“Run,” Jost says.
BOOK THREE
DESTROY ALL MONSTERS
24
“IS HE DEFINITELY Brackett?”
I’m chatting with Chas and Francis, quiet and discreet, off to one side of our little fake garden area, where Brackett appears to be organising an impromptu party.
“You’re serious?” Chas asks me.
“Anything...”—I’m looking at Brackett—“unusual?”
A chuckle from Chas—more of a grunt. A long sigh. “Well,” he says. “The boss is chummy, affable, glad-handing about the place. He’s talking going-away gifts, telling us all we’ll get brand new jobs across the way. He’s hanging up bunting, for fuck’s sake.”
“Does any of that strike you as—”
“Fair dos, it’s not what I’ve come to expect from the old bastard, but then again he’s just come into money, hasn’t he? Perhaps this is how he rolls when he’s got some ready cash under his arse?”
Chas shrugs. Francis looks at me to do something.
I try again. “You understand what I told you. What Jost and I saw—”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m just not sure I buy it though, am I? That part about you murdering Dram—”
“I didn’t murder him.”
He’s still up walking about, for a start. Or something is.
“You saw the pics,” Francis is saying. “The cylinders.”
Like that explains everything.
Chas is having none of it. “I don’t know, do I? They could be fucking barbecues, for all I know.”
“Sure,” I answer. “they’ve been stocking up in case there’s a bleak mid-winter rush.”
“Maybe they got a job lot somewhere and have them put by for next year?”
Francis is clenching his fists. “Do you even listen to the words you’re saying?”
Chas seems kind of amused by all of this.
“We need to talk to Jost,” I tell him. “We need to figure out a way to fight back.”
“Jost? What the fuck would he know about it? He’s not Rambo. He’s a caretaker. And given the state of this place he doesn’t do much of that neither.”
“He was in the Army. He knows the score.”
I see Jost walking towards our secluded group. “You tell him, Jost, would you? How do we fight this? What do we do?”
“We run,” Jost says. “Like I said already.”
Not the answer I’m expecting.
“You don’t fight until you have to,” he goes on. “You avoid a stand-up knock-down as much as possible. If there’s a clear way out, you take it.”
I can’t believe this.
“We should scarper,” Jost says.
“My hero.” Chas smirks. “GI fucking Jost.”
Chas wanders off to the party in progress.
“We need to get this information to the outside world.” Jost is holding up the camera.
“Their one strength now is that we’re cut off, isolated out here, can’t sound the alarm. Can’t call in heavy hitters to take them down.”
Okay. That makes sense.
“We need to copy the pictures. Send as many copies as we can in as many directions as we can. Make sure something gets through.” Jost turns to Francis. “You’re good with computers, right? Can you get the stuff off the camera and onto floppy discs or something?”
Francis does him the courtesy of not laughing. He takes the camera. “I know what to do,” he says. “Sorted.”
“Miller and I will go out and check the transport. Make sure we’re ready to move once you’ve got that done.”
Jost pulls on a bulky combat jacket—a German-looking one with a spotty camouflage pattern—and hoists a duffle bag over his shoulder.
“What about Brackett?”
He’s still smiling wide and pouring cheap wine into plastic glasses.
“If he’s already cashed the cheque,” Jost says, “then it’s time to retire.”
“What if it’s, you know, not him?”
“In that case we should play along.” Jost looks out the window towards the shining beacon of Garden World. “I don’t know what kind of comms they’re running, but he might be able to tip them off if he twigs we’re up to something.”
“Okay,” I say. “Sooner we sort the cars, sooner we can get back to the party.”
We leave Francis to his computering and head outside.
HALFWAY TO THE staff car area, I break the stoic silence.
“So,” I say. Pause while I figure out the next words. “Now that we’ve done our midnight ramble bonding ritual, and bearing in mind you could snap me in two like a breadstick...”
Jost’s expression suggests he might do just that.
“...are you and Kelvin—Laura, that is—are you...?”
I don’t finish the thought.
Jost looks disgusted.
“Hey,” I say, trying to recover some ground. “She’s single. You’re not that old. There’s nothing weird and creepy about—”
Jost shakes his head. “It’s nothing like that.”
“Fair enough,” I say. “You seemed close.”
“She’s the daughter I never had. Or she reminds me of the daughter I do have but never see.”
I’m not sure how old Jost is, but I’m seeing all those years right now.
“Maybe you and your family can reconnect?”
He blinks a few times. Looks away.
“Burned too many boats,” he says, walks on in silence.
I trot along behind him, couple of steps in his wake as we reach his car. It’s some crappy ’nineties Datsun thing, glorious shade of beige. There’s not much light out here, but it looks odd. Not the right shape, curious ripples in the bodywork.
“Wait,” I say, pointing. “Is that window cracked?”
I’m not wrong. Passenger side door has been split in two by a long frond of thick green growth. The wheels are tangled in dark olive streamers of bindweed. Alongside it, Kelvin’s nippy little hatchback has almost vanished under a vast eruption of dog rose.
Jost gestures towards Etty’s Land Rover, its bright red bodywork crisscrossed in black and green strands. “I don’t think we’re driving out of here.”
The sound of footsteps on gravel.
“Gentlemen,” says Mr Pleasance, emerging from the shadows. “I believe it’s time we had a chat.”
25
“TWO WORDS—” I start.
Pleasance raises a hand.
“Let’s not be coarse,” he soothes. “Let’s be... cultivated, yes?”
He’s edging closer.
I can sense Jost tensing to my right. Coiling like a spring, considering his next move.
“Okay, squire,” Jost tells him. “Let’s get it over with, shall we? Let’s hear the big pitch.”
Not what I was expecting. But then, nothing this evening’s been what I was expecting.
Pleasance nods. He doesn’t take his eyes off Jost.
“As you can imagine, we’ve been putting in long hours of late.” His voice is calm, smooth, and ever so polite. “Things are going—all things considered—swimmingly well. We’ve not made these sorts of gains since... well, let’s not dwell on the past, this is a different situation. A brighter opportunity—”
“Tell that to the people you’ve killed.” I move to step forward and Jost puts out an arm to hold me back.
Pleasance wears his best frowny face.
“There’s no need to upset yourself,” he says. “Nothing ever dies in our dominion.” Pleasance raises his hands, palms up, as if embracing the sky. “We incorporate them whole within the Oneness. That’s the beauty of it all.”
“It doesn’t seem beautiful from where we stand,” Jost tells him.
Pleasance lowers his arms, shrugs. “You don’t comprehend the bigger picture.”
“Tyrants say that sort of thing,” Jost says. “Always bleating on about being misunderstood, whining about wanting the best for their people, even as their palaces burn.”
�
�This is a beach-head,” Pleasance says. He’s sounding less polite now. More forceful. “We’ve gathered the flock, journeyed far in darkness, built the vessels to carry our message—and yes, if necessary, our might. I do not wish for unpleasantness, but one way or another you will be welcomed into the green world.”
“You’re wrong.” That sounds better in my head than when I blurt it out.
Pleasance smirks as I founder on what to say next. Jost takes up the slack.
“You’re wrong,” he explains. “This is a choke point. This right here is where we stop you. Where we send you back to whatever holes you crawled from.”
“You?” Pleasance raises an eyebrow. “This motley crew of yours plans to stop an army on the march?”
Jost nods.
Pleasance considers that for a moment, then extends his hand with a hint of a bow. “Good luck,” he says.
And I shake his hand.
I see the cruel smile and feel the pain at the same time. Like fondling a cactus.
Something slither-whips from Pleasance’s suit sleeve, wraps itself around my trapped hand. Tightens, starts to crush.
I’m flailing and kicking. Also shouting.
“Pull back,” Jost yells into my ear.
I struggle to say, “I can’t—”
“Best try!” he tells me.
Pleasance grins, and I see dark shapes rising from the ground behind him. Distant and wary, but very much out there.
I lean back, he doesn’t fall. I raise a booted foot and shove it against his stomach. Press hard. The body beneath is spongy and yielding, but Pleasance is going nowhere.
Pain shoots up my arm as I force myself backwards—
I see a shining arc of silver, hear a hollow thunk of blade on flesh.
My arm is free and I’m falling backwards as the Garden World manager lurches away.
I land on the hard gravel and struggle up.
Pleasance’s hand—white-knuckled grip arrayed with black thorn spikes—is still attached to mine. Part of his arm and a ragged suit sleeve is dangling from the wrist. There’s blood everywhere. Blood and strange green mucus.
“Go,” Jost is saying. He’s got a machete in one hand. Something in the other hand that looks like a small vacuum flask with batteries taped to it.
“Are you listening,” he says again. “Go. Get fixed up. Get them ready.”
“There are more of those things.” Dark shapes on all sides. I don’t see Pleasance. “Too many.”
Jost shakes his head and holds up the flask. A light blinks red. “No,” he says. “Not too many.”
26
WALKING IS GOOD. I like walking. I stroll, exuding nonchalance into—
Okay, I stagger, blinded by agony, towards the entrance to Brackett’s, a welcoming refuge of light on a dark day. Don’t laugh.
I shoulder my way through the doors and enter...
A party.
Brackett is singing. Some makeshift karaoke business, using a cheap stereo system and a PA microphone. “Why, why, why?”
Etty and Kelvin are helping him along with the high notes, with pained expressions on their faces.
Chas turns towards me as the doors slam shut.
His usual smirk is freezing on his face as I step forward.
Francis, looming into view from my left hand side, waving silver lozenges of metal and plastic. Trying to tell me something. “I’ve done that thing. You know, the—”
He’s looking at me in horror, his eyes white and wide.
Chas is there. Serious face. He pats Francis on the shoulder.
“Francis,” he’s saying. “Be a dear and fetch my bag from under station two. Small bag, grey straps.”
Francis gulps and nods, quick turns, his gaze still locked on me for an extra moment or two, and then he’s off and running.
“Now, then.” Chas looks at me and smiles. “Let’s have a seat and take a look at all of this, shall we?”
I think I hear shouting, from outside.
“I need to—Jost is—”
I’m struggling, but Chas is holding me down—down? I’m sitting on the floor somehow, Chas kneeling beside me—pressing a hand against my chest. “What you need to do is nothing.”
I can still hear bad karaoke. Chas must have hustled me out of sight of the distract-Brackett party.
At some point, Francis has arrived with the bag that Chas had asked for, and Chas is saying meaningless things in a firm and assured tone.
“No, no, give me the microfiber and the tweezers. Antiseptic and the number 2 blade—that’s in the plastic case, side pocket.”
Snap of gloves. “You’re not allergic to latex, are you? Penicillin? When did you last get a tetanus shot?”
Sudden twist of pain as Chas starts levering up the death-grip of Pleasance’s hand, one finger at a time. Coppery taste of blood in my mouth. I think I’ve bitten my tongue.
“That looks nasty,” Chas is saying as he examines my hand.
Bright white needles dig into my flesh.
“And this doesn’t look so good either.” Chas is holding something in front of my face. Small and dark and pointed, held by a pair of tweezers.
“Thorn,” I tell him. “Dog rose, I expect.”
“Fascinating,” he says. Drops the thorn into a paper bowl at his side. “You’ve been fighting with a rose bush?”
Another twist of pain, a tap as another thorn drops in the bowl.
“It was Pleasance,” I tell him. “I shook his hand and—I’m an idiot.”
“Yes, that much I gather for myself.” More prodding. “There’s some kind of—let’s call it a vine—wrapped around your wrist and some of your fingers. I’ll have to cut it off. Don’t make any sudden—”
A flash of light and a solid crump from somewhere outside. A hard rain of gravel against the windows. I’m struggling up again, but not getting anywhere.
“What did I just say?” Chas asks me. He’s holding a very sharp blade.
“Do you—know what you’re doing?”
“I am a doctor, if that’s what you’re asking.”
He starts cutting.
“In fact, I’m training to be a surgeon, or at least I was until I decided to take some time and find myself, you know?”
“You didn’t—”
I hiss in pain as the constriction of the vine fades away, and blood rushes back to my hand.
“My grandfather was a surgeon, my parents are surgeons. My uncle is a senior researcher in the field of oral and maxillofacial reconstruction. My older sister is in the US, consulting with the Centres for Disease Control.”
More slicing and cutting and easing away.
“Let’s just say there was an anticipation of great things, shall we? A life full of people who demanded more from me. A family who were always, always expecting better.”
“You decided to play the black sheep?”
“Very perceptive of you, Mr Miller.”
“So this is the real you. This is your bedside manner.”
And there’s the familiar Chas dirty laugh and leer of a smile.
“It’s one of them, anyway,” he says. “Nearly done.”
He’s cleaned the wounds—I’ve escaped with scars and punctures; nothing is broken—and is taping up a dressing. I’m pleased to discover all my fingers still work.
“How come you’ve got a bag full of doctor kit?”
He holds up a syringe, doing that tapping the glass thing.
“I medic for the ice hockey team.”
“Ice hockey doesn’t sound like the brightest idea. Surgeons are meant to be careful with their hands, aren’t they?”
As you know, I’m an authority on taking care of your hands.
Chas pushes up my left sleeve. “That’s why I took up muay thai,” he says. “So I don’t have to punch people.”
He sticks the needle in my arm.
“This is a painkiller. I can’t give you the full dose or you’d be unconscious on the floor, and”—another
harsh flash and thunder from outside—“...I suspect that’s not an option for the moment.”
Chas turns away to search his doctor-bag for something else.
I manage to lever myself to a half-crouch whilst he’s not looking.
“You’ll need a broad spectrum antibiotic,” he’s saying. “Who knows where—”
I don’t hear the rest as I’ve grabbed the nearest shovel and I’m running for the door.
27
THE CAR PARK is littered with the dead.
Bodies—blood-soaked and green-slimed—dressed up nicely in their Garden World uniforms.
No sign of Jost.
I hear a thud like a watermelon being struck with a heavy blade, over near the road where the glow of the Brackett’s lights runs out.
That’ll be him.
I head in that direction, have to concentrate to stay the course, easy to get distracted by bright lights, strange colours, odd lumps of who-knows-what scattered all around the place.
My right hand doesn’t feel like it belongs. The pain’s getting more distant, but it still makes me think of those kids’ cartoons where the dumb cat or duck or whatever has a giant throbbing mitt the size of his head.
I see Pleasance. And Jost.
They’re grappling. Or rather, Pleasance is trying to grapple with his one remaining arm and Jost is lashing out with heavy-booted kicks and low, vicious swings of his machete.
One step, two, and I’m almost on them.
“So unnecessary,” Pleasance is saying.
Jost swings again, Pleasance dodges.
Jost shifts back to counter and I lunge forward, swinging my shovel as another Garden World staffer looms up behind Jost, its head bashed half to pieces, its arms a writhing mass of vine growth edged with barbs.
I strike it hard as I can as it reaches out—
The vines swing and snap like whips as my shovel connects, the creature gives a broken burble-growl as it stumbles back and away. It falls and doesn’t get up.
I turn to see Pleasance drive a fist hard into Jost’s stomach. There’s a spray of blood from Jost’s back, a ragged tear in his camouflage coat and a whip of trailing jagged vine.
Invaders From Beyond Page 9
