by Jack Yeovil
Dark Future
Demon Download
Jack Yeovil
Published by GW Books
Copyright © 1990 Games Workshop
ISBN: 1–872372–0–68
Version: 1.0
“They call this country Hell’s Gate and that’s what it has been for the earliest people in here. When my Dad came in here it was nothin’ but a bunch of savage Indians and Jesuits. Ole Thomas Jefferson said he was a warrior so his son could be a farmer so his son could be a poet. And I raise cattle so my son can be a merchant so his son can move to Newport, Rhode Island, and buy a sailboat and never see one of these bastard-ass sonofabitchin’ mountains again.”
—Thomas McGuane, The Missouri Breaks
Part One: Slim’s Gas ‘n’ B-B-Q
I
“Just what kinda ack-cent is that you got there, mister?” asked the gasman as he jacked into Duroc’s car. He wore a baseball cap with the team logo obscured by oil, and had a name-tag on his multiply-holed bib-overalls. Slim Pickens. Whoever nicknamed him Slim was about thirty years out of date. His belly wobbled under denim like a double pregnancy.
“French,” Duroc said, gritting his teeth. The pain in his side was almost intolerable, but he kept it to himself. A few hours ago, the numbness had worn off, and now he felt as if he were driving around with a flat-bladed knife between his ribs.
The demon needed to be bathed in blood at all times.
“My name is Roger Duroc.” The man might as well know. He was going to die soon, and the name would not mean anything to him.
“Ro-jay, huh? You from N’Orleans way? Lou-easy-on-Anna?”
“Non. Paris, France.”
“Yurrup, huh?” said Slim, exposing mainly rotten teeth in an approximate grin. “I mighta guessed frum the way you got yer hand in yer jacket like that there Napoleone Boney-party feller on the teevee. You Frenchy fellers must sure like yusselves to go round grabbin’ yer own titties all the time. We don’t git many folks from Yurrup in these parts, nossir, not never. Japs ’casionally, but never no Yurrup-peens.”
Under his black coat, Duroc pressed the pad to his wound. The demon was stirring, restless, and the blood was still seeping. The pain would go away soon, when his mission was discharged.
The Path of Joseph was thorny. Thorny but rewarding.
Slim left the pumps to refill Duroc’s tanks by themselves, and tapped keys on the forecourt terminal. The computer was melded with the Caddy’s systems.
“Just runnin’ some checks, Ro-jay. Safe sex fer automobiles, I calls it. What with all these here viruses goin’ around, you gotta be on the look-out. I don’t want ole Beulah—that’s ma master program, Beulah—to pick up no foreign Frenchy computer ailments and rot to pieces on me, do I?”
Duroc didn’t say anything. Slim was heavy-set, tattooed, scarred, probably a war veteran. He was big, but only his paunch was soft. He sounded like the cowboys in the sub-titled Western films his uncle had taken him to at the Cinematheque Francaise when he was a child. There was a slight awkwardness about Slim’s keyboard action. He was missing the tip of his left little finger. That made him yakuza. They cut off part of a digit for every mistake you made. So, the gasman had been careless. But only once. That was a good record for someone stationed out here in the Colorado Desert. The yaks must want their best men to keep the supply lines open. Running a sandside gas station was a risky business, what with renegades and gangcults. Slim must have fought many battles, killed many people. It was just good business practice.
“Ah-hah, yer cleared, Ro-jay. No bugs on yer auto. It’s a real clean machine. Yurrup-peen?”
“American. Cadillac Coupe de Ville, 1962. With alterations.”
Slim whistled through his teeth.
“Neat to beat your feet-o, Hirohito.”
Duroc knew he was sweating badly. His collar was soaked through. His jaws ached as he bit an imaginary bullet. The demon shifted slightly and his ribs seemed to grind together. He pressed the pad tighter, and swallowed his spit.
It was a powerful demon. The Summoner had dipped it in his own blood before entrusting it to Roger Duroc. Duroc had travelled all the way down from Salt Lake City with the thing, struggling to prevent it from seeding early. If it were to spawn inside him he would be as dead within seconds, and his mission would have to be repeated. Another demon, another disciple. The Summoner would not be pleased.
“Don’t git many private citizens through here, y’know. It’s convoys, mostly. The big corps need to stop off somewhere on the interstate. GenTech route their trade this way. And we see a few Ops, and I daresay a couple of outlaws have stood where you’re standin’ now and filled up on gas. Real nasty boys ‘n’ girls, I s’pose, real nasty. Still, their cold kish is as good as anyone else’s, and no one much bothers with gas stations any more. The gangcults need ’em as much as the corps. Gas, water and food. That’s what you need to stay alive out here, and we got ’em all three. Would you care to try some of Slim’s Special Refried Beancurd-shaped Ribettes with Chilli Fries and Root Beer? We don’t stock no shamburgers. I knows you Frenchos got you a reputation for appreciatin’ fine food. I could kick in some of Pappy Moe’s cone likker.”
Duroc shook his head. Slim did not seem to feel rejected.
“Never know what you’re missin‘, Ro-jay. Say, I could hunt me up some ole frawgs and hack their legs off fer ya if n you’d prefer. Throw in a fistful a’ snails an’ whip up some kinda gore-mette sauce or somethin’.”
“No thank you, that’s all right. I’ve already eaten.”
Beulah had run a complete service on the Caddy in the time it took the twin tanks to fill. The car was certified bug-free.
“Say, has anyone told you you don’t look too well, Ro-jay? The desert don’t agree with you none, huh? S’pose you don’t have no acres of sand over there in Yurrup, no burnin’ sun beatin’ down all day and whistlin’ winds freezin’ you stiff all night, no mutated coyotes tearin’ at yer tyres? Gol-dang, but I hates them mew-taters. Frum where I sit, rattlesnake don’t need no extra heads, right?”
Duroc’s stomach shifted. He wanted this over soon. He had seen his face in the rearview mirror, and knew he looked like a week-old corpse with a bad case of the Detroit Sweats.
“Will that be paper or pretend money?”
“Cashplastic.”
“Fine. But you don’t git so many trading stamps that way.”
“No bother.”
Duroc peeled the pad away from his wound, and let it fall inside his jacket. He ran his fingers over the slit and felt the hard edge of the demon sticking out of his ribs. He coaxed it loose and took the protruding strip between thumb and forefinger.
“Are you okay, Ro-jay? Can I git you some drugs? We got a special on amphetamines today.”
“I’m fine,” said Duroc, pulling the demon from his flesh. “My credit card seems to have slipped into the lining of my coat. It’s happened before.”
The demon came free. He pulled it out and held it up. It was not red-smeared. It had absorbed the blood. His wound closed, and he felt a tingle as the new flesh knit. It was an enormous relief to get the thing out in the air.
The gasman took the demon and looked at it. He would be seeing symbols on the plain white oblong. American Excess, Disneycard, US Gov’t Bonds. Whichever was trading highest.
Slim shoved the demon into a slit on his terminal keyboard, and it vanished into the workings of the machinery.
Done.
“Let me git you yer GenTech traders.” He pulled a fistful of green-faced stamps from a roll. Duroc took them.
“You got blood on your hand, mister.”
“My nails bleed sometimes, if I don’t get them trimmed.”
“Sounds like you could use them traders.
If you collect fifteen books, GenTech will perform any minor surgical amendments free of charge. I heard tell of a bulk customer out around Flagstaff who got hisself replacement kidneys for only fifty-three books.”
Duroc walked towards the car.
“Hey Ro-jay…”
He bent, and slipped into the driver’s seat. The car engaged immediately.
“You forgot…”
Zero to sixty in twelve seconds.
“… yer…”
The Caddy kicked up a duststorm.
“… credit card.”
Deep inside Beulah, the demon was settling in, and beginning to sprout.
This, it thought, is going to be a piece of piss.
II
This is ZeeBeeCee, The Station That’s Got It All, bringing you What You Want twenty-four hours a day, sponsored by GenTech, the bioproducts division that really cares…
Later on, we’ll find out whether Bobby and Suki can afford that new testicle for Tommy on today’s moving episode of My Mother, the Biosurgeon, and Cyke Steele, the self-help expert from Guns and Killing magazine will be explaining the ins and outs of the new napalm laws on our consumer advice show, Staying Alive. But first, tune in to reality with luscious Lola Stechkin, bringing you The Brunchtime Bulletin from the comfort of her Jacuzzi…
“Hi, America! It’s January 10th, 1999, and this is Lola, inviting you into the water. Here it is, folks, all the news you can handle…
“Washington, D.C. President North hosted a dinner yesterday for all the surviving holders of his office. Former presidents Richard Nixon, Barry Goldwater, Spiro Agnew and Charlton Heston were in attendance. Sadly, the affair was cut short halfway through Frank Sinatra’s rendition of ‘You Did It Your Way’ when Ex-Presidents Nixon and Heston got into an unspecified altercation that led to a short circuit in Mr Nixon’s brain pacemaker. The Ex-President was not a GenTech consumer, and his malfunction is the latest in a series of blows to the reputation of the Thalamus Corp, manufacturers of the product. Mr Nixon, although clinically dead, is described as ‘comfortable’ by his doctors, who will attempt to resurrect him with new cerebro implants before he perishes…
“Salt Lake City, Deseret, formerly Salt Lake City, Utah. Elder Nguyen Seth, the Josephite leader who has defied the experts by reclaiming the formerly abandoned city from the wilderness, today announced that he is throwing open the PZ for ‘any and all gentiles who are willing to work to build a new life.’ Armoured convoys of resettlers have been making regular runs to Salt Lake for the past three years, but hitherto only those who subscribe to the Josephite faith have been aboard. Now, the way is open for, as Elder Seth says, ‘all good Christians to find their salvation where the desert blooms’…
“Fort Comanche, Nevada. General Ernest Haycox, commander-in-chief of the United States Cavalry, and Ms Redd Harvest, of the Turner-Harvest-Ramirez Agency, have announced that subsequent to their last joint action, the Maniax gangcult are no longer a problem in the Southwestern United states. The Grand Exalted Bullmoose of the Maniax has sent the severed heads of ten assorted Cavalry and T-H-R personnel to this station along with a formal declaration of all-out war. We will bring you more on this feud as it develops…
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“London, England. Prime Minister Archer announced on the Home Service of BeeBeeCee-Teevee that the temporary rationing of butter, sugar, gasoline and ammunition would continue at least until the end of next year. During a spontaneous demonstration of loyal support outside the Palace of Westminster, the Metropolitan Police estimate that 300 people were overcome by the heat and had to be hospitalized…
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“Naples, Italy. Bruno di Geronimo, convicted crimelord of all Southern Italy and alleged capo of the Twelve Mafia Families, today set sail for the penal colony of Sicily where he has been sentenced to spend the rest of his life. Judging by the high mortality rate on the island, which is populated entirely by convicted felons from the European Community, his life expectancy is not thought to exceed three months…
“Berlin, Greater Germany. Rudolf Hess, recovered from his recent cybersurgery, has won his court case against The Swinging Swastika nightclub and now retains copyright on the symbols, uniforms, flags, weaponry, architecture and philosophy of the Third Reich. If all the organizations currently using Nazi regalia pay up, Hess will be a very rich man. Ulrich Sturm of the Knoxville Kultur Kommandos gangcult of Tennessee has issued a press statement that reads ‘if that old kraut freaks with us, we’ll yank his freakin’ lungs out and make him freakin’ choke on ’em!’…
“Puerto Belgrano, Antarctica. The Malvinas War flared up again in miniature last week when a party of drunken British molybdenum miners got into a gunfight with the Argentine authorities. The casualties will not be named until next of kin have been alerted, but it is believed that famed esperado Ice Kold Katie is among the dead. Sheriff Felipe Almodovar, the self-styled ‘Law South of Tierra del Fuego,’ has decreed that sidearms can no longer be worn within the city limits except by duly deputized peace officers. ‘Wild’ Charlie Mander, spokesman for the British mining community, has complained that Almodovar followed up this ruling by deputizing ‘every Argie within a thousand miles and declaring open season on the Brits’…
“A housewife in Utica, New York, has replaced her pet duck’s flippers with a built-in robo-skateboard. ’Dribbles can get around much better now, and he’s too fast for the children on the block to shoot at,’ she claims. Scientists are amazed. That is what we at ZeeBeeCee call ‘quack thinking,’ he he he…
“This has been Lola Stechkin at ZeeBeeCee, signing off. If it’s all right with you, it’s all right with us…”
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III
Ken Kling, the Turner-Harvest-Ramirez Op, was a total and complete pain in the ass. He treated all US Cavalry personnel like labourclones, and never stopped bragging about his Agency’s record against the Maniax. It seemed to Sergeant Leona Tyree that it was easier to rack up a reputation zapping everybody in sight with hood-mounted lases than by keeping the peace. Everybody knew how many panzerboys Redd Harvest had dropped in the dust, but you never saw stuff on the teevee about the interstates kept open, the disputes settled, the wildernesses pacified by the Road Cav. Boobs and bullets, that was all the newsies were into.
She shifted in her seat, and pressed the accelerator. On the long flat, you could afford to open the cruiser up. The patrol had taken them up into the barren mountains, and now they were back in the Big Empty, the desert that stretched across most of these United States. This was the kind of detail that made you thankful for air-conditioned ve-hickles. Outside, the unclouded sun shone mercilessly down on the endless sands. Co-cola bottles left on the roadside eventually melted into glass pools. The life expectancy of a casual daytime stroller without a decent hat was five hours.
“Of course,” said Kling, “me and Ms H are on a personal basis, if you know what I mean. I don’t like letting her work solo, but that’s the way she wants it. Usually, I’m there to cover her. Ken Kling the Killing Machine, they call me.”
Tyree looked at Trooper Nathan Stack, her co-driver, and he looked at her. They understood each other’s opinion of Ken Kling the Killing Machine. Stack looked down at the screens. Nothing potentially hostile in range. The patrol was proving uneventful. Things are always quiet in the aftermath of a war. Kling was comfortable in the back, wiping N-R-Gee Candy crumbs off the knife-edge creases of his striped pants. He wore a dandy suit, the jacket loose to hang well over the shoulder holster, rainbow shades and a haircut that looked like a sugarloaf mountain. His taste in music was lousy too. He expected them to put up with W.A.S.P. and Mothers of Violence on the CD.
