Armageddon: The Musical (Armageddon Trilogy) Page 9

  The Suburban Book of the Dead

  Rex snored soundlessly in his battered armchair. Before him the terminal flickered, the EYESPI scanning his sight-less pupils and feeding points back to MOTHER. Rex’s expulsion from Gloria’s apartments had been abrupt, undignified and sadly lacking in fond farewells. His bodily functions had figured large in the tirade of abuse which had issued from his sister’s mouth. In fact her manner was so threatening that Rex considered it prudent to avoid the subject of her bed, on to which he had recently thrown up.

  The only thing that saved the evening for Rex was the kindness and camaraderie shown to him by the two security men who found him wandering, half-naked and drunk in equal part, about the maze of corridors. They had fitted him out with a new radiation suit, loaded its pockets with beer and ciggies, made profuse their apologies for the little misunderstanding and finally flown him home to Odeon Towers.

  Rex dreamt about the woman of his dreams. The lady he had seen in his dying vision. They were alone running through fields of tall waving brown stuff. And they didn’t have any clothes on. Rex was dead peeved to be awoken by the violent rapping at his chamber door.

  Mungo Madoc rarely slept. Being the product of some pretty snazzy genetic engineering, he merely topped up his system every day with a cocktail of vitamins, proteins and things of that nature. A tiny implant in the base of his skull calculated exactly which doses were required to maintain equilibrium and fed the data to a graft set into his left wrist. Here the information appeared as a graphic readout. Mungo merely followed the dictates of his wrist and swallowed whatever he was told. And thus he ran on and on, much after the fashion of the well-oiled machine.

  On this particular night Mungo’s wrist was pleading for a mega dose of tranquillisers. The wrist’s owner was in a veritable fug.

  ‘Erased? Erased?’ screamed Mungo. ‘That is impossible. Inconceivable. Do you hear?’ The less modified board members, who felt the need for their full eight hours’ shut-eye, shuffled about in their jim-jams nodding and mumbling.

  ‘It is sabotage,’ cried Gryphus Garstang.

  ‘It is iconoclasm,’ agreed Lavinius Wisten.

  ‘It is the end of civilisation as we know it,’ Diogenes ‘Dermot’ Darbo pinched at his hooter. ‘Oh yes, indeedy.’

  ‘Shut up.’ Mungo raised a shaking fist. ‘Shaman. Where is Fergus Shaman?’

  Fergus cowered to the rear of the pyjama party. ‘Here, sir.’ He raised his hand. Mungo grabbed it and hauled him forward.

  ‘Shaman, an entire year has been erased. I want it back, do you understand?’

  During his many years on the board Fergus had managed to side-step many an impossible demand. This time it didn’t look all that simple. ‘I... how?’ was about all he could muster at such short notice.

  ‘I don’t care how. Just do it.’

  ‘If I might just interject.’ The voice belonged to Jason Morgawr. Jason was tall, young, well-favoured in the face department, a genius in bio-genetics and founder of The Earthers Inc. Amateur Dramatics Society. The executive board hated him to a man. ‘I regret,’ said he, ‘that it can’t be done. The virus has destroyed all the cells relating to the Earth year of 1958. But surely this is the least of our problems.’ Those who witnessed the look upon Mungo’s face had it firmly ingrained into their memories from that day forth.

  ‘Least of our problems?’ roared Mungo Madoc.

  ‘This sabotage was only discovered an hour ago, but it is clearly apparent that the virus is already spreading. If it’s not stopped it will continue to move forward. It will eventually catch up with the present day.’

  ‘What are you telling me?’ Mungo sank into his chair.

  ‘I am telling you that if it catches up with the present day we will go off the air. The Earthers series will close down.’ Mungo’s mouth opened and closed and went on doing so.

  Garstang turned upon Jason. ‘Do you have a solution?’

  ‘We can try to isolate the infected area, shut down all the cell systems surrounding it.’

  ‘Then do it. Do it.’

  ‘We are trying. But nothing like this has ever been attempted before. The storage cells aren’t separate units They all compose microcosms of the whole. If we start tampering too much with them we have no idea what might happen.’

  ‘And the saboteur? Murderer?’

  ‘All evidence points towards one Jovil Jspht.’

  Fergus flinched.

  ‘He was seen in the archives earlier today. Showed a fake security pass and has since vanished without trace.’

  ‘I know that name,’ Mungo said. ‘He’s the maggot man, all those memos.’

  ‘We’ll track him down.’ Gryphus made martial fists. ‘I’ll get my men on to it at once.’

  ‘It could take years.’ Mungo began to giggle most queerly. ‘If he’s gone off-world we may never find him. Maggots . . . maggots . . .’

  Gryphus Garstang wasted very little time in assuming control. He organized a search of Jovil’s rooms, offered Jason unrestricted funding to search out a solution and summoned the house physician. The now gibbering Mungo was led away.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Gryphus addressed his troops. ‘This is a crisis situation.’

  12

  . . .the God had been drinking heavily all day In my line of business, which is one of extortion, you get to see a lot of bars and you get to recognize the regular faces If you want to see your old age, you do. So, I first notice the God in Fangio’s on East 32nd I was collecting ‘dues’ A half hour later on West 13th I walk into Johnnie’s Bar and Grill and he is there also. Then he is in Laughing Sam’s and then again in the Cool Room So either this guy has a lot of twin brothers or something is going down I don’t figure him for a Fed, you get a nose for those guys and when he came across to me I knew he wasn’t looking for a handout neither. He asks me do I do the horses and I says sure, so then he sticks a racing sheet in my paw and says, be lucky. And then he just kind of shuffles out. Now I’ve been around some and a little more and I reckon I know all the angles but I check the sheet out He’s got doubles ringed and outsiders and a whole accumulator based on a single dollar stake. All looks pretty crazy to me and I go to bin the rag But something inside says to me, what’s a dollar good for anyway, so I make a call and place the bet. Biggest damn mistake I ever made in my life.

  The Suburban Book of the Dead

  ‘Enjoying the job?’ the Dalai Lama asked. Rex looked up from the floor. He had but recently been thrown there by the two security men who had called to collect him when he missed the Dalai’s appointment. The one Gloria had failed to mention. ‘The job,’ said Dan. ‘Enjoying it?’

  Rex climbed to his feet. Having endured the previous day an air crash, potential death from the knives and forks of the Devianti, witnessed a cold-blooded murder and all but been tortured to oblivion, Rex wondered whether perhaps he had misunderstood the question.

  ‘It gets you out and about,’ he said warily.

  ‘And the pay is very good. You certainly came up trumps in the bonus department.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll bother with the pension plan.’

  The inmost fellow waggled a cautionary finger in Rex’s direction and exercised his fingers on a terminal key-board. They were in Ms Vrillium’s office. It looked no better at a second viewing. ‘How did you come by these names?’ Dan gestured towards the screen. ‘Very enterprising, the entire Devianti gang it would so appear.’

  Rex slouched over to the desk and viewed the terminal without enthusiasm. Bloodaxe and Eric were known to him, but as to the rest. . .

  ‘How did I come by them?’ Rex wondered.

  ‘Under questioning. Would you like me to play back the extract?’

  ‘No,’ Rex replied, ‘I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Well, nevertheless you named them all,’ Rex shook his head. He couldn’t think of a convincing lie so he thought of the credits.

  ‘I’m on my way to becoming a wealthy man,’ he said.

  ‘
You certainly are. A little tampa perhaps, I understand you missed breakfast.’

  ‘My thanks.’ Rex watched the Dalai as he ordered up the meal. He looked much taller than he did on the TV But powerful men always appear taller than they really are. Except for the short ones, of course. But the charisma was undeniable; there was an almost fearful presence about him. This was a man who wasn’t to be messed about with.

  ‘Did you know that you were brain dead for thirteen seconds?’ the Dalai asked.

  Rex shivered. ‘I knew something had happened . . . brain dead . . .’

  ‘You saw something during this time? Felt something?’

  She was beautiful. Her eyes the palest of blue. The smile soft upon the full red mouth. Her breath smelled of violets. A golden glow surrounded her and her hand was upon his forehead. Rex trembled.

  ‘I can’t remember. I’m cold.’

  He looked up. The Lama was staring deeply into his eyes. ‘It doesn’t matter, Rex. Ah, here comes the nosebag.’

  A dull body in station fatigues knocked and entered bearing a chrome tray. He placed this on the desk and backed away, head bowed.

  ‘For what we are about to receive,’ intoned Dan, ‘you can thank me in person.’

  Ms Vrillium massaged Gloria’s breasts. ‘You’re very tense, dear.’

  Gloria looked up through half closed lids. ‘Something is occurring.’

  Ms Vrillium lowered herself on to Gloria’s nakedness and chewed upon a blood-red nipple. ‘What thing?’ she asked between delicious bitings. Gloria rolled back her head and gasped.

  ‘Something big. Something powerful. I can feel it. Ouch. No, don’t stop.’ Ms Vrillium slid down Gloria’s body. Her long tongue flickering across the taut perfumed flesh, dwelling upon special places, savouring the exquisite tastes. She thrust her face down between the outspread legs. Gloria moaned, arched her back, her hands clawed the pillows.

  The bedside console chimed. ‘Hope I’m not interrupting anything.’ The voice belonged to Dalai Dan. ‘Come straight up to my office will you?’

  Gloria distinctly heard the undisguised chuckle before the line went dead. ‘Bastard,’ she shrieked.

  Ms Vrillium broke surface. ‘Sorry, dear. Were you talking to me?’

  Rex sought invisibility. His sister looked far from cheerful.

  ‘Gloria,’ smiled Dan. ‘And to what do I owe this pleasure?’

  ‘You called me?’

  ‘I did? Oh yes, of course I did.’

  Gloria was poised in the doorway. She wore a jumpsuit wrought from some rubberized material. A tight cap of likewise confection encased her head. The boots were French calf, although Rex didn’t know that. The heels were of glass and lit from within. Today’s all-over colour, saving the boots, was crimson. The effect was dramatic, to say the least.

  ‘I want you to arrange another air car for your brother. I want him issued with a stun suit and other appropriate items of self-protection. He has a busy day ahead. So, get your finger out, would be my specific advice to you at this time.’

  ‘Hold on there,’ Rex spoke with his mouth full. Gloria made a pained expression. ‘What do I want a stun suit for? Where are you proposing to send me?’

  ‘Special mission, Rex. I want you to go back to the Hotel California.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Rex shook his head with some ferocity, spraying breakfast. ‘Not this boy. Not back to that place.’

  ‘Be at peace there.’ Dan raised a palm. ‘You will be quite safe. No danger to life and limb,’

  ‘But they’ll eat me.’

  ‘Not this time. You will come, as it were, under a flag of truce. Do you know what that is?’ Dan ignored Rex’s shaking head. ‘You will issue to the Devianti word of my personal amnesty.’

  ‘Amnesty?’ Gloria couldn’t believe her ears. ‘These are subversives. They eat human flesh.’

  ‘Are you questioning me, Gloria?’ Rex saw the fire in the holyman’s eyes.

  ‘No.’ Gloria turned away. Rex watched her go. His eyes remained fixed upon the open doorway. This was no laughing matter. These lunatics could get him killed. And he just beginning to value life. To consider possibilities. He had seen the sky. He looked up at the Dalai.

  ‘The Devianti. How could I convince them?’

  Dan patted him upon the shoulder. ‘You will find a way, my son. You are a young man of infinite resource. And you appear to have a charmed life. My thoughts will go with you.’ Rex had the feeling that they certainly would.

  ‘Bring back Bloodaxe. I don’t care how you do it.’ He handed Rex a transparent cube. ‘It’s all here. The power-lines have now been programmed into the in-car. You’ll find the bonus to your liking. Consider the pension plan, you might choose to retire tomorrow.’

  Rex turned the cube in his hand. This way lay madness. He was putting his life on the line. For what? For credits? But something compelled him. It seemed like a soft voice whispering in his ear. It said, ‘Do it.’

  ‘Okay.’ Rex shook the Dalai’s outstretched hand. ‘I’ll do it.’

  The oily-fingered engineer at the motorpool led Rex towards the air car. ‘You will be bringing this one back?’ he asked, eyeing Rex with suspicion.

  Rex shrugged. ‘Who knows? The guidance system has definitely been reprogrammed, hasn’t it?’

  ‘It has now,’ replied the demoted Maurice Webb, nursing certain tender parts which had received the unwelcome attention of security truncheons. ‘Drive carefully, won’t you?’

  ‘Have another day.’ Rex saluted and climbed into the cockpit. He closed the canopy, slotted in the cube, eyed the EYESPI.

  The car lurched up into the overhanging gloom, above which, Rex now knew, was open sky. His potential winnings filled the screen. Rex’s elementary knowledge of mathematics didn’t enable him to ‘name that sum’, but it looked very impressive indeed. He used to have a calculator on his watch. Rex tapped the moribund thing on his wrist. Two-thirty it said. The car droned on, creaking and rattling and performing certain stomach-turning manoeuvres, which Rex assumed correctly to be the product of incompetent reprogramming. Finally it went into a steep incline and landed with a thud inside the compound of the Hotel California.

  Rambo Bloodaxe didn’t observe Rex’s arrival. He and his followers were knelt in prayer before the bewildered-looking man in the golden suit. This fellow was staring vacantly into his cupped hands. Here rested a green spheroid of vegetable extraction.

  ‘Lord.’ Rambo extended a platter of barbequed man meat. ‘Will you take sup with us?’

  Elvis Presley appeared to awaken from his trance.

  ‘Where the Holy Ham-bake am I?’ he asked.

  ‘The Hotel California, Lord.’

  ‘California? California never looks like this.’ Elvis clutched at his nose. ‘This smells like Philadelphia.’ Knowing nothing of W. C. Fields, that particular remark was lost upon the Devianti, amongst others.

  ‘We are your servants, Lord.’

  ‘Then cut the Lord crap, buddy. I am the King.’

  ‘It’s definitely him, Rambo,’ whispered Deathblade Eric. ‘You were not incorrect in your assumptions.’

  ‘He seems a trifle confused though,’ Rambo replied. ‘The temple lights are on but the congregation doesn’t appear to have shown up. The sideburns are a killer, though, and we all saw him materialize before us out of thin air.’

  ‘Now see here, buddy, if this is one of those religious cult things then you have got the wrong boy.’

  Rambo looked at Eric. Eric just looked blank. Rambo said, ‘We are your disciples.’

  ‘Disciples? Fans, do you mean? Hell, I’ve gotta be dreaming.’

  ‘Dreaming,’ Eric nodded. ‘Men are but the dreams of the Gods, I’ve read that.’

  ‘Listen, I gotta use a phone, get Colonel Tom to send a limo or something.’

  ‘Someone should take down his words.’ Eric wrung his hands. ‘The Revolution begins. Although we may not understand his words future generations may. This is scripture, Ram
bo.’

  Rambo tugged upon the lobe of his right ear. ‘It doesn’t sound much like scripture to me, old bean. Shouldn’t he be saying thee and thou and the like?’

  ‘Anyone got a dime?’ Elvis asked. ‘Or I can call collect? Where’s the phone booth?’

  ‘I’ll do it phonetically.’ Eric picked up an appropriate tablet of fallen stone and began to scrawl upon it with charcoal. ‘Dime, now that sounds straight forward. Some kind of religious artefact, do you suppose?’

  A look of dire perplexity wrinkled the King’s noble brow. ‘Are you telling me you don’t know what a dime is?’

  ‘Not as such, Lord King.’

  A look of supreme enlightenment, of the kind that the reader will come to recognize, flashed upon Elvis Presley’s face. ‘I’m in Moscow,’ he groaned. ‘The Commies have got me. You’ll never get a word out of me. God bless America . . .’ Elvis placed his hand over his heart and began to sing.

  ‘Excuse me chief,’ came a voice from his left hand. ‘If I might just have a word.’

  ‘The miracle of the talking hand.’ Rambo flung his forehead to the floor. ‘Make a note of that, Eric.’

  ‘Will do.’ Eric scribbled away like a good’n.

  ‘I hate to interrupt chief. But if I had thumbs they would now be pricking. Big trouble is heading our way.’ Elvis ceased his singing. The door creaked open and Rex Mundi stuck his weather-domed head through it.

  ‘Coo-ee,’ he called. ‘Hello there, anyone at home?’

  ‘Idolater.’ Rambo sprang up. ‘Kill the idolater.’ The Devianti rose to its collective feet. Weapons were drawn

  ‘Hold on,’ Rex cried. ‘Don’t be hasty, I bring good news.’

  ‘Slay the idolater. By Godfrey, it’s yesterday’s lunch!’

  ‘I think that now would be as good a time as any to take our leave, chief,’ the sprout advised. ‘Whilst they are otherwise engaged I’d make a break for it, if I was you.’

  ‘I am me.’ Elvis thrust the Time Sprout into his top pocket. ‘Up and away.’