They Came and Ate Us_The B-Movie (Armageddon Trilogy 2)

by Robert Rankin

  ‘No thanks. But please continue.’

  ‘Certainly. As of the now there are so many departments, divisions, agencies, depots, workshops, branches of this and branches of that, that no-one can get even the simplest thing done. It is one big bureaucratic mess. As above, so below, have you ever heard that expression?’

  ‘No, but please continue again.’

  ‘It’s grinding to a halt.’ The fat man made a very grave face. ‘There are little Byrons like you running around in circles. Every department blames the next. The big flywheel falters, flaws appear. Mistakes cannot be corrected and it all gets reflected up on to the surface of the planet. It’s chaos up there. If we cannot correct the mechanism, mankind is heading for a very final Armageddon. And nobody is going to get out of this one alive.’

  ‘But we are supposed to stop all that. That is our function.’

  ‘It’s a poser. Let me ask you an elementary question. How many ultimate endings of mankind can there be as of the now?’

  ‘Only one of course.’ The fat man shook his head.

  ‘More than one?’

  ‘Six,’ said the sweeper-upper. ‘Six running all at once.’

  ‘But that’s impossible. It can’t happen.’

  ‘It can. Believe me. I sweep up. I see it all. A downgrade here, a systems collapse there, a miscast projection over that end, a failure to override a possible area of malfeasance round the corner. Need I go on?’

  ‘But six ... does the controller know?’

  The headless chicken? What do you think?’

  ‘We have to do something. And as of the now.’

  Above them came a sound as of cogs grating together and an unpleasant fluxless grinding.

  ‘There goes your lateral augmentor,’ sighed the fat sweeper-upper. ‘Did I say six ultimate endings? You’d better make that seven.’

  ‘Look Jack, look.’ A hushed group of Zens was bunched about Mad John’s terminal in the Miskatonic basement. ‘See what it’s doing?’ ‘What is it doing?’

  ‘A bank heist.’ Spike traced the lines of figures moving across the screen. ‘Running off dead accounts.’

  ‘How much money?’

  ‘Million and a half, perhaps more.’

  ‘And where is it taking it?’

  ‘Back to mother seeker, of course.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘We lose it, Jack.’ John tapped on the keyboard. ‘But not this time. This time it is going to bring it all to us.’

  Spike explained. ‘We have isolated it from the seeker, although it doesn’t know that yet. We have created a false image of the seeker here in our system. It will come to us thinking we’re the real thing. Once it’s here we close off the land lines. We have it boxed up tight.’

  ‘But it’s a program, a hacking program. You talk about it as if it’s some physical object that you can cage up.’

  ‘It’s AI, Jack. Artificial Intelligence, it has to be, there can be no other explanation. But we’ll soon know. It’s finished eating the bank accounts. It wants to go home.’ Spike seated herself at the next terminal and punched in sequences. ‘It’s on its way. I’m getting a read-out.’

  The Zens held a collective breath. Jack whispered, ‘What is she going to do?’

  ‘Once it is in her system she’ll feed it a loop so it can’t think its way out. Then we pull the land-line. Then it’s all ours to do what we want with.’ Jack bit his lip. It was clever stuff. These people ran rings round him.

  ‘I’ve got it! It’s in! Closing the system. Pull the land-line, John.’ Spike keyed in a closedown and Mad John whipped out the phone-jack from its socket in her terminal.

  ‘Gotcha!’

  Cheers erupted. Spike climbed on to a desk and raised her slender hands. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we now have one-twelfth of a seeker and you will be pleased to know it has brought us all a bonus. About thirty thousand dollars each. As soon as we can find a way to get it out.’ To further applause she danced a little jig and leapt down into Jack’s arms. Jack gave her an amorous hug. He had really fallen on his feet by taking Spike as a lover - such sex, and money too. Jack thought it prudent not to mention to Jonathan that they had actually captured part of the seeker until the Zens had managed to run off the stolen money and share it out. ‘Well done,’ he told Spike. ‘Very well done.’

  ‘Easy-peasy. One down and eleven more to go.’

  ‘Hold it!’ Mad John’s shout rose above the cheering. ‘Wait. What’s this?’

  ‘What is it?’ Spike peered over his shoulder.

  ‘Look at the screen. You closed the system down correctly, didn’t you?’

  ‘Of course. But it’s glowing red. Pull the mains plug someone.’ Jack ducked under the desk and tore the plug I from the wall.

  ‘Damn, it’s hot.’

  ‘Some kind of feedback, or what?’ John gazed at the screen.

  ‘Still red. That can’t be, there’s no power.’ He reached out his hand.

  ‘Hot?’ Spike asked.

  John shook his head. ‘Cold,’ he said. ‘God, it’s cold. Can you feel it?’ Jack was at the back of the crowd and even he could feel it. Like a great big freezer door just opened.

  ‘Very strange.’ John reached toward the screen. ‘No power. Nothing live. The cold.’ He withdrew his fingers and blew warmth on to them. ‘What the . . .’ A thick scaled hand shot out of the terminal screen and grasped his head. Dragged him forward.

  ‘Help me . . . aagh . . .’ Spike grabbed him about the waist. ‘Come on.’ Zens fell to Mad John’s rescue. Hauling and pulling. There was a sickening report. Blood gushed in a hideous fountain. Mad John’s headless body fell back into the crowd. Jack stood by. Mouth and bowels wide open.

  The terminal quivered, shook, blood spat from the fractured screen. The casing cracked and deformed as something rose within it. Then shattered into a million fragments. A rank stench filled the air.

  Asmodeus was half as tall again as the height of a man. His steed, the tiger of many talons. In his right hand he held the reins, in his left the head of Mad John. And the faces of Asmodeus were terrible to gaze upon. An ox, a ram and a beast of foul aspect. His body was of scale and feather in equal part, broad-chested, corded with titanic muscle. His leathern wings opened, creaking gently. He was very Ray Harryhausen.

  ‘Free!’ cried Asmodeus the demon destroyer. ‘Free and hungry.’

  ‘What line of poodle-doo are you feeding me? What do you take me for?’

  ‘An assassin,’ said Mr Russell, quietly. ‘We have you on film. I am sure we can match your fingerprints with the FBI.’

  ‘I want my lawyer.’

  ‘Don’t be tedious. We have all the evidence. We know what you are. You know what you are. You have made eight separate attempts upon the life of the president. We merely wish that you succeed with the ninth.’

  ‘Stick it in your ear,’ said Elvis.

  ‘Let me put it this way. We have you, as the British say, banged to rights guvnor. I am offering you two alternatives. Work with us . . .’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘Or we hand you over to the FBI and collect the very substantial bounty that the president has put on your head.’

  ‘Bounty, no way?’ The King was unbowed. ‘I’ll take my chances.’

  ‘You do not have any chances. It will be the electric chair for you.’

  ‘Don’t hand me that. There ain’t no death penalty.’

  ‘Oh, there is now,’ Mr Lorrimer chirped up. ‘You should keep abreast of the news. President Wormwood reinstated capital punishment this very morning. Cruel irony, eh?’

  ‘The son of a lady dog.’

  ‘You had best do as we ask. Next month there is going to be a world summit at the UN, the heads of state from the greatest nations on Earth will attend. It is Wormwood’s wish that they sign a pact and institute a single world government with him in complete control. We do not wish this to occur. Wormwood is a liability. The man is quite mad. You must dispose of him.’

&
nbsp; ‘No can do.’

  ‘You mean you won’t.’

  ‘I mean I can’t. Wormwood can’t be killed. If he could, then I would have done for him by now.’

  ‘I think you must explain yourself to us.’

  ‘I’m telling you, buddy. Wormwood cannot die as long as Rex is here . . .’ The Big E’s words trailed off. ‘As long as Rex was here,’ he whispered.

  ‘Who is this Rex?’

  ‘He was my friend, until you . . .’ Elvis rose to punch heads. Hands held him down.

  ‘The guy in the white Koshibo, who followed us?’

  ‘Yeah, you did for him good, didn’t you?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Russell. ‘We didn’t.’

  Elvis gazed long and hard at Mr Russell. ‘What do you think, Barry?’

  ‘I think he’s telling the truth, chief. And if Rex is dead, it means . . .’

  ‘It means that I can take out Wormwood.’ Elvis made with the heavy thinking.

  ‘You gotta do it for Rex, chief. It’s what he would have wanted.’

  ‘Yeah, sure, I guess. You’re right.’

  ‘Usually am, chief.’

  ‘How do you do that?’ Mr Russell asked. ‘Without moving your lips?’

  ‘Just thinking aloud is all. But I got it sorted now. I can’t see how anything’s gonna stop me icing that sleezebag Wormwood, now Rex is gone. No siree.’

  ‘You okay brother? What happened to you?’

  ‘Car crash,’ said Rex.

  ‘You’re in one hell of a state.’ The trucker was big, bald and black-bearded and might well have been one of the original Mothers of Invention, Roy Estrada perhaps. He wiped an oversized red gingham handkerchief over his head and gazed at the smouldering wreckage. ‘How did you get out alive? Anyone with you?’

  ‘Closed environment, virtually crashproof,’ Rex told him. ‘And there was nobody with me.’ The big truck’s big lights illuminated the stretch of highway. Of the evil Kim there was no sign.

  ‘Best get you to hospital. You’ll be in shock or something.’

  ‘Just get me to a phone.’

  ‘I got CB in the cab. Who do you want to call?’

  ‘The Crawford Corporation.’

  ‘Well, climb aboard. Can you manage?’ The trucker helped Rex into the cab. And it was a good’n. The proverbial thing of wonder, done out in plastique papal kitsch. A chorus line of blessed virgins stood to attention along the wide chrome dash. Rosaries and bottles of Lourdes holy water adorned the driving mirrors. Iconic photos of this year’s pope peppered the windscreen.

  ‘You a religious man?’ Rex asked.

  ‘You have to believe in something, doing this job.’ The trucker crossed himself. Rex did likewise. He studied the faces of the blessed virgins. Didn’t look a bit like her, thought Rex, nor her daughter.

  ‘O-kay.’ The big trucker made himself comfortable amongst numerous cushions. ‘Let’s see who’s on the breaker tonight.’ He switched on his CB rig and spoke trucker’s arcana into the mic.

  ‘This the Duke of Prunes here, anyone copy, come on?’ The wavelength crackled and a voice answered,

  ‘King of the Road speaking at you. What’s your twenty, come on?’ Rex whistled, he had fallen in with the aristocracy.

  ‘Travelling north on Highway 61. Got me a greebo in poor shape. Been in a burn-out. Wants to call the city.’

  ‘I could patch him through to Smoky, but they’ve got deep trouble tonight.’

  ‘How’s that, come on?’

  ‘I caught an all points broadcast. They got a 1710 over at the Miskatonic University.’

  The Miskatonic?’ Rex cut in. ‘What’s a 1710?’

  ‘Multiple homicide, murderer still on the premises,’ said the big trucker. ‘Holy Mary full of grace.’ He crossed himself anew.

  ‘What about it, ask him.’

  ‘I hear you, Duke. About a half-hour back. Kids came out screaming. Reports are real freakie deakie. Some psycho’s cutting the place up.’

  ‘How far are we?’ Rex asked. ‘From the Miskatonic?’

  ‘Ten miles maybe. Straight up the highway.’

  ‘Take me there.’

  ‘No way, brother. I got a schedule to meet. I’ll drop you off and you can hitch or something.’

  Rex delved into his torn shirt. Displayed the handgun he now kept strapped to his chest at all times. ‘Drive,’ he said.

  The Good Samaritan gazed into the barrel.

  ‘Fast,’ said Rex. ‘And now.’

  The lights were flashing and the bullhorns blaring. Ambulance sirens moaned relentlessly. Paramedics rushed about with stretchers. Police chiefs issued orders that no-one heard. University residents stood shivering in their jim-jams. Searchlights played over the gothic edifice. It always comes across so much better at night, doesn’t it?

  A police chief called Murphy, because there is always one called Murphy, was trying to get some sense out of the gibbering Jack Doveston. ‘What are you saying to me? It’s a thing in there? What kind of thing?’

  ‘A demon. Asmodeus.’

  ‘Asmodeus?’ Murphy pushed back his cap and scratched his head, the way that cops so often do. ‘What, Asmodeus, Lord of the First Hierarchy of Hell, Demon Destroyer, Prince of Wantons, Luster for the Flesh of Men, that Asmodeus?’

  ‘Yes, that one.’

  Police chief Murphy clipped Jack around the ear. ‘Who do we look like bucko? Ghostbusters?’

  ‘It’s in there. I’m telling you.’

  Murphy raised his nose to Jack. ‘What’s that smell? You been smoking reefers?’

  Jack plucked gingerly at his soiled trouser seat. ‘No ... I. . . er . . .’

  A young police officer in riot helmet and body armour came loping up. ‘He’s still in there, chief. We got him penned up in the basement, but he’s smashing the place to pieces.’

  There goes my job, thought Jack.

  ‘You got every exit covered, officer?’

  ‘Sure have, chief. There’s no way he’s getting out.’

  ‘Then read him his rights and bang in some stun grenades and officer . . .’

  ‘Yes sir?’

  ‘Be careful, seems this is no ordinary psycho we got in there. This is Asmodeus himself.’

  The officer halted in mid-stride. ‘What, Asmodeus, Lord of the First Hierarchy of Hell, Demon Destroyer, Prince of. . .’

  ‘Prince of Wales, yeah. Forget it, officer, just stun him good and bag him out.’

  ‘Ten-four, sir.’

  ‘And you.’ Murphy took the skulking Jack by the collar. ‘In the wagon.’

  ‘But I . . .’

  Asmodeus, Lord of Hell’s First Hierarchy, Demon Destroyer and Co Ltd was picking his teeth with a human finger bone. Of the twenty Zens who had been present during his special guest appearance, fifteen had escaped, one had become a starter and three the main course. The university library now resembled a set from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Asmodeus was a messy eater.

  The demon plucked a green cigar from behind a pointed ear and rolled it between his sticky fingers. ‘A smidgen damp,’ said he. ‘But no matter. I do so like a bit of smoke before my dessert. Got a light?’ Spike Laine crouched in a corner trembling fearfully. ‘No?’ Asmodeus snapped his fingers, flame issued. He sucked upon his cigar. ‘Now, isn’t this pleasant?’

  ‘Come out with your hands held high,’ came the amplified demand through the library door. ‘You got one minute.’

  ‘I do so hate to be hurried. It plays havoc with my digestion,’ his bull’s head snorted. The ram’s went ‘baaa’.

  ‘Make it easy on yourself. Thirty seconds and we’re coming in.’

  Asmodeus drew deeply upon his cigar and blew smoke from each of his three mouths.

  ‘We’re coming in.’ There was much commotion at the library door. A good deal of cursing and swearing and battering. Then a great crash as it burst from its hinges to reveal a quartet of heavily armed police. ‘Holy shite!’ cried one of their number. Asmodeus looked them up and
down. ‘A choice of desserts. How thoughtful.’

  ‘Go faster.’ Rex waggled his gun at the big fat trucker.

  ‘It’s never too late to turn from the ways of sinning brother, take me for instance, I used to play with Frank Zappa. But I found the Lord.’

  ‘Please,’ sighed Rex. ‘Just drive faster. I really don’t want to have to use this.’

  The big trucker grinned and slackened off speed. ‘So what you going to do, smart-ass? You shoot me and you’re gonna end up spread over the highway? No-one shoots the driver.’

  Rex put his gun to the head of the nearest Virgin Mary.

  ‘Drive,’ said he. ‘Or Our Lady gets it.’

  ‘Open fire!’ The combined fire-power of four police-issue twelve-gauge auto-loaders bore down upon Asmodeus, ruining his between-course cigar, but doing very little else. The Demon Destroyer breathed fire and brimstone and spurred his diabolical mount toward the marksmen.

  ‘Retreat!’ The four officers flung down their weapons and fled up the corridor, Asmodeus in hot pursuit.

  ‘Eeenie meanie minee mo,’ went the spawn of the bottomless pit. ‘Hiyo Tigger and away.’

  ‘That’s the university up ahead,’ said the big trucker. ‘It’s a nice night now, you could walk from here.’

  ‘Will you please drive?’

  ‘Take cover!’ Out through the main entrance of the Miskatonic ran four frantic figures. And behind them . . . Police chief Murphy choked on his chewing gum. Jack prepared to make another strategic withdrawal.

  ‘Cut it down!’ blared Murphy through the bullhorn. ‘Cut it down!’

  Asmodeus put the spurs to Tigger. Searchlights swung upon him. Catching him to really dramatic effect. He climbed down from his snarling beast and raised his great arms. A blood-curdling triple-throated roar made it perfectly clear that he was not prepared to come quietly.

  ‘Cut it down!’ bellowed Murphy for all he was worth. ‘Cut the thing down.’ Many guns did big blazing.

  And the big trucker brought his big truck to a very big halt.

  ‘I see that,’ said he. ‘Do you see that?’

  ‘I see it.’ Rex gazed in wonder. ‘But what is it?’