Armageddon_The Musical (Armageddon Trilogy Book 1) Page 7

  The grim monotone of the old town sector passed him by on either side. The buildings were ancient, their faces blurred by the acid rains. Rex knew nothing of this area other than it, like everywhere else, was scheduled for redevelopment. It was evident, even from the sorry ruins which remained, that this had once been a thriving neighbourhood. But what it had once been called and where it in fact was, in relation to anywhere else, was anyone’s guess. Geography was a dead science.

  Rex recalled the time that his Uncle Tony had shown him something he referred to as ‘A Map of the World’. He had pored over the coloured splodges, saying that these were countries and that millions of people had once lived in them. ‘Different races,’ he said. The whole concept had had Rex enchanted. That a sheet of paper could represent anywhere that it was possible to go, and somehow show you how to get there. Rex had asked the old man how large he thought the world might be. But Uncle Tony merely shrugged helplessly and replied that he had really no idea. And when Rex asked to be shown exactly where they were on the map, he had shaken his head, saying that he didn’t know. Then he had wept.

  Rex couldn’t remember the map in any detail, and possession of such artefacts was illegal anyway. So it was still a mystery. All he knew of the world was that it was flat, rectangular and being redeveloped.

  Rex hunched over the controls and squinted into the gloom. Perhaps there never had been countries. He felt sure that if he drove and drove all he would ever find was simply more and more of just the same.

  He switched on the spotlight atop the vehicle. Night was beginning to fall. And so now were his spirits. Rex swerved suddenly to avoid something scaly and unwholesome which limped across the trackway before him. He was growing very tired and coming to the dire conclusion that he was also growing very lost. The night rain began to sizzle upon the vehicle’s roof. It spattered on to the windscreen, drawing blackened tear-streaks down the plexiglass. Further travel would soon be out of the question. Habitation, sanctuary or whatever, was now very much the order of the evening. Rex squinted. It was growing as black as closedown. No lights, not a nothing. Press on a little, what else could he do? The runabout trundled into a pothole and Rex felt some little nagging doubts regarding his future. The filters on his weather-dome had given up the ghost and he had no replacements. The night didn’t smell too good.

  The rain now fell in poisonous torrents. Lightning zipped and flashed, offering chances Rex felt disinclined to take. He pushed the runabout out of gear and switched off the fission drive. He was in something of a fix.

  ‘God,’ said Rex, ‘about this afternoon . . .’

  But he didn’t get any further. In between the lightning breaks something else was flashing. Colourfully. Rex didn’t take it in at first, but when he did, a grim smile found its way amidst his damp stubble. The light went on ... off... on ... off ... on ... off . . . the way some of them do. And this one spelt out MORROWMA TAV.

  The sweeping drive up to Gracelands was chock-a-block. Glorious 1950s black and white police cars were parked where they had slewed. Front wheels deeply dug into the plastic turf. Lots of flashing lights flashed, pressmen in trenchcoats with big cameras and fedoras milled about the mock Grecian pillars and asked to be ‘given a break’. Ambulances stood, their rear doors yawning. Fat policemen, or cops, as they were then known, displayed their armpit sweat and called everyone ‘mac’. It was all jolly good fun, although the attention to period detail left much to be desired. One pressman lit his cigar with a disposable gas lighter, which was wrong for a start. And the aerials on the police cars were too modern. The cops’ hair was too long, but you have to expect that.

  Elvis Presley didn’t have much to say for himself. But under the circumstances, he could hardly be blamed. He had been bound tightly, hand and foot, gagged with a lurex sock and hooded with a US mailbag. He lay face down in a flower-bed, where for those who are interested, certain flowers bloomed completely out of season.

  Jovil Jspht pressed aside the leaves of a privet imaginatively pruned into the shape of a guitar. Behind this, he and the captured king were hiding. ‘There seems to be no end of fuss going on,’ Jovil observed.

  ‘Can’t see from down here, chief. Give us a hand up, eh?’ Jovil picked up the sprout and pointed him towards the confusion. ‘Pardon me for saying this, chief. And shoot me down in flames if you think I’m on a wrong’n, but surely that is a 1965 Harley Davidson.’

  Jovil nodded thoughtfully. ‘There’s something wrong all the way round. None of this rings true. What do you reckon?’ The sprout hesitated so Jovil gave it an urgent squeeze. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, give me your impression. What does it look like to you?’

  Jovil bit his lip. ‘It looks like a film set,’ he said slowly.

  ‘Don’t it just? And check out the hedge.’ Jovil did so. ‘Artificial.’

  He made a perplexed face. ‘I don’t get it. We are in 1958, aren’t we?’

  ‘We’re in 1958. But I don’t know if it’s the real one or not. It’s more like a memory than the real thing. Perhaps when you actually go back in time things aren’t the way they are supposed to be. Possibly when the present becomes the past it sort of decays. Gets all jumbled together. Fragments. The further back you go the more confused you find it has become.’

  ‘Sounds feasible,’ Jovil agreed. ‘So what about him?’ He gestured with his free hand towards the hooded Presley, who was starting to put up a struggle.

  ‘He certainly looks like the real Mr McCoy. But listen, I really do think that now might well be the time for getaway rather than conjecture.’

  ‘Yes, I think you’re right.’ Jovil thrust the sprout into his top pocket, dragged the prone Presley to his feet and bundled him across his shoulder. He stooped to pick up the black box and the portable monitor. Struggling manfully beneath the combined weight, he limped down a gentle incline towards further outcroppings of ersatz hedgery.

  ‘Now why do I just know that there is an empty car with the keys left in the ignition, just beyond that hedge?’ Jovil asked.

  ‘Probably for the same reason I do, chief,’ came the muffled reply. ‘Best go with the flow, eh?’

  The executive bar at Earthers Inc. was yet another triumph from the trowel of Capability Crabshaw. A splendid neo-gothic gazebo of a place, which swelled in carbunclesque fashion from an upper region of the great spiral tower and chased the sunlight. It was divided into elegant bowers, each made gay by delicate fountains. These cast scented water across a myriad tiny glass domes. Each of these emitted a soft melodic tone. But the beauty of all this was currently lost upon Fergus Shaman. Like the legendary ‘lawn’ joke of old, Fergus was half-cut. He peered into the bell of his cocktail lily and sighed plaintively. Fifty floors below him a custodian lay dead before a violently flashing console.

  Someone had committed murder within the head-quarters of the biggest TV station in the galaxy, and introduced . . . what? Fergus pondered on it. Introduced some kind of virus, perhaps, into the cell system. And that someone had to be Jovil Jspht. There could be no other plausible explanation. And the only individual upon the entire planet who knew this terrible truth was he, Fergus ‘Oh, God’s nose, what have I done?’ Shaman. And what had he done? Jovil was obviously a basket-case, barking mad.

  A waitress clad in a single figure-hugging sheath of vat-grown moss approached. ‘Would you care for another, Mr Shaman?’ Under normal circumstances Fergus would have made instantly with the improper suggestions, being something of a ladies’ man. But tonight he was just not up to it.

  ‘Same again,’ he mumbled, without looking up. ‘And make it a large one, please.’

  The siren turned huffily upon a five-inch root heel and wiggled away in a purposeful manner. The lost soul sank into further miseries. Big trouble was coming. Had already come, for all he knew. With no way to access the storage cells there was no way of knowing what Jovil might be up to. Had been up to. The waitress returned, displaying considerably more cleavage and a good deal of unco
vered thigh. She slid his drink towards him. Fergus gazed up between her bosoms. ‘Do you watch The Earthers,’ he asked.

  The siren shrugged. ‘It’s not compulsory, is it?’

  ‘No, I just wondered.’

  ‘I do some times. But . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  The young woman stretched. As she did so the sheath of moss parted in certain key areas. It was eroticism unfettered.

  ‘Well?’ Fergus asked.

  ‘Well. It’s dead dull, isn’t it? All those scabby people in those ghastly little bunkers. There’s no glamour, no romance. It just goes on and on and on . . .’

  ‘Hold it right there,’ cried Fergus. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said it just goes on and on and on.’

  ‘Nothing’s changed.’ Fergus sprang to his feet and did a foolish little dance. ‘Nothing’s changed. Did you see it today?’

  ‘Yeah. I caught the end before I came on shift. Wanted to watch Nemesis. The Dalai is the only thing worth watching.’

  ‘Nothing’s changed.’ Fergus punched at the sky. ‘He can’t have done anything. Perhaps he got killed on the way.’

  ‘No, he was on tonight. There’s a new theme song. It goes: this is the time . . . this is the place . . . the time to face . . .

  ‘You really do have a cracking pair of charlies,’ Fergus observed. ‘What time do you get off your shift?’

  ‘Ten,’ the siren replied.

  The car was exactly where Jovil knew it would be. Opening the boot, or trunk, as it was then known, Jovil deposited his struggling cargo therein. Slamming down the lid he joined the sprout, who was propped upon the dashboard.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Go with the flow, chief.’ Jovil did so. He twisted the key and pressed the car into gear. ‘It’s a dream,’ he said as the 1960-Pontiac Firebird sped along the deserted highway. ‘I couldn’t know how to drive this car, could I? It’s got to be all a dream.’

  ‘I have been giving the matter some considerable cogitation. But as yet I’m unable to form any convincing postulations. There is a turn off to the right along here. I believe.’

  ‘I think so.’ Jovil spun the wheel and the car sped down another deserted road. Rain began to fall. In the distance a dark building loomed. A sign flashed on and off. It said THE BATES MOTEL.

  Rex Mundi steered the in-town runabout towards the flashing sign and entered the car park of the Tomorrowman Tavern. He drew to a halt next to a certain Rigel Charger. The property, he now knew, of a certain Rogan Josh. Near at hand was also a Buddhavision security craft. Broad bodied, black and sinister. Its darkness relieved only by the station logo. Three red tadpoles chasing each other’s tails. ‘Aha,’ thought Rex Mundi. ‘A free ride home unless I am very much mistaken.’

  Rex smiled crookedly. Things were going to work just fine. As he was a little loath to brave the elements in his present condition he rooted about in the cab’s storage compartments. A pristine-looking Barbour and one of Rambo’s best caps came to the half-light. Quite the business. Rex put them on over his radiation suit. Very dashing.

  He was about to scramble down from the cab when he saw them. Light flared through the open doorway of the tavern. Figures moved. Two burly forms dragging a far lesser form between them. The lesser form was struggling but his cause was a lost one. A burly form clubbed him from behind and he stumbled forward to splash into the muck.

  Rex cranked down the side window to get a better look. The fallen figure was unmistakably that of Rogan Josh. The others Buddha security. One of these stepped forward and performed a quick sadistic act upon the fallen man. Rex winced. Then the two thugs dragged Rogan to his feet and as Rex watched, dumb with disbelief, began to rip off his clothing. Josh pleaded for his life, but his cries were ignored. The acid rain fell unceasingly. The now naked man began to scream. In the lightning flares Rex could see his attackers laughing beneath their weather-domes.

  Rogan stumbled about trying to protect his naked flesh from the scalding rain. Rex watched in horror. Blood began to flow. Rex sank down in his seat and covered his face. And then there was a crash against the front screen. Rex looked up fearfully and stared full into the face of Rogan Josh. Bone showed through the torn skin of his cheeks, one eye appeared melted in its socket. Rogan’s fist drummed against the windscreen. Then weakened. The face sank away and was gone. The rain smashed down. Rogan Josh was dead.

  The side door of the runabout was torn open. A terrific figure thrust the barrel of an automatic weapon into Rex’s face. A voice spoke on the open channel. ‘Rambo Bloodaxe,’ it said. ‘We’ve been looking for you.’

  9

  When you hear music, after it’s over, it’s gone into the air. You can never capture it again.

  Eric Dolphy

  His divine holiness. The umpteenth reincarnation. The Living God King and golden boy of the moment, Dalai Dan, rolled back his sleeve collar and pressed a silver disc to his left wrist. The chemical compound penetrated his skin and was absorbed into his bloodstream. Dan sank back into the settee cushions and took a deep breath. Coloured balls popped behind his eyes and a landscape of unformed shape rolled out before him into oddball odd. His right hand sought out the headset and he dragged the slim grey crescent over his head, feeding the dark end-beads into his ears. The holophonic sound gave him head-butts. Upon the turntable of the antique holophon a disc of black plastic turned at seventy-eight revolutions a minute. The system’s pick-up arm moved gently up and down and fed its sonic messages into the bank of electronic hocus-pocus. Enhancing, up-moding, restructuring. What came out of the dark beads and entered the holyman’s head was a whole new world.

  ‘Well since my baby left me, I’ve found a new place to dwell,’ sang a voice which was ribbons of ice, frayed at the ends and breaking into wavering star clusters. ‘It’s down at the end of lonely street at Heartbreak Hotel.’

  ‘We don’t get a lot of visitors now. What with the new highway and all,’ said Norman Bates. ‘You can have any room you like.’ He turned pensively and selected a key from the board. ‘Number three.’ There was a stuffed owl on the wall. Somehow Jovil knew that Norman was an amateur taxidermist.

  ‘All on your own here?’ he asked. But Norman appeared distracted.

  ‘Just get the key,’ whispered the sprout. ‘And let’s get that sucker out of the trunk before he suffocates.’

  Norman Bates parted with the key and then parted company, wandering off towards a large old house which stood halfway up a hill.

  Jovil opened the trunk. Elvis was still there, bound and gagged. Only now he was dressed in a gold lame suit, the hood was gone and his hair was in perfect shape.

  ‘This is all making me very uneasy.’ Jovil hauled the hostage from the car and dragged him into the motel room. The room was grim enough. There was a chair, a bedside table with lamp. A single bed, a worn rug. All were in shades of black and white. The ensuite bathroom was spotless, but the shower lacked its curtain.

  ‘I’m going to take off your gag.’ Jovil sat Elvis upon the bed. ‘If you make a fuss I will strike you hard. Do you understand?’

  Elvis nodded. Jovil removed the gag. Elvis spat out flecks of lurex.

  ‘Who the God damn Holy Hell are you?’ he asked.

  ‘I am Jovil Jspht.’ The time traveller bowed slightly. ‘I come from a distant star.’

  ‘You scrubbing around the guardian angel bit then, chief?’ a muffled voice enquired.

  ‘Seems a mite redundant under the circumstances.’

  Elvis listened to this exchange. He was more than a little confused. ‘You some kind of schizo?’ he enquired.

  Jovil shook his head and pulled out the Time Sprout. ‘I come from another world. Honest. Don’t you ever go to the movies?’ He placed the sprout on the pillow.

  ‘Where’s your ray gun, then?’

  ‘My ray gun? Oh, I see. Just stay there a minute and I’ll show you something that might convince you.’ Jovil strode from the room, leaving Elvis to spit soc
k. He returned to the car where he pulled out his knapsack. As he clicked the driver’s door shut, he paused for a moment. The car was now a 1958 Plymouth. Jovil made a worried face and hurried back to the motel room. Here he swept the nasty table lamp aside and set up the monitor. This is going to come as a bit of a shock to you but I feel you should see it just the same.’

  ‘Is that a General Electric or one of those new Jap jobs?’

  ‘It’s an Abendroth Triple D,’ said the Time Sprout informatively. ‘Self-contained bio-system. Audio and visual through binary intrapolation of pseudopodia. It’s organic yet non-sentient. Although there are well-founded arguments in favour of it enjoying some primitive state of being.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Jovil tinkered with the monitor. ‘But I think your explanations will like as not confuse him. They do me.’

  A sudden look of enlightenment appeared un-expectedly upon the King’s youthful face. He leant towards Jovil and whispered into his ear. ‘If you untie me, I will help you kill the . . . you know . . .’

  ‘I do?’

  Elvis made eye movements towards the sprout. ‘The alien. I’m getting this now, it’s got you under some kind of mind control. Just untie me. I know Karate.’

  ‘Roll the movie chief. Let’s get this over and done with.’

  Jovil stroked a module and stepped back from the monitor. Light whirled up forming a broad image which hung in the air.

  ‘Holy Moley,’ croaked Elvis. ‘I gotta get me one of these doodads.’