Kaiju Rift

by Ian Woodhead

  He joined the memory strand in the harmonic sighing when the third one brought out a white ceramic bowl. That had come from under the bed.

  Do something, you fucking big goon. There is no way that I want to end my life by being drunk out of my wife’s piss-pot by some armoured stick insect.

  Judging from the excrement’s loud bellowing, it had sensed Copperfield’s extreme discomfort. Perhaps now really was the moment to show exactly who was in control here? He now recognised which God was close to the horizon, and it wasn’t the one which turned him into the Right Hand of God. Yet, should that even matter?

  He tugged on the chains. The sound of the metal smacking against the brick did not drown out the excrement’s giggling, nor did the noise blank his memory strand’s frantic urging. Copperfield closed his eyes and located his remaining construct. The beast was lying beside the thick trunk of some old oak. She lifted her head when he re-established contact. Through her eyes, Copperfield saw the remains of a large animal. The beast had killed another cow and dragged the carcass under the shelter of the trees to consume it in peace.

  If Copperfield did not escape, then it would surely die.

  The giggles now turned into gasps of surprise mixed with a small amount of indignation. The chain was too strong for even Copperfield to break, but that could not be said for the bricks. Even after a few moments of pulling, he felt something give.

  The ratio of surprise and indignation swapped. Copperfield could not help but to be insulted that this so-called enhanced creature had not begun to express fear.

  One of the bolts dropped to the floor.

  Perhaps their God had stripped that emotion out of the furious piece of excrement? More likely, it still believed Copperfield’s actions would prove pointless as it still commanded the foot-soldiers. Even now, they dropped the containers and reached for their fleshmeltas.

  Copperfield roared in triumph as the shackle holding his left-hand came away and now, he sensed an iota of unease slipping into his inferior replacement. All the foot-soldiers had their weapons raised and yet none of them had fired. Copperfield looked at that colander rolling around in a tight circle and wondered that perhaps their transition was not as tight as the excrement believed?

  What have you stopped for? Do you seriously want to be turned into a fucking milkshake? Get us out of here!

  Copperfield brought his left arm around in an arc, bunching up his fingers, a moment before it slammed into the wall next to his waist. Several bricks fell into the house cavity. He pulled his other arm out of the shackle then slammed them both into the wall.

  “Kill him, you idiots. Don’t just stand there!”

  It ran up to the closest foot-soldier and tried to snatch the weapon out of its hands. It succeeded after the fourth attempt. By the time it had figured out how to fire the fleshmelta, Copperfield had already made his way through the inner wall. He dived to the left and fell against the dining room table, narrowly missing a jet of super-heated plasma melting a large hole through the opposite wall.

  He pushed away the splintered pieces of polished wood and ran for the door, fully aware that both the excrement and the foot-soldiers were running towards the hole he had just created. Copperfield did not believe that he would get a second chance. He believed that he had just used up whatever loyalty the foot-soldiers had for him. Self-preservation was a powerful notion. Lesser creatures like those did not possess the notion of sacrifice embedded into all the higher creatures, created by their glorious God.

  His memory strand seemed to find that hilarious and then attempted to explain to Copperfield how religious dogma, as well as political rhetoric, worked. He blanked out the nonsense words and focused on the task of staying alive, a job made more difficult by the appearance of a large shadow moving along the far wall of the dark living room, opposite him.

  Copperfield heard a quiet moan, realising a second later that the noise came from him. He gripped the wooden banister and moaned again.

  The huge shape, still hidden from view, shuffled a little closer. Even without seeing it, Copperfield knew that the impossible had happened. That familiar smell had already confirmed that. He unwittingly moved back, his body armour colliding with the bottom of the first step. It moved closer and now, the light streaming through the hallway window illuminated the top of its own armoured features.

  Did it really matter how one of the new God’s guardians ended up inside his house? Copperfield climbed onto the first step. Knowing the answer would not stop this monster from killing him if it did manage to rest those huge claws upon his shoulders. He had been lucky the last time. Right now, thanks to using up most of his energy reserves escaping from those chains, Copperfield doubted that he now possessed the strength to even cause it any permanent damage, let alone kill it.

  The monster’s movements changed from slumberous shuffling to a lightning-fast dart. It charged through the doorway, ripping off the doorframe on passing. It almost had him. Copperfield hadn’t a clue that any of them could move so quickly. It was only his decision to climb onto that one step which saved him from almost certain death. He did not hang around to thank his unintentional foresight, as the behemoth was still moving!

  He raced up the stairs, fully aware of his pursuer’s own movements just inches behind him. Despite its bulk, the guardian was faster and more agile than him. How could that possibly be? The things he had encountered before were terrifying, but none of them were in the same league as the nightmare racing up the steps just behind him.

  Copperfield slammed through the closest door and ran straight for the window. He only had one chance, and a slim one at that, to get away from this vile creature, and he fully intended to take it, despite the obvious dangers. He placed his brain into neutral then leapt at the closed window.

  Pieces of glass and shattered bits of the wooden window frame followed him down and three surprised-looking foot-soldiers looked up as he crashed into their bodies. Copperfield silently took one of their guns and raced down the garden path, towards the main gate. None of the foot-soldiers had run after him. Copperfield resisted the urge to look over his shoulder as the sound of their horrific screaming had already told him why none of them had given chase.

  It appeared that the foot-soldiers were not the only constructs having trouble with their behaviour. Nobody had bothered to tell the guardian of the new God that they were on the same side now.

  He reached the gate and scaled the metal while listening to the distant shouts and screams. Had that really happened? The thought that the Gods, both old and new, were now working together just could not be. This was not how it went. There had to be the division of classes otherwise the equilibrium would cease to be, meaning war would surely follow.

  I can’t believe you thought that, and you went on at me for spouting political dogma. Why don’t you face facts? Is it more believable that some brain-dead pool cleaner just kidnapped the biggest boss in the block and stapled him to a wall? Admit it, buster. There’s been a regime change and you didn’t even figure in the equations. Christ on a bike. I think I preferred it when you were eating cake at your own self-pity party. Then again, maybe you are right. Maybe your pool-cleaner pal made his own guardian? Yep, the tossbag who can’t find his arsehole with both hands created it. Makes perfect sense.

  Have you finished?

  Copperfield threw his body over the top the gate and raced for the tree cover. A blast of super-heated plasma turning the ground a metre to his left into a smoking puddle helped him confirm his suspicion that he would receive no more assistance from his former foot-soldiers. He darted to the right and took shelter behind a bunch of large rocks before peering around the side.

  Several foot-soldiers, as well as that piece of excrement, were now pulling the gates open. It appeared that they were not about to lose their quarry so easily. Perhaps it was time to show this jumped-up little bastard the best reason why he should have climbed back inside that tank when the God lifted him out.

 
Three foot-soldiers ran ahead, following the direction of the road. They would pass this spot in a matter of seconds.

  What the hell are you doing? You’re free now. Get out of here!

  Shut up.

  Copperfield waited for the last one to pass him before running out from behind the rocks. The ones closer to the gates saw him and started shouting and yelling. He was fine with that, as long as they did not start to shoot. Copperfield believed the triggers would stay untouched due to the proximity of him to their comrades. At least, that is what he hoped.

  They all turned as one, but none of them had brought their fleshmelta up. This is a movement which should be instinct. Copperfield would have still prevailed even if these idiots had followed the instructions drilled into them over and over. Their decline of discipline just made his task easier. He ripped a gun out from the grasp of one of the foot-soldiers, turned it around, and smashed the butt into its owner’s face. By now, the other two’s training was beginning to kick in, but it was still too late for them. Copperfield dropped to his knees and fired the fleshmelta once, aiming for the point between them. The energy turned both their shoulders into syrup.

  He collected their guns and threw them as far as he could. Copperfield did not have the heart to destroy them. His inner self suggested that the fleshmelta, as well as these foot-soldiers, were now an endangered creation. Nothing was going to be the same from now on.

  The remaining foot-soldiers and that dirty pretender were not far behind him, but Copperfield did not particularly care about them at this moment. If they were intent on killing him, they would have done so by now.

  There was no need to transmit a mental call to the construct as she was already heading towards him. Copperfield eagerly awaited the reunion. Having her by his side might help to refocus his jumbled thoughts. With a clear head, he could then establish a workable plan to pull him out of this chaos.

  A workable plan? There’s nothing left, you idiot. You’re stuck on another world and alone. You’ve been betrayed by your own kind. Admit it, what possible future could you make from this mess? Even if my kind do stop your Gods and win, there’s nothing left for you. I mean, come on, looking like that, it’s unlikely that you’ll be able to blend back into society.

  Copperfield did not even bother to reply to the memory strand’s obvious gloating, even if there was a grain of truth in his words. He just needed to prove himself. To show his God that he could still be the Right Hand of God and the impostor, that pointless collection of worthless body parts, was no match for his skills, something that Copperfield had already proven. If the shoe was on the other foot, there is no way that the excrement would have been able to escape.

  He jerked to a complete stop and raised the fleshmelta when he caught the sound of a snapping twig. It had to be his construct returning to his side. When that happened, Copperfield would feel almost complete. Once more, he envied their lack of sentience. She would not care about the apparent duplicity of the Gods.

  Copperfield lowered his gun.

  You bloody fool! That’s not her. You’re going to get us both killed.

  He dropped to the floor and rolled to the right even before the memory strand finished screaming the warning. Copperfield saw dark grey skin, as well as the tip of another fleshmelta, hidden behind the foliage seconds before the position he previously held was obliterated. He fired and missed. Copperfield scrambled to his feet and ran straight at the hidden foot-soldier. He dropped his fleshmelta and dived on the creature, their combined weight caused them to crash into the soft leaf litter.

  He did not even give the foot-soldier time to grasp what was happening. Copperfield pressed his hand against the creature’s neck and slammed his fist hard against its forehead, three times in quick succession. The third blow achieved the desired result of caving in its crystal skull.

  The creature would not return. Its demise grieved him. After all, it was only following orders, but he saw no other option. Copperfield stood up, still gazing down at the mess he had made of its face. The head now resembled a dropped melon.

  “He was my friend,” muttered a stranger’s voice.

  Copperfield’s head darted up only to find another fleshmelta pointing at his chest. Now he understood why the others had not run into these woods. Why should they when they already had a patrol stationed in here? There was no telling how many more foot-soldiers were hiding around trees. Not that the numbers mattered. It only took one fleshmelta to kill him. “I had no other choice,” he replied. “I did not wish his existence to end.”

  The foot-soldier shook his head. “I do not believe a word you say. Everything which comes from your mouth is going to be a lie. You are only concerned with saving your own worthless hide. Nothing else matters to you.” It raised the fleshmelta a little lower. “I know this because our new Right Hand of God has said it is so.”

  “Your new Right Hand of God? Oh, how that makes me laugh. Your new Right Hand of God is a joke. Some rancid piece of disgusting flesh which shouldn’t even have been allowed to do the job it was created for.” Copperfield attempted to calculate the chances of him reaching his dropped fleshmelta before the foot-soldier fired. Even if he had been ridiculously optimistic, Copperfield wouldn’t have gotten within a foot of the weapon before dying. “Your new Right Hand of God was supposed to freely give up his existence before our glorious God made the journey to this world. Just like your friend should have.” He sighed. “Just like you too. Now put that weapon down.”

  “Tell me my colleague’s name and I will ensure your death is quick. Otherwise, I shall remove your limbs one by one.”

  Any ideas of what to do now?

  You’re having a laugh. You’re asking me for advice now? Oh God, that’s hilarious. My advice? Easy. Don’t get shot.

  “I am serious. Put down that weapon.”

  “Fine, prepare to learn how to hop,” it replied. “At least until I melt off your other leg.”

  Copperfield took a single step backwards and slowly lowered himself. “Wait. Just wait a moment. I do know his name. I know all your names. How could I not know that? I am the one who trained you. I am the one who showed you how to fight. How to be soldiers. You are all like family to me. Why else do you think I did not want to kill him?”

  “Tell me his name!” screamed the foot-soldier.

  Copperfield nodded. He then picked up the corpse and flung it at the other foot-soldier then dived to the side. He heard the weapon bark once, followed by a scream. He swivelled his head and saw the foot-soldier’s leg clamped in his construct’s huge jaws. The fleshmelta was on the floor. He ran over to his faithful creature and scooped the weapon out of a clump of nettles.

  “Release him.” He pushed the tip of the fleshmelta hard against the foot-soldier’s head. “I was serious when I said that I wish you no harm.” The distant sound of his other companions reminded Copperfield that his benign intentions would be no way reciprocated if he allowed the others to get any closer. “Go,” he growled. “Go now and do not look back. Believe me when I tell you that I might not shoot you, but my construct is still grieving over the loss of her partner. She will easily run you down and end your existence before the others reach you.”

  The remaining foot-soldier took off. He walked backwards while watching the fleeing creature. It would not take it long to reach the others but by that time, Copperfield would be long gone. Thanks to the memories he retained from the captain, he knew these woods like the back of his hand.

  Well done, you’re still not dead. What do you intend to do now?

  You mean after or before I purge you from this body?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The two boys were to call her Mrs. Howden and nothing else. She did have a husband at home, as well as two rather mean and protective sons living there too, so the two boys weren’t going to try any funny stuff. Mrs. Howden also had a cat, called Trevor.

  At first, Callum believed the woman they’d saved was only gobbing off due to the shoc
k. He’d seen soldiers doing exactly the same back in the day; troopers who never usually said much about anything, suddenly telling anyone with ears they complete life stories after almost getting shot or blown up.

  Thankfully, the noisy woman kept that ever-loving gob shut whenever the minions showed their ugly snouts. One second, Mrs. Howden was banging on about how she thought young Charlotte Brown was helping herself to the makeshift and possibly even the painkillers, as everyone knew that the camera covering aisle three hadn’t worked in three years, the next second, the woman went as quiet as a mouse.

  Her uncanny ability to sense their enemies freaked the hell out of him. Callum didn’t comment on her radar-like talent, he was just glad they’d found her. Mrs. Howden had saved their arse twice now and he suspected the number would rise the closer they got to the town centre. Not that he was able to get a word in.

  Both Callum and Gavin helped the woman over a broken wire fence which once separated a haulage company office from a pale cream brick building that had dozens of wooden blue pallets stacked against the wall.

  When he was sure Mrs. Howden wasn’t going to slip, he looked at Gavin, nodded once then pointed to the pallets and the wall. He then made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. Callum hoped the boy would understand what Callum’s elaborate sign language meant. Not that he particularly cared.

  Judging from the boy’s panic-stricken expression, Gavin would have done anything to avoid being alone with the woman. Right now, she continued to explain to the boy why every supervisor wasn’t worthy of the name and, in her opinion, should spend at least five years working the shop floor before even attempting to advance their careers. She knew every department inside out. She knew more about the shop in her little finger than any of those clowns would ever know.