Flaming Zeppelins

by Joe R. Lansdale

  “I know people who might help us,” Verne said. “A number of them. I am no slouch in scientific matters myself, and Passepartout, my butler, is more than a butler. He is a genius.”

  “Why, thank you, monsieur,” Passepartout said.

  “It is only the truth,” Verne said. “Passepartout here is the author of many an invention.”

  “The boat fell apart,” Twain said. “The balloon was designed poorly.”

  “There were flaws,” Passepartout said. “But they did work. Had I had more time, more experimentation, those problems would not have occurred.”

  Ned began writing.

  THERE ARE SCIENTISTS IN AMERICA WHO FIXED IT SO BUFFALO BILL COULD LIVE ONLY AS A HEAD IN A JAR. THEY ARE SMART. I REMEMBER SOME NAMES. MORSE. PROFESSOR MAXXON.

  Beadle nodded. “We may need them as well. But for now, we have Steam, and we have a new mission. John Feather and I, we are soldiers of a sort, and we are at our best when battling for the common good. So we look forward to being put ashore.”

  “These Martians,” Twain said. “They have the machines, but they also have a kind of…what would you call it, Verne?”

  “Ray,” Verne said. “A beam of light that destroys.”

  “The machines are fast, and they are strong,” Passepartout said. “So my friends, you will be in for a fight.”

  “We’re ready,” John Feather said. “We’ve no place to go back to, really. No way to get back if we could. Our friends are dead. We have new friends here. We are ready to do what we can. Besides, you saved our lives. We owe you.”

  “I intend to prove that Frenchmen are as brave as anyone on the face of the earth,” Verne said.

  “Oui, Oui,” Passepartout said.

  Ned wrote:

  I HAVE SEEN THE MARTIANS. I SAW THEM THROUGH THE GLASS IN FRONT OF THEIR MACHINES. THEY LOOK LIKE AN

  OCTOPUS. I SAW A DEAD ONE. HE HAD TWO ASSHOLES.

  “That’s true,” Twain said. “Very much so.”

  Ned wrote some more.

  WE WOULD BE JUST LIKE IN THE DIME NOVELS. PALS, WORKING TOGETHER TO DESTROY THE BAD GUYS. THE BAD OCTOPUSSES. OCTOPUSSY. OCTOPIE. YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

  “We do,” John Feather said.

  Ned wrote again.

  YOU KNOW, I MIGHT COULD EAT A MARTIAN. I LIKE OCTOPUS.

  “I think I’d let that one go,” Verne said. “You don’t know where they’ve been.”

  “Mars,” Twain said.

  “Yes,” Verne said, “but where on Mars? They could have some very vulgar habits, you know. They could live up an animal’s ass or roll in shit or eat it by the pound. We don’t know a thing about them.”

  “You don’t know anything about Martians,” Twain said. “They could be very clean.”

  Rikwalk appeared, rubbing his eyes.

  “Sorry,” he said, “all that work at the booze wheel has exhausted me.”

  “That’s all right,” Twain said. “I’ve been thinking about you speaking English, trying to come up with a reason. But all it does is make my head hurt.”

  “I believe that at one point in time, explorers from Earth were on Mars,” Verne said. “Perhaps when Mars was in its infancy. I have even thought that apes from Earth may have come with the earthlings. For experimentation, I’m afraid. The apes were perhaps advanced, maybe even modified to speak. They learned English. Perhaps they mated with an indigenous Martian species, and you, my friend, are the results.”

  Rikwalk nodded. “I suppose that is possible. The Earth we know is an empty world. Dried up and burned up by the heat of the sun. Our scientists have suggested a collapsed ozone layer, but no one knows. There is a theory that apes came from manlike beings, or that their genetics were somehow entwined with ours, but again, no one knows this for a fact. Man, on our world, does not exist. Just their bones. We, of course, have people who have studied this extensively, as well as our language, and at some point in time, it just seems as if we came into existence. And, though there is evidence of man, it has long been assumed that he was our inferior ancestor. From the reconstructions I’ve seen in museums, you beings look much like those reconstructions. Though there are some differences.”

  “Like what?” Twain asked.

  “We had no idea that you were…mostly hairless. We assumed that you had a mild coat of hair.”

  “What I would like to know is why our Martians have invaded our Earth?” Passepartout said.

  “The reason all invaders invade,” Twain said. “Greed.”

  “Perhaps their world is dying,” Verne said.

  “White Man kill Indian ‘cause him want land,” Bull said. “Him fuck up land. Shit-eating white bastards.”

  “I do not think he means you,” Cat said.

  “After what I saw him do with that knife to those pirates,” Twain said, “I certainly hope not.”

  Bull made a grunting noise. It could have meant anything.

  “I believe,” the Dutchman said, “we are coming to a good place to set ashore. I’m going to need all hands, including passengers, to help. So, all hands alive.”

  Nineteen: On Shore, a Hunt for Fuel, Separated, Horrible Events

  There were great white birds everywhere, and they screamed at the sky and soared above the sails. A black bird, perhaps a crow, appeared, fluttered and landed atop the center mast.

  “Not a good sign,” Twain said.

  He and Verne were working at pulling ropes, lowering a sail to the command of one of the Dutchman’s mates.

  “On this ship,” Verne said, “I would assume that bad signs are consistent, considering the captain and his crew are doomed.”

  “Question is,” Twain said, “does his curse extend to us? Are we now part of his crew?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Verne said. “I hope that if there was a curse, it applies only to those who were with the Dutchman’s ship at the time he seduced this witch’s daughter. And could be the Dutchman is no more doomed or cursed than you or I, except in his mind.”

  “Could be,” Twain said. “But I’ll be glad to leave this ship, nonetheless.”

  The ship edged toward shore, and when they were some distance out, a great rope was attached to the bow of the ship, and Rikwalk dropped over the side, grabbing the rope, first swimming, finally wading toward shore, pulling the great ship forward. His strength was remarkable, like that of an elephant.

  Twain and Verne watched this event. Twain said, “I’m glad he’s on our side.”

  Rikwalk pulled the ship to shore. Those who wished to disembark did so. In the cruiser came Verne, Twain, Ned, Passepartout. The cruiser floated over the side of the ship, dropping down, blowing over the water near the shore, and finally onto land itself.

  Beadle and John Feather disembarked inside of Steam.

  Steam, puffing and wheezing, strode down the gangplank. He walked through the shallows and onto the shore, stood there in the sunlight, shiny as a fresh minted coin, a coil of steam slowly vaporizing around his head.

  Bull and Cat waved to those on the shore from the ship.

  “Keep powder dry,” Bull called, placing his arm around Cat.

  “You too, my friend,” Passepartout called.

  Inside Steam, Beadle and John Feather caused the metal man’s arm to lift, and with a creaking noise, wave good-bye.

  The Dutchman called out, “Good luck, friends. And now, if you would be so kind, Rikwalk.”

  Rikwalk took hold of the rope and pulled, tugging the bow of the ship around. He pulled the ship out to sea. When it was as deep as he could go, when the water was up to his armpits, he let go of the rope, swam behind the ship and pushed. When the ship was moving comfortably on its own, Rikwalk swam back to shore, shook himself and joined the others, stood beside Steam. He was almost as tall as Steam, but the metal man’s conical hat stood ten feet higher than Rikwalk’s head.

  Rikwalk leaned forward and pressed his face against the stained-glass eyes. That way he could look inside, see Beadle and John Feather at the co
ntrols. They waved at him, said, “Pee-Pie,” as he moved his face away.

  John Feather turned to Beadle, said, “Man, that was some creepy shit. A big ape eye looking in on us.”

  “I’m glad he’s on our side,” Beadle said.

  As they watched the ship sail away, the sky turned dark and split wide open, making a tall, wide, purple wound. And before you could say, Holy Shit! Look out, goddamnit! the Dutchman’s ship sailed through the crack in the sky and out of sight, as if falling off the face of the world.

  The split did not widen.

  And it did not close.

  “It’s worsening,” Beadle said from inside Steam. “This world will soon be like ours.”

  “Bless them,” John Feather said.

  After watching for a long time in astonishment, the split did close. Slowly, as if curtains were being pulled together.

  The gang was torn up about it, but knew there was nothing they could do. After a few words of complaint, a cry of lament, they decided to get on with things.

  “We don’t know that where they went is bad,” said Twain.

  “That’s true,” said Verne. “They could be anywhere.”

  “But it could be bad,” Passepartout said.

  “Yes,” Verne said. “It could.”

  Ned, though distraught at what might be happening to his friends, Bull and Cat, bucked up and took a dip in the ocean to dampen himself, as well as nab a couple of fat fish. When he was finished with that, they started on their journey.

  It was suggested by Beadle, and decided by the group, that everyone, with the obvious exception of Rikwalk, would ride inside of Steam. It was not a gentle ride. Beadle and John Feather sat in spring-loaded seats and worked the controls, and when Steam stepped, the whole machine jostled. There were a couple of hammock-style seats in the machine, and Ned claimed one of them immediately. The other was tossed for. Twain won the toss. Verne and Passepartout made do with sitting on the floor near the controls.

  Though being cautious was wise, and back roads were taken, hiding something the size of Rikwalk and Steam didn’t seem likely. But neither did it seem smart to abandon such a machine, and, of course, there was no thought of abandoning a friend like Rikwalk.

  As Steam strode along, Rikwalk walking beside the great machine, they could see that the road was littered with the bodies of both humans and animals, horsedrawn transportation lay wrecked all about.

  Inside Steam, Twain said, “I’m all for a fight. I want to fight. We have to fight. But maybe walking right into their midst isn’t such a good idea. And now that I think about it, I really don’t want to fight that bad.”

  Ned wrote: WE CAN HIDE OUT LIKE RATS IN THE COUNTRYSIDE. THAT MIGHT BE A GOOD IDEA.

  “You’re right,” Verne said. “We can’t act like rats. We’re men.”

  NO. I WASN’T KIDDING. I MEANT IT. LET’S HIDE LIKE RATS. AND I’M A SEAL.

  “What I am thinking,” Verne said, “is we make it to London, try and find Herbert. He is a smart man, and has access to a lot of scientific equipment. Perhaps together, and with the aid of all who are present, we can come to some conclusion as to how these invaders can be defeated.”

  “Who’s Herbert?” Beadle asked.

  “Herbert Wells,” Verne said. “H. G. Wells. The writer and scientist. A good friend of mine.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Beadle said.

  “What?” Verne asked.

  “Well,” Beadle said. “He’s a writer on our world as well. But not a scientist.

  “And I don’t know if you and Samuel know one another on our world. Or even if you know Mr. Wells. In fact, I think the timing is a little off. I’m not sure. I’m no expert on such things. But there is much overlap between your world and ours. We too have invaders. Saucer machines. They came through the rips. They’re just one of many problems. I’m afraid it may be too late for our world; too many rips, too many invaders. But if we can’t get back to our home, can’t save it, perhaps we can save this world.”

  Ned wrote: YOU TALK A LOT LIKE A DIME NOVEL.

  Beadle grinned. “If you say so.”

  “We are going to have to find fuel soon,” John Feather said. “And I suggest after we make a bit of mileage, we stop for the day, hide out, and travel by night. We’re less likely to be discovered that way.”

  “I agree,” Verne said.

  The others chimed in in agreement.

  Ned made a noise that sounded somewhere between a burp and bark. Later, lying there in the hammock, he tried to squeeze out a silent fart, but didn’t make it. It burst out like a foghorn blast.

  Ned wrote: EXCUSE ME.

  They went on for many miles, fanning Ned’s fart, trekking down a back road, and finally they came to a forested area. Light was seeping out of the day like water running through fingers. They walked Steam off the road, inside a grove of trees, geared him down. They got out and went looking for wood to stoke the furnace.

  “We’ll need a good supply,” Beadle said. “It’s a long trek, it takes a lot to maintain steam power. Night is falling, so we must hurry. And for a time it is nice to be free of the gas in the machine.”

  Ned wrote:

  I’M SORRY. I SAID I WAS SORRY. WHAT MORE CAN I DO?

  They split into wood search groups.

  It was decided that Rikwalk, the strongest, was to stay and protect Steam, and to serve as a lookout.

  Rikwalk pulled up a small tree, beat the dirt out of the roots, peeled off limbs with his bare hands, made a club of it. Then, with the club across his knees, he sat with his back to a great oak and waited, lost in his thoughts, spinning out happy scenarios of home, his job, his wife.

  “Are you all right, Rikwalk?” Beadle asked.

  “I am as good as I can be. At least I am among friends. But I think of home. My family. My job. My life. I miss it. I wonder if I will ever return to it. I’m not even on a version of my own world, but another world. You are at least on your own world.”

  “Not exactly,” Beadle said. “In many ways, it’s just as alien here for me and John Feather as it is for you. Buck up as best you can, my friend.”

  Beadle left Rikwalk, and joined John Feather. Verne and Passepartout formed a team as well. The gathering commenced.

  Twain decided that he would start a pile, gather good dead wood and then have Steam and Rikwalk come into the forest to get it. The way the trees grew, there was path enough for the big machine and the great ape, and it beat hauling the wood back in shifts.

  Ned, dismounted from the cruiser, could only carry a few sticks in his mouth at a time, so it was a tedious process, him wriggling about. But Twain couldn’t help but admire the dauntless seal’s efforts. He knew the debris of the forest floor had to hurt Ned’s belly, but the seal did not complain.

  As they searched for dead wood, without realizing it, Twain and Ned ventured some distance from the others and from the pile Twain had made. Just as Twain was about to turn back with his armload of wood, he noted that the woods had thinned, and a farmhouse and barn could be seen, surrounded by a rock fence. Twain said, “I don’t know about you, Ned, but I’m so hungry I could eat shit and call it gravy.”

  Ned wrote: I DON’T WANT SHIT TO CALL GRAVY, BUT I COULD EAT SOME FISH. I COULD EAT MOST ANYTHING. EXCEPT SHIT.

  “I believe you’re taking me a bit too literally.”

  I WOULD REALLY HAVE TO BE HUNGRY TO EAT SHIT. GODDAMN HUNGRY. I’M PRETTY HUNGRY NOW, BUT NOT GODDAMN HUNGRY. I DO NOT WANT SHIT.

  “Got you. No shit.”

  Twain dropped the wood. “If we can find someone here, someone who will help us, supply food for our journey, it could be just as valuable, maybe more valuable than the wood. Let’s have a look around, Ned.”

  Ned clapped his flippers together and barked.

  They trekked back to where they had left the cruiser, and mounted up. From the woods to the farmhouse was a short trip by cruiser. Upon nearing it, they were shocked to discover that a portion of the house and the stone wall
had been blown away.

  “The machines, they’ve been here,” Twain said. “We should look for survivors.”

  They left the cruiser outside, went inside the house and looked.

  Nothing.

  They used the cruiser to check the grounds and the barn. No one.

  “Perhaps they got away.”

  Ned wrote: OR GOT ALL MELTED. DON’T SEE ANY CHICKENS EITHER. HOGS. WHAT HAVE YOU.

  “Ah,” Twain said. “A dead horse.”

  Sure enough, behind a hedge row lay a horse, bloated, dead and stinky.

  “I suppose we could have some horse meat, but I don’t know, it looks a little —”

  Ned was writing:

  RANK AS THE ASS END OF A WALRUS. I’M NOT EATING THAT.

  “Have no fear, Ned. We will only eat fresh horse.”

  I COULD EAT A DOG.

  “Hopefully it won’t come to that.”

  OR A CAT. IF IT IS COOKED RIGHT.

  Back in the house they found a bag of flour and a bag of sugar. There were some dried meats and some canned goods, but little else. When Twain opened a cabinet, he leaped back. A body tumbled out.

  It was a little girl, about six. She was starting to rot away. She was still in the position in which she had died, clutching her knees, her head bent.

  “My God,” Twain said. “She must have crawled in there to hide, was too frightened to come out. She sat in there until she starved. My God, what she must have seen. How horrible it must have been. Can you imagine being so frightened you would rather starve?”

  PERHAPS SHE DIED OF FRIGHT.

  “I suppose that’s possible. Poor thing. We must bury her, Ned. I’ll go out to the barn, see if I can find a shovel.”

  YOU’RE NOT LEAVING MY ASS HERE. I’M GOING WITH YOU.

  They went out to the barn on the cruiser. They found a shovel. Twain eyed a wheelbarrow, and some dried vegetables hanging from the rafters.

  “If we use the wheelbarrow, we can haul some of these vegetables, the flour and sugar, back to Steam.”