He thought it over a moment, face pointed toward the ceiling. I sensed something stupid coming.
‘Take him home?’
Ah.
‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ I said. ‘A minute ago you were looking to kill this...this... thing—’
‘Gizmo.’
‘Okay—Gizmo. Whatever. Now you want to, what—keep him as a pet?’
‘Well we can’t very well leave him here, Dan. I mean, look at him. It’s a miracle he’s managed to survive this long.’
I lowered my voice. ‘We could always, well—you know.’
Frankie gasped. ‘Uh-uh. No way. We’re not killing him, Dan. Absolutely not.’ He put a protective arm around the Novamite, who I noted had placed itself directly in Frankie’s lap.
I blinked. ‘What? No, I meant phone Kinsey, you ass. See if he’ll take him off our hands for us.’
Because that worked so well last time, didn’t it, Dan? God, you’re an asshole.
‘Are you crazy? Have you any idea what will happen to Gizmo if the government gets hold of him? Don’t you watch movies, Dan?’
‘But what if it—’
I paused as I suddenly became aware of a sound approaching. A kind of whirring noise, growing louder by the second.
I frowned. ‘What the hell is that?’
Funny. It almost sounds like a—
Before I could complete the thought, there was a world-shattering crash from behind us. A sound like the very Earth itself cracking in two.
The three of us fell backwards, crying out as the wall separating the kitchen from the dining area suddenly exploded in a spray of plaster and fine wood-chips.
Ears ringing. Dust everywhere, so thick I could hardly see.
When I finally managed to collect myself, I looked back at the wall, surprised to find there was now what looked to be a garbage truck parked there.
It was your typical-looking garbage truck. Big, hateful grey, with one of those compactor-things on the back that no matter how old you get still reminds you of that one scene in A New Hope. Unlike the rest of the city’s garbage trucks (which I remembered now were more of an olive colour), this one had no city-affiliated markings on it anywhere that I could see.
I stared at it.
Man, that has got to be either the best or the worst parking job ever.
There was the clunk-clunk of doors being opened.
Two figures stepped out of the dust cloud.
They were tall men. Probably six foot. Wearing heavy-looking work-boots and dressed in your typical midnight-blue overalls. Interestingly, I saw they also had no faces—only that wasn’t quite right, as, technically speaking, whilst they might not have had any eyes or mouths or noses to speak of, looking at them now, it appeared as though someone had drawn a set of features on their faces in the places they would normally have been. I’d like to also point out that whoever did so did a pretty shocking job, as not only were their noses in the complete wrong places, but neither eye was the same size as the other, either, giving them both a squinty look.
If you’d have asked me earlier, I’d have said that things couldn’t possibly have gotten any more retarded than they already were. That we had reached the threshold of what was the allowable amount of retardation before the universe simply noped-out and imploded in on itself.
I’d have been wrong.
I shot a glance around for Frankie, saw he was still recovering on the kitchen floor behind me, face and body plastered with so much dust he now looked like a Geisha girl, only one nobody would ever want to have sex with.
Moving in eerie unison, the faceless garbage men stepped towards me.
‘DAN PRATT,’ they said—despite the fact they didn’t even have mouths (don’t ask). ‘HAND OVER THE NAOGGRATH AT ONCE.’
I frowned.
Now who the fuck are these guys?
‘We, uh... don’t have it,’ I said.
‘YOU LIE. HAND IT OVER, OR—’
They suddenly fell deathly silent and turned to each other. I sensed something passing between them. If they had eyes—real eyes, I mean, not drawn-on ones—I had the feeling they’d be pretty fucking wide right now. ‘SHE HAS COME. WE MUST RETREAT.’
And with that, they bunched up their “faces”, before disappearing in a poof of smoke, leaving behind nothing but a bundle of overalls and boots.
I sighed.
Seriously? Again? Hasn’t anybody ever heard of a front door?
Before I could ponder any more over this question, a voice called to us from somewhere over bullhorn:
‘MR PRATT? MR PRATT, ARE YOU THERE? HELLOOOOOOOO? PAGING MR PRATT?’
It was a girl’s voice—one I didn’t recognise, either. A cheery, sing-song quality to it, surprisingly in-key.
Ah, man, now what?
Ears still ringing from the crash, I reached back and slowly helped Frankie to his feet, noting the monkey-thing now clasped tightly against his chest. Together, we scooped up Asian Guy.
‘Who the hell is that?’ said Frankie, gesturing towards the voice.
‘I have no fucking idea,’ I said.
He grunted. ‘Better go take a look.’
Frankie still cradling the Naoggrath tightly in his arms, and with the three (or was that four?) of us now covered head-to-toe in dust, we shambled out through the new hole in the kitchen’s side and immediately halted.
A small army of people now stood waiting for us just inside the entrance. About fifty, possibly more. All in various items of clothing, like they’d just been called away from whichever job they’d been performing to tend to this specific matter in hand.
I didn’t need to see the glow of their eyes to know who these guys were.
Phonies.
I sighed.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what’s called the icing on the cake.
My eyes settled on one of them standing in the middle of the group. Young girl, maybe fourteen, fifteen, with mud-coloured hair down to her shoulders—what I thought looked purposely tousled and messy (kids)—dressed in an oversized Korn hoodie and jeans so baggy they could have been socks.
She saw me frowning and grinned.
‘We meet at last, Kingslayer!’ she said, letting the bullhorn fall to the restaurant’s floor with an angry clatter.
Frankie and I shared a glance.
Kingslayer?
It was then I noticed all of Speedy’s other patrons were now gone, hopefully having gotten the fuck out of there the second the garbage truck made its surprise appearance—though granted that was probably being a little too optimistic.
‘I have to admit, though, I’m disappointed,’ she went on. ‘You aren’t what I was expecting at all.’
‘I’m sorry—who are you?’
She blinked. ‘Oh, of course! Where are my manners?’ She stepped forward and, to my complete surprise, curtseyed. ‘My name is Boot, and I am the new King of this region.’
There was a moment where my brain completely stopped working. Like the gears, now clogged with an influx of new ridiculous material to sift through, had simply given up and gone on strike, ashamed and embarrassed for us all.
Luckily, Frankie’s hadn’t.
‘Your name is Boot?’ he said. He laughed. ‘As in shoe?’
Boot gestured towards the creature cradled tightly in Frankie’s arms. ‘Hand over the Naoggrath, Mr Pratt. If you cooperate, I promise I’ll—’
‘You’ll let us go?’ I said.
Holy crap, maybe things would turn out okay after all. We could even be back for dinner.
She laughed. ‘Oh, no—I am going to kill you. What I was going to say was I’ll make it quick. Seriously, a day or two tops. You’ll barely feel a thing. Sound fair?’
‘Three days!’ cried Frankie.
Frankie never really understood haggling.
‘Hand it over, Kingslayer—this is your last chance,’ continued Boot.
I suddenly became aware of movement in my periphery, and turned to see several of the group had now
begun to circle around us.
We were being flanked.
So that couldn’t be good.
‘If you want Gizmo, you’re going to have to pry him from our cold, dead fingers!’ said Frankie. He lunged into what was possibly a fighting pose, though probably wasn’t.
From behind us, Asian Guy cleared his throat. ‘Uh, actually, I should probably just—’
‘Stay out of this, Shrimp Eyes!’ cried Frankie.
The people circling us began to close in.
We backed up. I don’t know where exactly we thought we were going. Nothing but brick wall that way.
One of them—a woman in a blouse with librarian glasses and angrily back-combed hair—suddenly reached for us.
Before she could grab us, however, there was another loud whirring sound.
We all spun to face where it was coming from, turning just in time to witness a shape growing on the other side of Speedy’s glass front. Some white shape, moving in fast.
Huh. Kind of looks like a—
I gasped.
Uh-oh.
Boot cried, ‘MOVE! MOVE!’ moments before the restaurant’s window-front exploded in a spray of glass.
The three of us dived to the side as the white, paneled FedEx truck blasted its way through Speedy’s entrance and smashed directly into the rear of the faceless dudes’ garbage truck.
BANG!
A moment of dazed silence from inside the restaurant.
Everyone stared at the FedEx truck, its crumpled hood, the smoke rising from it in little wispy tendrils, giving off a sound like a giant pleading for silence.
But that wasn’t what had caught everybody’s attention.
No, what had caught everybody’s attention was the message that had been painted on the FedEx truck’s side—a message written in what looked to be oil.
HO-HO-HO! NOW I HAVE A MACHINE GUN!
I stared at it, dumbfounded.
Okay, now this is just getting ridiculous.
From across the entrance, Boot shouted, ‘Don’t just stand there—go check it out!’
Bodies closed in around the truck, moving cautiously. I noted the pistols now in their hands—black, sleek-looking things. Because even body-snatching jelly-slugs from outer space can appreciate the practical advantages of firearms, apparently.
They reached the FedEx’s front and paused. A “man”—this one in full construction worker’s get-up—grabbed the driver’s door and yanked it open.
Empty.
He started to turn around, no doubt in an attempt to relay this information—
There was a sudden cry of surprise from behind us.
We all turned back towards the front again, me wondering exactly what the fuck was going to happen next, if it could possibly be any more ridiculous than what had already happened, if that was even possible.
It was.
As I watched in dumbfounded silence, Burrito Stalker launched himself through the hole in Speedy’s entrance, barrel-rolling over the stuffing counter like it was the hood of a police car back in the ’70s.
He raised a hand—a hand I saw held the little fake, imitation pistol from the other day—and began shooting people with it.
Now, I say “shooting”—really he was just pointing it at the people he wanted to die and shouting “Pew! Pew! Pew-pew!”
The Phonies fell to the ground like dominoes, wailing and grabbing at their bodies—bodies that looked totally fine, by the way. At least, to me.
I stared at them, the sheer stupidity of it all.
OH COME ON.
Burrito Stalker threw himself back behind the stuffing counter as the Phonies quickly returned fire, little wood splinters kicking up from the counter in sprays.
Burrito Stalker and I locked gazes.
His lips moved.
GO!
I didn’t need telling twice.
Gunshots echoing around the restaurant like thunder, we ducked low, began to creep our way towards the exit, shit shooting out of every single one of my bodily orifices—at a velocity that would have surprised you. I would have been fucking terrible at war.
Burrito Stalker returned fire, drawing attention on himself, allowing us the distraction we needed to get away.
Pew! Pew! Pew-pew-pew!
About halfway there I heard a cry from behind us and turned.
It was Asian Guy. He was lying on the floor, fingers clawing at his leg, face now contorted in a rictus of pain.
‘What’s wrong?’ I cried, as a chorus of gunfire played out over our heads. It was then I noticed the red patch blooming on his pants. ‘Holy shit—are you hit?’
‘What’s is it?’ cried Frankie.
‘Asian Guy—he’s hit.’
We turned back to Asian Guy. We saw his lips move. It looked like he was trying to say something, but because of all the gunfire going on around us, it was hard to hear exactly what it was he was saying.
I frowned. ‘What?’
Asian Guy stared dumbfounded at us, at his leg, back to us again. ‘GODDAMNIT HELP ME YOU ASSHOLES.’
I turned to Frankie. ‘You hear what he’s saying?’
‘I think he wants us to go on without him.’
‘Yeah.’ That was probably it.
Asian Guy’s eyes widened. ‘WHAT? NO, I DIDN’T SAY—’
Frankie raised his hands to the sides of his mouth. ‘OKAY—THANKS!’
Asian Guy stared expressionlessly at us. He began frantically gesticulating with his hands—urging us on, no doubt.
I shook my head at the sheer guts of the man.
Your sacrifice will not be forgotten, brave soul.
After a huge effort, we finally reached the entrance.
Not hesitating for a moment, we immediately made for the doors, feet skidding on broken glass, thunder rolling over our heads—
‘Dan!’ cried Frankie.
I turned back.
Boot had Frankie pinned on the ground, was trying to pry the Novamite—sorry, Gizmo—from his hands.
Eyes glowing. Tentacles uncoiling from inside her open mouth like wet noodles.
I didn’t think.
I ran back and kicked her directly in the crotch.
She rolled over, gripping her lady parts, her eyes wide with a combination of pain and rage. ‘OH NO YOU DIDN’T.’
But I did. (And before you go accusing me of being a misogynist here or whatever, I’d like to point out that men get hit in the crotch a heck of a lot more than women do. When you look at it that way, really it would have been sexist not to kick her in the crotch.)
Ignoring Boot’s feminist cries, I grabbed Frankie under one arm and quickly hauled him to his feet.
We turned to run—
He grabbed my arm. ‘Gizmo!’
I looked back over my shoulder, turning just in time to witness another of the Phonies, this one in what looked like a power-company jumpsuit and hardhat, throw a net over the little guy, scoop him up like the fucking catch of the day.
Through the holes in the netting, Gizmo’s eyes shone with fear.
Frankie made to go after him, but I grabbed him. ‘No time! We have to go!’
‘But—’
I looked back round at Boot, who I saw was now starting to get up. Jesus, she looked pissed—no doubt because of the blistering punt I had just unleashed upon her Bat Cave. ‘Now!’
Gunfire booming all around us, we booked it through the hole and didn’t look back.
EIGHT
CHESTS HEAVING. EARS BURNING. Fear-sweat stinging our eyes. I could feel bile trying to force its way up my throat in that way it always seems to do whenever you happen to be running for your life—something I was growing uncomfortably used to.
Boots crunching over fresh snow, we took shelter in some dingy-looking alley a good handful of blocks away, behind a dumpster bleeding trash bags.
We crouched low.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Okay, don’t panic. We need to think. To make a plan.’
Clearly, goi
ng home wasn’t an option. Which meant we’d have to come up with some other place to live if we wanted to continue on with our lives unhindered by the constant possibility of a sudden, grizzly end. Mexico, probably—although I’ll admit I wasn’t big on tacos. Maybe I could call myself Juan and start a mariachi band or something. Was learning mariachi hard?
Maybe I could join a gang...
‘Yeah,’ said Frankie, who I saw was now pacing the alleyway, hands balled into fists, looking especially angry—for Frankie, at least.
‘I’ll make a call to Josh and Kenny. See if they can meet us at the border.’
Have to remember to ask them to bring some sombreros, too—camouflage.
Frankie quit pacing and turned to me, eyes wide. ‘Piss on that! They stole our Gizmo!’
‘Frankie—’
‘We can’t leave, Dan! Have you forgotten what Albino Dude said? DESTROYER OF WORLDS. You really want to leave something like that in the hands of those fuckers?’
‘But—’
I winced a moment as a battalion of cop cars zoomed suddenly past, their lights flashing and sirens blaring, scaring the living piss out of me.
I had a pretty good idea where they were headed.
I waited until they’d passed, then turned back to him. ‘Look, I get what you’re saying, but think—what the hell are the two of us going to do about it? We’re nobodies. I log people’s information, and you—’ I thought of the best way to say it without being an ass. ‘You’re you, Frankie.’
He shrugged. ‘So?’
‘So? So we’re not exactly the best people to be running off into battle with these guys, don’t you think?’
He crossed his arms. ‘That didn’t seem to stop you last time.’
‘Last time—?’
I caught myself.
Breathe, Dan. Just breathe…
I took a deep breath. ‘Look, I’m just saying, what are we supposed to do?’
Before he could answer, we were interrupted by the sudden sound of brakes squealing.
We spun back towards the mouth of the alley, where we were surprised to find what looked like an old Chevy Impala now sitting there, idling.
Jet-black. Obscene orange and red flames down the sides like it had just burst straight out of a burning building, or Hell perhaps. From the rearview hung a set of black, fuzzy dice, swinging low like a pair of old man’s droopy testicles. It was like bad taste given form. I could barely look at it.
Dan and Frankie and the End of Everything Page 11
