne L Wormwood had chosen to press the nuclear button just as the New Year bells were gaily chiming in the arrival of the twenty-first century.

  This generally unwelcome turn in events had caught many with their trousers well and truly down and had definitely taken the edge off much of the auld lang syning. But it did, at least, offer followers of the late great Nostradamus the dubious satisfaction of spending their final four minutes saying ‘I told you so’ to anyone who seemed inclined to listen.

  The Nuclear Holocaust Event, as the media later dubbed it, was a somewhat noisy and unsettling affair, and was considered by the naturally pessimistic to be ‘the end of civilisation as we know it’. Of course it was nothing of the kind and a surprising number of folk did come out of it relatively unscathed, if not altogether uncomplaining. The governments of the day rose to the occasion with such remarkable aplomb that one might have been forgiven for thinking that they were expecting it all along. Although the water was a bit iffy and lamb looked like being off the menu for some time to come, the TV was back on within the week, which can’t be bad by any reckoning. And it was encouraging to note that not only had unemployment been cut at a stroke, as had long been promised, but racial intolerance ceased virtually overnight, mankind now being united beneath the banner of a single colour. A rather unpleasant shade of mould green.

  But, as someone almost said, you can’t please all of the people all of the time. And, even now, fifty years on, with the smoke beginning to clear, radiation on its way down and that nebulous something, oft referred to as normal service, restored, there were still no outward signs of euphoria evident upon the faces of Mr and Mrs Joe Public. Not that anyone was actually heard to complain, and why should they? Today’s nuclear family had very much to be grateful for. Three square meals a week, unlimited cable television, a constant room temperature, low overheads and free waste disposal. And leisure time had really come into its own.

  Of course, the prospect of spending your brief span banged up in a bomb-proof bunker, watching TV and awaiting further developments, was not everyone’s cup of enzo-protein syntha-tea. But you did, at least, have the satisfaction of knowing that, even here, you could play your part in the glorious rebuilding scheme.

  Active Viewing was now the name of the game, down below. The console of the TV terminal put everything that was left of the world at the finger stumps of the bunker-bound. And there was a great deal to see. The re-education programmes, the devotional exercises, the food operas, the game shows, not to mention the public service broadcasts. It was all there, and the choice of what you watched, and when, was all yours. A constitutional right. All the government asked was that you did watch. So, as an incentive and to ensure just reward, they had instituted a system which was, in its way, every bit as fundamentally brilliant and divinely inspired as had been the wheel clamp in twentieth-century London.

  Every TV terminal now had an inbuilt Electronic Eye Scanning Point Indicator, or EYESPI for short. This marvel of modern technology was capable of recognising the viewer by the individual patterns of their irises, iris ‘signatures’ having, of course, been registered at birth with the mother computer. Once recognition had been established, this ingenious little doodad totted up the number of weekly viewing hours being put in by the active viewer in question. Once these were logged, food, medical supplies and rehousing credits then could be allocated accordingly.

  It was a wonderful system: unbiased, democratic, free for all to take advantage of and with an obvious appeal to mankind’s naturally competitive spirit. So wonderful was it in fact, that the TV stations felt impelled to extol its virtues every hour upon the hour. Its simple majesty being summed up, rather succinctly (and not a little poignantly) in the famous hymn jingle, ‘The more you view the more you do, the more we vet the more you get.’ (No. 4302, New World TV Hymnal.)

  But, as has previously been stated, pleasing all the people all of the time is an incomplete science. And so this system, as near to perfect as any that can be imagined, had its dissenters. Not that any of them actually came out into the open to complain about it, of course. No chance of that. They were far too busy glued to their TV screens in a desperate attempt to clock up sufficient rehousing credits.

  1

  There are only five great men and three of them are hamburgers.

  Don Van Vliet

  Back in those carefree days of the 1980s it was very much the vogue amongst the well-to-dos to seek out dilapidated character properties for conversion. Medieval timber-framed barns, oast houses, clapped out windmills, all were considered dead chic. And you really weren’t anybody if you didn’t possess, at the very least, a Wesleyan chapel with all its bits and bobs intact, that you had painstakingly tortured into a design studio, complete with en suite bathrooms, fitted kitchen and solarium.

  Few there were with sufficient foresight to consider what the twentieth century itself might offer in the way of character property. In fact, it wasn’t until well into the 1990s that the potential of such derelict period pieces as supermarkets, Habitat stores, fast-breeder reactors and batt
ery chicken houses was fully exploited. By the year 2050, however, there was hardly a building standing above ground that hadn’t been commandeered and converted.

  Rex Mundi occupied an apartment built high in the north-west corner of Odeon Towers. The building was of the pre-NHE persuasion and had long ago been a cinema. Rex shared his living room with a weighty section of mock Rococo ceiling cornice and an enormous gilded cherub. This grinning monstrosity had once bestowed its distant smile upon several generations of cinema-going heads. Now it stared with equal cheer, if somewhat foreshortened vision, into the ragged length of sacking which served Rex as carpet. But it was a small price to pay for over-ground accommodation. Six floors beneath Mrs Maycroft shared her rooms with several rows of cinema seats, and the young woman who lived in the tobacco kiosk never complained. As for the old couple who had been allocated the gents’ toilet, well that didn’t bear thinking about. All in all Rex had done quite well for himself.

  On this particular morning, Rex sat in his homemade armchair, facing the flickering TV screen. His was the classic seated posture of the Active Viewer. Relaxed yet attentive, right thumb and forefinger about the remote controller, expression alert, eyes wide. But here all similarities ended. Rex Mundi was fast asleep. His old Uncle Tony had taught him the technique of sleeping with his eyes open when he was but a leprous lad, and there was no doubt that it did pay big dividends. It had already earned Rex sufficient rehousing credits to get him over-ground and he actually possessed a surplus of food and medico rations. His generosity with these made him quite popular and respected locally. But the greatest benefit to Rex was that it left him plenty of time to indulge in his own personal studies. These centred upon a book his Uncle Tony had bequeathed to him, a curious volume entitled The Suburban Book of the Dead. Uncle Tony had pressed-the crumbling tome upon Rex with the simple statement, ‘Knowledge is power’.

  Shortly after this, he had spontaneously combusted while watching his favourite game show. ‘The way he would have wanted to go,’ Aunty Norma put it.

  Rex set to work to unravel the inner mysteries of the old book. But it was no easy matter. The language was archaic, penned somewhere during the middle years of the previous century, and much of it left Rex completely baffled. Yet he felt that he owed it to the old boy, who had, after all, passed on to Rex a most efficient method for beating the system, whilst leaving little else behind as a testament to his existence but for a pair of smoking boots and a charred remote controller.

  Of Rex’s rooms, there was little that could be argued in their favour. They were above ground, dry for part of the year and sufficient to his needs. The bedroom housed a mouldy bunk, the living room an armchair and a TV terminal. But for the gilded cherub, the only anomaly that would have drawn the visitor’s eye, should Rex have ever had a visitor, which he never did, was a mural which occupied an entire wall of the living room. This was indeed the proverbial thing of beauty, so real as to be virtually photographic. Beneath a sky of the deepest blue, white crested waves broke upon a beach of golden sand, where tall palms bent under the weight of ripening coconuts; upon the horizon a liner cruised, a single plume of white smoke rising from a funnel.

  Although Rex enjoyed looking at the mural, he didn’t pretend to understand it. He had never seen the sea and the liner puzzled him greatly. Why, he asked himself, should anyone build a factory so far from the nearest subway terminus?

  The masterpiece had been painted for him, in exchange for food, by a young man who had taken up temporary lodgings on the sixth-floor landing. Rex never knew the young man’s name and once the painting had been completed, he had left without a word. The painting was an enigma but it touched some distant chord in Rex and brought a considerable brightness into the otherwise gloomy surroundings. As the day’s first newscast began, a tiny doodad, concealed in the chair’s back, sang happy awakenings into Rex’s cerebral cortex and drew the lad awake. Rex yawned and thumbed the remote controller. The smiling face of the lady newscaster diminished and was gone. Rex stumbled blindly towards the bathroom, which, along with the kitchen, was too unspeakable to merit a mention. Here he bathed his eyes and scratched at the stubble on his chin. As sight slowly returned, he glimpsed his cloudy image in the shaving mirror.

  ‘Damnably handsome,’ he assured himself.

  And indeed Rex wasn’t a bad-looking specimen by any account. A trifle grey-green about the jowls, but nothing a quick spray of Healthiglo Pallorgone couldn’t deal with. And he did bear an uncanny resemblance to a certain Harrison Ford of ancient days. This might just have been the product of happy coincidence, but the fact that his mother had been allowed access to the state sperm banks, whose stocks had been cryogenically laid down in the 1990s, probably played some part in it.

  Rex attended to his daily toilet, picking off any flaky bits and doing what little he could to make himself look presentable. From the three he possessed, he chose the shirt which was the least crisp beneath the armpits and gave it a dusting with Bugoff Personal Livestock Exterminator. Once clad in his most dashing apparel, he opened a tin of syntha-food and took breakfast. Unfortunately, the label had come off and Rex was unable to identify the contents. His morning repast completed, he fought off the feelings of nausea which inevitably followed mealtimes. Today they were somewhat more acute than usual, Rex having just consumed a tin of paint.

  Rex belched mightily and zipped himself into his radiation suit. Screwing on the weather-dome, he stepped through the airlock, primed the anti-theft devices on his front door and set off down the stairs to face the new day.

  And it wasn’t a bad one by any account. Although the clouds hung but a few hundred feet above the rooftops and the crackles of the early electrical storm offered uncertain illumination, at least it wasn’t raining. Rex switched on his chest-lights and pressed on through the murk towards the nearby subway terminus. Today was to be the first day of his first-ever job and he had no wish to be late.

  ‘Morning Rex, phew what a scorcher, eh?’ The voice on the open channel belonged to Thaddeus Decor, who lived in the Coca Cola machine on the street corner.

  Rex offered him a cheery wave. ‘Morning Thaddeus, how’s the wife?’

  ‘Her knee’s a lot better, thanks to that gangrene jelly you let me have.’

  ‘Glad to hear it.’

  ‘Young Kevin is down with the mange again.’

  ‘I’ll drop you something in later.’ Rex continued upon his way. Thaddeus grinned toothlessly through his weather-dome.

  ‘Thanks mate,’ said he. ‘You’re a real toff.’

  The passage leading into the subway was brightly lit by the techni-glow of a hundred holographic advertising images. Rex plodded through the smiling ghosts ignoring their jolly banter. Once through decontamination he removed his weather-dome and queued for travel clearance. When his turn came, he pressed his face to the EYESPI.

  ‘Destination?’ the automaton enquired.

  ‘The Nemesis Bunker,’ Rex replied, proudly.

  Circuits purred, information exchanged, the electrical voice said, ‘Thank you, Mr Mundi, you are cleared for travel. Have another day.’

  The morning train lurched painfully into the station and shuddered to a halt. It was not unduly crowded and Rex chose a vacant corner of the seat-less carriage to squat in. The journey took a little over an hour, but it did at least offer Rex the opportunity to catch the morning newscast on the carriage TV, learn what was considered right with the world and clock up a few legitimate food and medico credits.

  The newscast was much the same as ever. Things were looking up. The economy had never been healthier. Production had reached a record level. There had been several more authenticated sightings of blue sky. The road cones were expected to come off the M25

  at any time now. Rex raised his eyes to the last one, but anything was possible.

  The broadcast ended with a little bit of station propaganda, dressed in the guise of human interest story and comical tailpiece. Today it concerned an old lady wh
o had clocked up an unprecedented number of credits, watching a rival station. So many, in fact, that the station’s controller saw fit to visit her in person to offer his congratulations. Eliciting no response at her bunker door, his associates had cut their way in. And there was the old dear propped up before the screen, staring on oblivious. She had been dead for three weeks.

  ‘Predictable,’ muttered Rex, who was sure that he had heard the tale before. Happily, his stop came just as the station songsters were launching into an excruciating new ditty ‘Every Mushroom Cloud has a Silver Lining’. The train rattled into Nemesis Terminus, deftly sweeping aside any fallen objects. Today only two antisocial types had chosen to make the morning leap to oblivion beneath the wheels of the train. The driver considered this about average for the time of year and tuned the cab TV to his favourite foodie.

  When the closing credits of her favourite show had finally rolled off the screen, the fashionable young woman behind the reception desk lowered the volume on her terminal. With mock surprise, she stared at the young man who had been standing there for the last twenty minutes, patiently flicking dandruff from the interior of his weather-dome.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked, without charm.

  ‘Rex Mundi.’ The lad smiled encouragingly towards the stone-faced harpy.

  ‘So what?’ There was something in the woman’s tone that suggested to Rex that casual sex was probably out of the question.

  ‘I’m expected, or was anyway.’

  ‘You’re late.’

  Rex opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. If the receptionist could carry on in this fashion, it was more than likely that she held considerable sway with some high muckamuck on the Nemesis board of directors, possibly even the Dalai Lama himself.

  No doubt in a horizontal capacity, Rex concluded, inaccurately.