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

by Robert Rankin

  ‘A word to the wise is all,’ said the enigmatic Fido. ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘I think you’re a genius. Fido?’

  ‘Yes, man?’

  ‘My leg is yours.’

  ‘Far out.’

  Jack Doveston rattled his empty glass upon the onyx bar-top. ‘If I’m going tonight then I’m going drunk.’

  ‘I would not have expected you to do otherwise.’

  ‘Did you ever figure out exactly how you came to be here, Rex? Another drink over here please, miss.’

  Rex grinned and nodded. ‘I’ve almost pieced it all together. But it is all going to resolve itself very soon now.’

  ‘Did your uncle read you my latest book, They Came and Ate Us?’

  ‘Definitely your best. I always thought so.’

  ‘What about the trick ending? Pretty unexpected, eh?’

  ‘We’ll have to see about that. Waitress.’ The disposable, who had been listlessly plucking at her hair and ignoring Jack’s requests, smiled warmly at Rex and hastened to fetch further drinks. Jack glowered after her.

  The Gadarene Swine were taking a break. They had set their instruments upon automatic pilot and removed themselves from the stage. Elvis rubbed his nose and pushed his way through the crowd.

  ‘Jabba the Hutt,’ the sprout scolded. ‘What kind of chat-up line is that?’

  ‘A friend of Rankin’s, who was once in the TA, thought it was a real killer. Never fails to get a laugh, he said.’

  ‘What can I say, chief?’

  ‘Nothing. See here’s Vain.’

  Vain Glory, lead singer of the Gadarenes, turned a diamond-toothed grin upon Elvis. ‘Mr Never,’ he said. ‘Surprise this is. What do you think?’

  ‘Real futuristic. New line-up I see.’

  ‘Yeah, we had a few fatalities.’ Vain passed a finger across his throat. ‘But that’s rock ‘n’ roll, ain’t it? Where you been? We tried to get in touch.’

  ‘Touring,’ said Elvis. ‘How come you got this gig?’

  ‘State funded, Mr N. We’re the last rock band in the world. The future of rock. Mr Crawford manages us now. He said that your contracts had expired. Sorry.’

  ‘No sweat. Any chance of me doing a number with you later on?’

  ‘Sure thing. You ever heard of Auld Lang Syne? We’re supposed to do it at midnight but none of us knows how it goes. The drummer says it’s the one about the guy who has a farm, e-i-e-i-o his name is.’

  ‘I know it,’ said Elvis. ‘Do you want I should program it in for you?’

  ‘Sure thing. Then if you want to catch us later it’s cool. We’re going off now to do some serious drug abuse. Be lucky.’

  ‘You too.’ Elvis made off to the band’s computer console, housed in a soundproof booth to the rear of the stage. That enlightened look was shining once more upon his handsome face. ‘Let’s boogie,’ said Elvis Aron Presley.

  ‘I like the way you think, chief. Go out on a song, eh?’

  ‘Here?’ Wormwood glared down from his throne. ‘Here! Here at my party?’

  ‘Yes sir.’ Jonathan Crawford knelt before him, head toward the floor. ‘Jack Doveston brought them in.’

  ‘But they’re dead. I plagued them. Didn’t I? Yes, I’m sure I did. Assassins at my do? This is very lax of you, Crawford. You are in charge of security. How was this allowed to happen?’

  ‘Someone screwed up, sir. I will find out who is responsible and have them put to the sword at once.’

  ‘The buck stops with you, Crawford. Where are these assassins now?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. I was interrogating one and he just. . .’

  ‘Out with it!’

  ‘Vanished, sir.’

  ‘Did he now? Pete.’

  The Pope, who had been admiring one of the male censer bearers, jerked about. He thrust his wandering hands back into his vestments. ‘Mr President?’

  ‘Pete, come over here and give Mr Crawford a kicking, will you?’

  ‘Certainly Mr President.’

  ‘There’s no need for any of that.’ Crawford waved his arms about but he kept his head bowed. ‘I’ll sort it all out. Leave it to me.’

  ‘Just give him a kicking anyway.’

  ‘As you please.’ Pope Peter strolled over and levelled his Doc Marten at the cowering youth.

  ‘No, don’t.’ Jonathan flexed his fingers. The defence implants in his wrists whispered warning. The Pope took a penalty shot at his head.

  There was a snap, a crackle and a pop of bone. The pope’s swinging foot parted company with his ankle and sailed across the room. It made a dull gory thud as it struck the nose of the now bearded Mona Lisa. Pope Peter gazed dumbly at the stump and then keeled into a howling heap.

  Wayne L. Wormwood stared down at him, smirking terribly.

  ‘Jonathan,’ said he. ‘Now that wasn’t very nice, was it? Look at the poor Pope. You’ve chopped his foot off and I was going to get him a pair of shoes like mine. Say you’re sorry at once.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Jonathan. ‘No offence meant.’

  ‘I should think so too. Now run along and apply your talents to the assassins. And think yourself lucky that I’m not a Catholic.’

  ‘Yes sir.’ Jonathan scrambled to his feet. He glanced down at the holy howler. ‘Should I summon a medic?’

  ‘I don’t think we have a medic. You might call in a cleaner, if you happen to see one.’

  The big trucker hadn’t aged much. He was still big, fat, bald and bearded and he still looked like one of the original Mothers of Invention, possibly Billy Mundi (no relative of Rex). He’d changed his religion though and was now a card-carrying Buddhist. The cab of the big truck was a shrine to the latest Dalai.

  ‘You see, sister,’ he explained to the hitcher. ‘It was back in ninety-three. Picked up a guy from a burned-out car. He pulled a gun on me. Made me drive to the Miskatonic. All Hell broke loose and I’m not kidding. Anyhow I saw the light. Got me a job working for the Crawford Corporation. This is one of their trucks you’re riding in now. All the latest gizmos. I’m delivering party food to the big bash at the presidential manse. I’ll have to drop you off along here. Hope you enjoyed the ride.’

  ‘It’s sweet. You can stop just up here if you like.’

  ‘Will do.’ The big trucker pulled his big truck over and applied the brake. ‘This do you?’

  ‘Perfectly.’ Spike took out her handgun and smiled. ‘Now get out,’ she said.

  ‘Aw s**t,’ said the non-swearing Buddhist.

  The driver’s door opened and Ella Guru and the Mascara Snake grinned up at him. ‘Best do as the lady says,’ said Ella. ‘No bother, eh?’

  The big trucker watched his big truck depart into the night. The rain whacked down on his weatherdome. ‘I think I’ll become a Scientologist,’ said he, slouching his big shoulders. ‘Or perhaps an atheist.’

  ‘You might help,’ said Christeen.

  ‘What can I do, man? I’m only a dog.’

  ‘You could push a bit.’

  ‘I am doing.’

  They were at the henge. Struggling to lift the altar stone. Why?

  ‘Are you sure this is the way down to the big flywheel?’ Fido asked.

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’

  ‘Perhaps there’s a secret switch. There usually is.’

  ‘Neat thinking.’ Christeen rooted around in the grass. ‘Bound to be. Ah yes.’ Sometimes it’s just too simple.

  The stone swung up revealing a stairway which led down into the bowels of the Earth the way some of them do. Fido sniffed. ‘Smells a bit iffy,’ said he.

  ‘Come on. Let’s go down.’

  ‘Would you mind giving me a bit of a carry? I’m not too good on stairs.’

  ‘All right. But keep your cold nose to yourself.’

  ‘Did you see that Rambo? They just went down a secret passage.’

  ‘I did indeed, Eric. We should follow. Don’t you think?’

  ‘I certainly do. We have had less tha
n our fair share of action in this.’

  ‘I wholeheartedly agree, old ne’er-do-well chum of mine. I thought we were in for big parts when this started off. Our fan club is going to be sorely miffed about this. Are you tooled up?’

  ‘I regret that I cannot stretch to one of those amazing rotary machine-guns, but I do have my trusty gisarme.’

  ‘Just the job. Then shall we go?’ ‘We shall.’

  They do.

  ‘What a wang.’ Fido put a paw to his nose. ‘Do you think it’s still running?’

  ‘Must be. If the big flywheel stops, everything stops.’

  ‘Looks deserted. You can put me down now.’ They were in one of the high galleries. The great machines were velvet with dust. The cogs looked rusted in. It was very quiet.

  ‘I can’t hear anything, man. Seems like no-one’s at home.’

  ‘There must be someone. Come on. And don’t do that down here.’

  ‘Sorry.reflex action, A marking-my-territory thing.’ Fido lowered his leg.

  ‘You’ll never guess what I’ve just done,’ grinned Elvis. Rex beckoned the waitress for further drinks.

  ‘You won’t,’ said Elvis. ‘Honest injun.’

  ‘Well. If I won’t, I won’t. Make that three drinks, please.’

  ‘Aw, come on Rex. Ask me what I’ve done.’

  ‘What? And spoil your surprise ending? Not me.’

  ‘That’s cool. What’s the matter with Jack?’ Mr Doveston was slumped across the onyx counter, snoring loudly.

  ‘Meditating?’ Rex suggested.

  ‘Knob-head. Any sign of you-know-who?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You are sure we can get him this time? It’s our last chance.’

  ‘Trust me. Wheels are in motion.’

  ‘Crawford owns the Gadarenes. Thanks.’ Elvis accepted his drink. ‘How do you like that guy?’

  ‘To be honest,’ said Rex, ‘he represents a considerable mystery. How could someone of such genius and power leave no trace whatever after the NHE? Just doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Probably all hokum. Perhaps he’s just a figment of our imagination. Cheers.’

  ‘Duck Elvis!’ Elvis ducked. A bolt of energy seared over his head and burst into flaming fragments amongst the bar optics. ‘And take cover!’

  ‘Son of a gun!’

  With appropriate screams the crowd parted as Cecil stormed forward. A not inconsiderable storm. Rex dived over the bar counter, past the still snoring Jack and prepared to come up firing. Elvis rolled amidst stampeding legs, bringing down a Gadarene Swine and a gaggle of groupies. ‘Hm,’ said the King as they tumbled about him. ‘And hello baby.’

  Cecil loosed a couple more charges towards the bar. Antique mirrors brought him seven years’ bad luck. The peroxide disposable continued to pluck at her hair. She was not programmed for this sort of thing. Cecil swung his gun towards the fallen.

  ‘Don’t come quietly,’ he growled. ‘I’m gonna killya.’

  ‘Aw, shooby dooby doo,’ said Mr Presley.

  Rex weighed up his options. It was something he always did when the going got tough. Not that it ever helped.

  He tugged at the disposable’s apron. ‘Excuse me,’ he said.

  ‘How can I help you, sir?’ The white-haired woman smiled down at him. Rex pressed his gun into her hand.

  ‘Kindly point this at the large gentleman and squeeze this bit.’ He indicated the trigger.

  ‘Certainly sir.’ The disposable raised the gun and pointed it at Cecil. She squeezed the trigger. There was a loud bang. It didn’t come from Rex’s gun which still had the safety-catch on. The disposable toppled on to Rex. A broken doll, sparks raining from circuitry in her punctured head.

  ‘Whoops.’ Rex fought the body aside and grappled for his gun. It wasn’t there. It had fallen the other side of the bar. ‘Oh great,’ said Rex.

  ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are.’ That had a familiar ring to it. The barrel of Cecil’s gun appeared over the counter top. ‘Get up,’ said Cecil.

  The fallen were rising and running. Elvis had his pistol out. And he had a clear shot at the big back. ‘Top him, chief,’ whispered Barry. Elvis took aim. He could hardly miss.’ Top him,’

  ‘Get up,’ shouted Cecil. ‘You got nowhere to run,’

  ‘Can’t we talk about this?’ Rex was searching for the concealed weapon that all good barmen always keep beneath the counter. A bommy-knocker or some such. Sadly for him this was not that kind of a bar.

  ‘Top him, chief,’

  Elvis had a sweat on. ‘I can’t, Barry. I can’t shoot a guy. Not like this,’

  ‘It’s him or Rex, chief.’

  ‘I know. I know,’

  A big hand plunged down at Rex. It might just have been luck, or it might have been the highly honed killing skills of the mighty US Marines (it was luck), but he caught Rex by the hair with the first grab.

  ‘Ouch,’ said Rex. He was hauled painfully aloft to dangle eye to eye with the balding psycho.

  ‘There’s been a change of plan,’ Rex said hurriedly. ‘Mr Crawford says that we aren’t to be harmed,’

  ‘Like frig he does,’ It was obviously Cecil’s night for the family brain cell.

  ‘All right,’ said the dangling Rex. ‘That’s it. Now I’m angry,’

  ‘Now you’re dead,’

  ‘Stick ‘em up,’ shouted Elvis. (Cheers.)

  Cecil spun around, dragging Rex over the counter top.

  ‘I am making a citizen’s arrest. Put the gun down, fella.’ (Groans.)

  Rex closed his eyes and tried to recall whether he had actually ever seen Elvis shoot anybody. No particular occasion sprang to mind. Give us an edge, prayed Rex.

  ‘I’m gonna count to three,’ said Elvis. ‘No. Make that four. It’s a one for the money . . ,’

  ‘Time to die,’ said Cecil raising his gun.

  ‘It’s a two for the show . . .’ The King had a definite shake on.

  ‘You ain’t got the nerve,’ said the astonishingly astute Cecil.

  ‘It’s a three to get ready . . .’

  ‘Ain’t got the . . .’ BANG!

  Rex fell to the floor. He rolled over and looked up at the giant. Cecil was standing bolt upright. There was a dirty big hole in his forehead. As Rex watched, he raised his hand and poked a grubby finger into it. ‘You didn’t say four,’ he complained. ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘Guess I lost my nerve.’ Elvis examined his smoking pistol. ‘How about that, eh?’

  ‘Bravo, chief. You did it.’

  ‘Bravo,’ said Rex. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘No,’ said Cecil. ‘I’m shot in the head.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking to you.’

  ‘Sorry. I suppose that’s me dead then.’

  ‘Suppose so.’

  Cecil fell backwards and made a very loud thump as he hit the deck. The crowd, who had taken cover where they could, closed in about Elvis, cheering wildly. Typical.

  ‘It was nothing,’ said the sweaty one. ‘Could you stand aside please, I’m going to fetch up.’

  Rex tucked Cecil’s gun into his belt, retrieved his own from the carpet and did likewise with it. Then he went to the aid of the golden gunfighter. ‘Time to get lost,’ said he.

  ‘We’re lost,’ said Fido. ‘Aren’t we?’

  ‘We can’t get lost here,’ Christeen assured him. ‘No matter which way you go you always end up back in the same place.’

  ‘Very clever.’ Fido sniffed at the rusting machinery. ‘How’s it done then?’

  Time and Relative Dimension in Space,’ Christeen explained.

  ‘So where’s the controller?’

  ‘He’s bound to be somewhere around.’

  ‘That Thunderbird isn’t going to wait all day, man.’

  ‘Fido. If we go back in time we can get back here half an hour before the Thunderbird even arrives.’

  ‘Like wow.’ Fido shook his head. ‘Let’s try down here.’

  �
��Let’s try down here.’ Rex pointed along a gilded corridor.

  ‘Let’s not bother, Rex. Nobody’s following us. No-one cares.’

  He was right of course. The rich danced on. Those back in the bar had lost interest in Cecil, whose corpse had proved to hold only a limited novelty value, and were now chatting once more amongst themselves.

  ‘It’s a funny old world,’ said Rex. ‘What time do you have?’

  ‘Nearly ten. Where’s Wormwood? Do you think we should go see?’ Rex wasn’t keen. ‘Perhaps we should have woken Jack up.’

  Rex grinned. ‘Not a bit of it. At least we know where to find him when we need him. He’s safe enough.’

  People do the dumbest things in movies. Take Alien for example. They have an indestructible monster with acid blood on board the spaceship, so what do they do? ‘Let’s all split up and track it down.’ I ask you. And who in their right mind would really buy that cheap house on Elm Street? I ask you again. And who, having just shot Crawford’s henchman would actually leave Jack Doveston snoozing over the body? Unforgivable.

  ‘I’m not very happy about this,’ said Jonathan Crawford poking his electric finger into Jack’s ear.

  ‘ Aaaaaaaaaaaagh!’ went Jack Doveston, livening up no end.

  ‘Ouch!’ cried Byron. ‘I felt that. They were supposed to stick together. It’s coming apart.’ Mr Smith worried at a fuse-box. ‘I should never have trusted that Jack. He was supposed to give the suit to Rex.’

  ‘I have been meaning to ask you about that suit. Does the controller know you’ve given it away?’

  ‘Not exactly. Well, not at all, actually. It was a bit of a last resort really. Part of giving them an edge.’

  ‘Can’t we twiddle something? Pass it over to Rex?’

  ‘No can do. It functions independently. That’s the point of it. Emergency over-ride.’

  ‘But correct me if I’m wrong. According to the hand-book, only the controller is supposed to wear it.’

  ‘Don’t nit-pick, Byron. If you had been a little more enterprising and got your flux, we wouldn’t be in this mess now.’

  ‘Oh, hardly fair.’ Byron left his knob twiddles to point a finger at Mr Smith. ‘It’s not my fault that I couldn’t get any flux because there wasn’t any flux.’