Critical Failures IV

by Robert Bevan

  Between the seismic damage caused by the giant dough monster and the fire damage of the dragons, the city was in pretty bad shape. Wooden buildings caught a moment of reprieve as the two dragons refocused their attention on their new target.

  “Jesus! Watch out!” Randy cried as the dragons beat the smoky air with their red leathery wings, each of them gunning for the Doughchild from opposite directions.

  The New God raised his massive dough head, looked at Randy with its vacant, black, circular eyes, and gave him a friendly wink. He seemed blissfully unaware of the dragons closing in on him.

  The dragons inhaled deeply as they approached, filling their internal furnaces with air, then spewed out twin plumes of fire down on the unsuspecting Doughchild.

  Randy nearly lost his hold on the tower roof when the New God fell to his doughy knees, shielding his face from the blasts with arms that were soon aflame.

  “NOOOOOOOO!” Randy cried as the dragons retreated to recharge their lungs. He closed his eyes and pressed his face against the tiles. He couldn’t stand to watch Jesus burn.

  “Look!” said Professor Goosewaddle. “He is risen!”

  Randy opened his eyes.

  The New God had gotten to his feet again, his face no longer cheerful. His black eyes were now semicircular in shape, tilting down toward his nose. The curvature of his mouth had reversed downward. He had his angry face on.

  He held his arms out to his sides, and his burnt skin flaked off like the outer layer of a croissant, revealing fresh doughy skin underneath. The smoky air now had a trace of buttery goodness.

  When the dragons circled around for their second pass, the New God was ready for them. The significance of his crucifixion-like posture only became clear to Randy when he opened his hands to reveal holes in his doughy palms. Randy was confused, ashamed, scared, and hopeful at the same time.

  “This is just all kinds of wrong,” said Denise.

  The dragons made their charge, sucking in great lungfuls of pastrified air, preparing to rain down another fiery assault. When they opened their mouths, their flames were blocked by jets of red fluid shooting out of the Doughchild’s crucifixion wounds. They resisted at first, but the New God was unrelenting, shooting more blood out of his palms than should have been possible.

  After a moment of turning their heads against the spray, the dragons seemed to have a change of heart. They each faced the palms directed at them with open mouths, greedily gulping down as much of the New God’s blood as they could. The Doughchild was smiling again.

  “Wretched lizards!” cried the figure on the flying boat. “You’re supposed to attack the golem, not drink its blood!”

  The New God stopped shooting blood out of his hands, and the dragon to his right lazily flew toward him and swiped at his face with one of its huge, clawed forearms. It missed by at least ten feet, and the dragon was promptly swatted out of the air by the same hand it had just been drinking from.

  The dragon slammed into the bottom of the right gate tower, which collapsed down on it. Rising up from the rubble on unsteady legs, it stood eye-to-eye with Randy. The eye, which was nearly as big as Randy, suddenly grew even wider. The dragon’s scaly cheek puffed out for a second, just before it threw up all over the shambling horde of zombies and fell over.

  “Well I’ll be goddamned,” said Denise. “That motherfucker’s trashed.”

  Randy thought for a moment. “You mean like drunk?”

  “I mean fuckin’ shitfaced. Come on, Randy. I’m a cop. You think I can’t spot a drunk dragon when I see one?”

  Randy glared at Professor Goosewaddle. “That ain’t blood, is it?”

  Goosewaddle looked back at him defensively. “You know as well as I, the New God bleeds wine.”

  “Of course he does.”

  The other dragon seemed to be faring a little better. The Doughchild had dealt with it in similar fashion to the first one; it was struggling to its feet near a dragon-sized pile of former wall, but at least it hadn’t –Ew.

  Randy was at a better angle to see the torrent of vomit which erupted from the second dragon’s mouth. This one had apparently eaten more recently than the first. Randy was able to recognize partially digested halves of livestock in the red soupy mess raining down on the zombies below.

  The screams coming from the base of the tower grew louder and more intense, which surprised Randy. He figured they’d have all turned into zombie groans by now. One particular cry stood out from the rest.

  “Rose!” Stuart’s voice cried out. “Rose!”

  How could he still be alive? He was in bad shape before he climbed out the tower window and got mauled by zombies. His voice wasn’t half as surprising, however, as the one that answered.

  “Stuart! What happened? OH MY GOD! WHAT IS THAT?” Rose had no doubt just spotted the hundred-foot-tall dough monster.

  Randy looked over at the vomit-covered zombies near the second dragon. They weren’t shambling. They were all kind of just standing there looking confused and horrified. They were…alive.

  “Randy!” said Professor Goosewaddle. “You’ve done it. The New God’s blood is returning life to the dead!”

  “Impossible!” bellowed the enraged captain of the flying boat. “What manner of magic is this?”

  With a wave of his bony hands, the boat’s sails pivoted on their masts. The boat changed course and started moving again. The jagged, pointy bowsprit was pointed right at the New God, who was, once again smiling and waving at the screaming, blood-covered masses.

  His anger turned to laughter as his boat flew toward the New God. “Enjoy your last breaths of life, mortals! Your sorcerer’s tricks are no match for the Phantom Pinas!”

  “Oh no!” said Randy. “He’s gonna ram Jesus!”

  “Uh-uh,” said Denise. “Don’t no man poke his pinas inmy Lord and Savior! Professor, move the rope!”

  Randy followed the path the boat was taking. With the aid of Goosewaddle’s rope, Denise might have a chance at boarding, but…“How you gonna get past that force field?”

  “Look at all them arrows sticking out of the bottom. That shield blocks magical attacks, but it don’t do shit against regular stuff.”

  Professor Goosewaddle repositioned his rope, and Denise jumped and grabbed hold of the nearest end.

  “I’m really angry!” she shouted. Her muscles ballooned out until she looked like a very short linebacker. She swung along the magically suspended rope one hand after the other, like a gorilla at the zoo, just as the boat was coming in range.

  “Oh fuck!” she shouted as the rope went limp and she plummeted toward the ground, where she smacked into a large puddle of Jesus blood. Randy hoped that would sort her out.

  “Oh dear,” said Professor Goosewaddle. “The anti-magic field canceled out the rope spell. I really should have thought of that.”

  The Pillsburg Doughchild took no evasive action as the bowsprit of the Phantom Pinas plunged deep into his belly. His little black eyes grew to twice their normal size as his mouth gaped open.

  Randy watched in horror as the flying boat pierced through the flesh of this god he had accidentally called into being. “I’m sorry, Jesus.”

  But the boat had not pierced the flesh, as became evident when the New God’s belly expanded outward again, hurtling the Phantom Pinas, bow over stern, back over the city wall.

  “HEE HEE!” bellowed the New God, cheerfully rubbing his belly as the Phantom Pinas crashed into the ground outside.

  The citizens had mostly gotten over the initial horror of having just been resurrected from the dead and covered in blood, or they were willfully postponing the shock to cheer for the New God, and wrestle their still-undead friends and family members into puddles of dragon vomit.

  The New God helped out, shooting jets of fresh wine-blood into wandering groups of zombies. He shot one jet into the top floor window of the left gate tower, just below where Randy and Professor Goosewaddle were still clinging to the roof.

  “
Aaaaahhhh!” Frank screamed.

  “Jesus Christ!” shouted Gus.

  As more and more people were resurrected and had time to come to terms with what was going on, shouts of praise and thanks overtook the shouts of alarm and shock, until it seemed like everyone in the city was celebrating at the New God’s doughy feet. Even the orcs who had arrived with hatred in their hearts now laid down their weapons and bowed low before the giant Doughchild.

  One person, however, was feeling particularly cheery. Timmon Bloodsoul marched through the destroyed South Gate, his skeletal hands crackling with purple lightning. As soon as the New God was in his line of sight, he thrust his hands forward, unleashing a barrage of purple bolts.

  “I have underestimated you people,”said Timmon Bloodsoul as the New God dropped to his knees, his doughy flesh burning and bubbling in a shell of purple electricity. He advanced. “I was not expecting to face a lesser-god, but it matters not. I am Timmon Bloodsoul! Even gods are at the mercy of my awesome power! Let this be a lesson to any who would –”

  The lightning stopped. Timmon Bloodsoul looked at his hands as new flesh began to grow on them. He removed his helmet, exposing a youthful face and flowing blond hair. He looked down at his feet. He was standing in a puddle of dragon vomit. “I… I’m…alive.”

  THWACK THWACK THWACK THWACK THWACK THWACK THWACK THWACK

  The fletching of fifty or more arrows sprouted out of Timmon Bloodsoul’s face, neck, and armor at once. For a moment, he stood still like a half-elven cactus, then fell face-first into the puddle of dragon puke, the restorative powers of which apparently only work once.

  “You reckon it’s safe to get down now?” Randy asked Professor Goosewaddle.

  The professor’s eyes still looked tired, but they had their cheerful gleam back. “Safe as it will ever be, I expect.”

  By the time the professor had retrieved his rope, and he and Randy climbed down the side of the tower, the New God’s flesh had once again been completely restored, and the citizens of Cardinia were happily munching away at the bread he’d just molted.

  “Randy!” the New God called down. He looked even more enormous from ground level.

  The crowd grew silent. All eyes followed the Pillsburg Doughchild’s gaze to Randy.

  “Yes, um… Jesus?”

  “I must go now and take my place in the heavens. Your faith has inspired others, and I have many prayers to answer.”

  Randy had never felt such a complex mix of emotions. He was at a profound loss for words. “Okay.”

  “Remember,” said the New God. “Nothing says lovin’ like helping your fellow man.” With that, he pointed his arms at the ground and sprayed blood onto the cheering crowd. The blood shooting out of his hands and feet propelled him upward.

  Randy watched him ascend until he was just another star in the night sky.

  Chapter 42

  Tim lay on the deck chair at the front of his boat in the middle of Bay St. Louis, near enough to civilization to restock his beer cooler, but far enough out to sea to be beyond all the bullshit. The boat rocked gently, like a cradle, as Golden Oldies played softly from the radio in the cabin. He had the sun on his bare chest, a cold summer lager in his hand, and a line in the still bay water. There was neither a worry in his head nor a cloud in the sky.

  Well, that wasn’t entirely true. There was one small worry in his head, and it concerned the one small, dark cloud in the sky. Some kind of meteorologicalanomaly. It didn’t belong there. It was a smudge on his perfect day, like a drop of turpentine on a beautiful oil painting.

  Whichever way he positioned his chair, his eyes were still drawn to that fucking cloud, and it was getting closer, creeping toward him across the otherwise pristine blue sky.

  “Tim.”

  It wasn’t enough that the cloud had to hover over him like an asshole. Now it was interrupting Neil Diamond. Tim closed his eyes, hoping that if he ignored the cloud, it might go look for someone else to talk to.

  “Tim.”

  Nope. Sorry, talking cloud. Go take that shit somewhere else. I’m fishing.

  “Shocking Grasp.”

  Huh?

  Tim awoke to the sensation of blowing a cattle prod. The crowd of people standing around him vibrated back and forth in his field of vision as a gazillion volts of electricity racked his body.

  “WHAT THE MOTHER FUCK!” Tim said when Rhonda finally let go of the back of his neck.

  “Sorry ‘bout that,” said Rhonda.

  “I fucking pissed my pants! Do you know how embarrassing that is?” Probably no more than the pool of vomit on the table. Tim noticed that the side of his face was wet and sticky. He should have stuck to beer.

  “I authorized it,” said Frank.“We couldn’t wake you up, and we need to talk.”

  Tim twitched as the residual effects of Rhonda’s spell worked their way out of his body. “Where the hell have you guys been?”

  “We’ve had a hell of a night,” said Frank. “It’s a long story.”

  That sounded like a perfect opportunity to mend some fences. Tim forced a smile. His heavy head tilted toward the Arby’s bag on the table. “I brought you guys a present.”

  When Tim lifted the handles, the sides of the bag tore free from the bottom, the paper having been externally digested. The individually wrapped roast beef sandwiches had not been properly stacked, and the pile collapsed outward into Tim’s puddle of shame.

  “There’s still a few good ones on the top.”

  Frank frowned for a moment at the pile of sandwiches marinating in booze and bile, but seemed to have more pressing issues on his mind.

  “There was a halfling tied up in the cellar,” said Frank.“What happened to him?”

  Tim nodded slowly as his mind sorted out what, in the recent past, had been real, and what had been a dream. Talking cloud, dream. Halfling in the cellar, real.“Halfling. Yeah, I saw him. I cut him loose.”

  Frank shook his little fists. “Why would you do that?” He sounded very distressed.

  “I was trying to be a decent person,” said Tim. He suddenly remembered something. “Hey! I brought you guys sandwiches!”

  “Tim!” Frank slapped him lightly on the cleaner side of his face. “I need you to stay focused. This is important.”

  Tim waved Frank’s hand away. “Hey, man. Cut that shit out. I just woke up. There’s, like, a million people in here. Can’t you fire a question at someone else?”

  “Rhonda. Hit him with another Shocking Grasp.”

  Tim stood up on wobbly legs and backed away from Rhonda. “Whoa! Hey! Hold the fucking phone, man!” He looked at Frank. “What’s gotten into you guys? What’s with all of this Gestapo shit? Dude in the cellar said Denise was down there dildo-raping him.”

  “That’s a goddamn lie!” said Denise.

  “Well it seemed pretty fucking credible to me, Dennis.”

  Denise pointed a fat little finger at Tim. “Hey! You watch your –” She put her hand down, seeming to realize that she was only drawing more unwanted attention to herself. “Ain’t I told y’all that little halfling was faking sleep? Tough little sonofabitch.”

  “Think, Tim,” said Frank. “Did he say anything else? Like where he might be going? Anything?”

  “I don’t… No.” Tim shrugged. “I just gave him a sandwich and sent him on his way.”

  Frank buried his face in his hands and did something between a laugh and a cry. “You gave him a sandwich. That’s fantastic.”

  “What are you all even doing here?” asked Tim. “When I got here, the place was empty. I figured you guys found Mordred and fucked off back home.”

  “You stupid asshole.”

  “What?” Tim was taken aback. That wasn’t a very Frank-like thing to say.

  “The halflingwas Mordred.”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” said Randy.

  Frank took a few deep breaths. “Yes we do, Randy. Everything adds up to him being Mordred. The Red Robes of Neutrality. Little R
ed Riding Hood. Conveniently waking up when he sees the opportunity to trick some dumb little shitbag to cut him loose.”

  “Dude,” said Tim. “Take it down a notch. It was an honest mistake. How the hell was I supposed to know it was Mordred?”

  “You knew we were looking for him!” Frank shouted in Tim’s face.“You knew he could look like anyone! Who the fuck else would we have tied up in a goddamn cellar?”

  “I thought –”

  “No!” said Frank. “You don’t think. You drink. And you bitch, and you moan, and you whine, and you routinely fuck up the simplest tasks given to you. Let me ask you this. Why are you here alone? Where the hell is Cooper? Where are the rest of our people, who you claimed to be delivering character sheets to? Did you even do that?”

  “They were fishing,” said Tim. “I didn’t think it was worth the trip, so Cooper went on alone.” The words sounded so wrong as they fell out of his mouth.

  “Fishing?” Frank shook his head. “In the middle of a goddamn war? And you entrusted their character sheets with the dumbest motherfucker to walk the earth?”

  “You’ve got a beef with me, Frank. And maybe I fucked up. Don’t drag Cooper into it.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Frank. “The second dumbest. I don’t care what your character sheet says. You are, without a doubt, the most skullfuckingly brainless sack of primordial shit to ever crawl out of the sea.”

  Tim took in all of the silent gazes. Even Randy and Denise were gawking at him. Not a single one of these assholes spoke a single word in his defense. They probably felt the same way Frank did. Maybe Frank was right. He could feel the drying vomit on his face crack as he looked down at his piss-soaked crotch. Frank was definitely right. He was a first-class, Grade-A fuckup. “I’m sorry.”

  Frank shook his head. “That’s not good enough this time. You’re a liability. Pack your shit. I want you out of here before –”