She had never doubted Ron. Whether he was planning their annual holiday with utter precision, working his magic to educate the Visigoths in knowledge close to fact, or causing such happiness for thousands of people, she never ceased to admire his dedication to a task. The noise from the crowd was almost tangible, she could all but smell it, and it was the sound of years of frustration and boredom released.
She walked up behind him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.
“Hello love.” He said. “That was fantastic. Why didn’t I like football?”
“Well I don’t think it was quite like this. I can’t remember Aston Villains or whatever they were called having a one-legged archer playing for them.”
The Visigoths had finished their celebrations and were bearing Sturm back up the hill on their shoulders, singing some song, which no doubt was about pillage. Ethel stood back from Ron, who turned to look up at her from his seat.
“What’s up love?” he asked, sensing her nervousness.
“I’m just worried about whether they can actually do anything about this Fiends thing. And where’s that boy?” Ron smiled, but didn’t say anything. He too watched the marauders, who had spent the last few days wandering around through the immense crowd, looking for people with the inclination and skills to help to deliver the ideas Geoffrey had given them.
The resistance was a twist on the Magnificent Seven. That was a small number of people trying to find a way beat many, whereas this was many trying to find a way to beat relatively few. This many, though, was not a selection of people in the prime of life. A large proportion had died of old age, or illnesses associated with it. Many others had wounds, or medical conditions that meant that they would be of little use in a fight against an armed enemy. Those who were warlike were largely not fit for purpose, and those who were fit were not warlike.
Ethel, somewhat surprisingly to herself, had been deputed by Ron to help Guntrick in planning the resistance.
“I don’t know anything about it.” Ron had said. Ethel, loyal though she was, couldn’t remember a previous occasion when Ron’s lack of knowledge of a subject had affected his willingness to offer an opinion. He had, though, been given a set of coloured pens with which to mark up his tournament sheet, and that seemed to have provided some distraction.
Ethel and Guntrick hoped that within that crowd would be people with the skills to help them out. With the help of the Ohio girls and then other volunteers, they had spoken to a good proportion of the crowd and found carpenters, blacksmiths, a surprising number of theatrical set designers, and a few magicians, as well as the road crew for thrash metal band Acetylene Reptile, who had perished in a multiple road traffic accident caused when a TV set was thrown from a thirteenth floor hotel room. What they also found was a large number of people who, after years of doing very little, welcomed the idea of manual labour. What they weren’t short of, then, was hands. What they really needed was a plan, and quickly. Guntrick was of the view that everyone should pretend to be disinterested, and then charge. Ethel thought they might need to be a bit more subtle, and had suggested that a number of them get together to discuss action.
Guntrick and his men would have to forget the jig for a moment, stop wondering about the upcoming opposition, and get down to making sure that something terrible didn’t happen to the massive gathering. Waiting for them at the top of the hill were representatives of various groups within the multitude, and together they needed to come up with a plan of action. How urgent this was, no one knew, because there was no way of knowing how soon the Fiends would decide to mount their assault.
With the football over for the moment, they were meeting close to the Committee Room, with a view to using the time before the semi finals to prepare the ground to repel attackers should they, as predicted, arrive. Ethel stood next to Ron as he coloured in the flags of the surviving teams on his order of play, and looked at the large crowd gathering. It seemed impossible that anything could possibly be organised by this assembly spanning six centuries and ten times as many countries.
It was remarkable viewing over the next hour or so, however, as points were discussed, ideas sought and offered, and hands raised to volunteer to take charge of activities. It was like democracy in action.
The same could not be said of the final gathering of the invaders, far away in the lee of the hill on which stood Pol Pot’s restaurant. The leaders of the assembled group of miscreants had not been given to opening things up for discussion when they were alive, and were not about to start now. Their followers had no more desire for freedom of expression than did they.
Fiends Reunited had done a brilliant job of segmenting the available market such that those in charge bullied people who bullied others who in turn sought others to bully. Each tier (with the odd refusenik such as Mussolini) was very aware of its place in the pecking order and had no expectation of personal development seminars. The absence of ideological indoctrination, which was a necessary part of the assumed power many had enjoyed whilst alive, turned out to make no difference.
The dozen or so Gold Members were united in their objective, which was subjugation of the maximum number of people. Getting back to domination, that was where the fun was. Of course, they would doubtless benefit from secondary effects such as grandiose houses, better food, and a regular supply of unwilling but attractive sexual partners, but the real joy was in the simplicity of power. Each of them in his or her own right had committed heinous crimes whilst alive, whether of scale, by commanding others who caused untold death and suffering, or in certain cases, administering the torture and death themselves.
There were plenty of big names missing, whether because they hadn’t seen the invitation, had chosen to ignore it, or had reformed and were doing good deeds (unlikely at this level). Those present, though, were not about to complain. When your perfidious management team includes luminaries such as Ivan IV (who gave the word ‘Terrible’ a bad name), Leopold II of Belgium, who took the Congo as his personal fiefdom and then set about depopulating it, and the aforementioned Nikolai Yezkov, the line up has the drive and track record to cause havoc. Although male-dominated, they had all in their time seen enough of despotic and murderous representatives of the distaff side to welcome the presence of the Hungarian Elizabeth Bathony. She would be handy if they wanted any young girls kidnapped, tortured and skinned. In keeping with centuries of male hegemony, however, and the lack of suitable adolescents in their immediate vicinity, she was deputed to making the tea.
There was a growing sense of exuberance amongst those lured to this spot through Jenkin’s social networking site. The boy could have had no realisation of what his work might bring about; more mature minds than his would have failed to imagine the scope and scale of this afterworld. Unwittingly, though, he had enabled this gathering, and the Devil, no longer bored, was happy that he had made work for those idle young hands.
Pol Pot, without asking permission from his fellow Gold Members, addressed the group of immediate lieutenants. He berated them to ensure discipline was upheld, and exhorted them to show no mercy. Ironically, considering that all of them were wandering around despite whatever their beliefs had taught them, he promised them rewards he probably couldn’t deliver. Lastly, he ordered them to find and terminate whoever was the leader of the thousands milling around the football pitch.
“Cut off the head.” He said. “Find it and cut it off, and the body will die.”
In a hastily erected wooden structure many leagues distant, a small man in a nylon jacket with a steering wheel sticking out of his chest, and a comfortably built woman in a floral frock admired his completion of the Union Jack in felt tip pen. It would not have been the first time this litany of evildoers had brought disaster to those who were simply trying to make things a little better.
Mussolini, in common with all of the Silver members, went back to his agglomeration of killers to brief them on the project at hand. Whatever his feelings about his grading, he had been m
otivated and excited by the direction from the leaders. He felt that he could lead his troops to victory, preferably from a viewing platform of some kind, and do it with such panache and ruthlessness that there would be no doubt about his status.
He stood on an enormous boulder looking over the few hundred soldiers under his charge. The range of ordnance that had made the transition from the other side was extraordinary. Still not satisfied, the cut-throats had fashioned a trebuchet from materials they could find. Given the march ahead, Mussolini had the thought that it might not make the journey, but could be left as a relic on this hillside, perhaps with a plaque to mark the starting point of a great change in the afterlife.
He passed on the message, that they had a long way to go but that the rewards were great. He built up their self-esteem by emphasising the importance of the role they had to play, then rather punctured it by making sure they knew that any insurgency would be brutally suppressed. Mussolini told them to identify the leaders, to find them and to report to him. Only to him.
“This is a great day for our Republic” he said, to widespread indifference.
“I will lead you to victory!” Most of his audience seemed more interested in comparing weapons, apart from a lone voice crying “That’s what you said last time!” to some amusement.
Rather like a school assembly for ten year olds, a group of heavies moved around the periphery and ‘cajoled’ the listeners into paying attention. Benito apprised them of their role, drinking in the silent concentration, and then reached the nub of his speech.
“The key,” his chest was puffed to his full extent, “is to get the leaders. If you cut off the head, the body will, er, fall over. We will find the people who are leading, and we will send them from this…death…to another death.”
Afterwards, as the troops growled at each other and compared barrel size, Benito slipped on a new grey military jacket he had ‘found’, and buttoned it to the neck, staring sternly into a mirror. Those he had appointed unit captains stood behind, watching him in silence. In previous times they would have been clothed in pristine uniforms, jackboots shining and not a hair out of place. The manner of their death and the lack of a decent military outfitters dictated that they were unshaven, in some cases incomplete, and without exception, unwholesome. Benito, pleased with his appearance, turned to them.
“How do you think it went?”
They exchanged nervous glances and fell over themselves to compliment him on his uplifting performance.
“Sir, when do we leave?” asked an unshaven Croat with a disturbing crevice in his cranium.
“First light.” Said Il Duce. “Then it will be let the games begin.”
Games, or at least a particular series of games, had become a major topic of discussion in the Afternet Control Room. As one of the screens had shown the growing crowd at the Afterworld Cup, and their rising excitement as the tournament worked towards its climax, another had totalled up the exchange of arms for cash taking place on A-Bay. Justin was rich, but strangely dissatisfied with the source of his wealth.
What made the situation worse was that Justin had been forced to lift Geoffrey from a grovelling swoon that could only mean the presence of a God, and this one was hoping to find a way to put some of his fellow deities in the firing line. As usual, the figure with the staff and winged sandals had overshot the entrance, but this time at more detriment to himself than the structure, and was nursing two badly grazed knees.
“O Hermes.” The turnip puller had said in a wavery voice he thought might display respect.
“Mercury.” Said the visitor. Justin did a double take, because he was sure this was the same visitor as last time.
“Really?”
“Yep. Every other week I’m Roman. A few of us do double shifts.”
“Where’s your smelly friend?”
“I outpaced him. You can only take so much of that stuff. Have you got any plasters?” He felt his right knee gingerly.
“I could bind your wounds with this, O Mercury.” Said Geoffrey, whipping off a jerkin slimy with some recent oral spin-off. The God recoiled.
“No, no. Thank you, I am sure it will heal in time.” Mercury paced nervously, his every step followed by Geoffrey, but Marchant was impatient.
“What exactly was it you wanted?”
“Well,” the God turned and looked at Justin a little sheepishly, “we’ve been hearing rumours about some big event happening in the afterworld.”
“There’s a football World Cup, if that’s what you mean.”
“Ah, yes. That would be it.” It was clear that he already knew exactly what it was he was talking about. What was less clear was why he would be interested in the first place and why he was so reluctant to talk about it.
“And?” Justin noticed the reproving look from Geoffrey, who may have thought that with Marcel absent deities may get a little more unquestioning respect in the Control Room. “You’re a messenger, so we assume you have a message?”
“Quite a few of us would like to go. You know, watch the games and all that.”
Justin was about to say, well you’re a God, just go, but the Cumbrian saw his chance.
“That would be a true honour for those dead people, O Mercury. Although of course they must not know you are there.” The Gods often dipped into the hinterland if it appeared that anything interesting might be happening, particularly gambling. They were required, however, to travel incognito.
“We all know that. However, those who wish to visit are not entirely comfortable with being amongst such a throng. We understand there has been quite a gathering. There is always the chance that someone may be harbouring a grudge against a deity who they feel may not have delivered on what they understood to be promises. It would be better were you able to arrange for us to have a separate area from which to view. I have some specifics here.” He reached into his robe and withdrew a piece of paper, from which he read, “Under cover, on the half way line, and with no other spectators in front.”
Justin glanced at Geoffrey, who saw nothing amiss in this request. Had they asked to be borne in upon the wings of a swan he would have gone bird hunting.
“So,” said Justin, not even trying to hide his sarcasm, “ you want to be anonymous to the crowd, whilst in a special viewing area in a prime position, if I understand that correctly.”
“Exactly!” said Mercury. “ Like Bono.”
“Bono?”
“Yes, low profile, doing good without requiring fanfare, that sort of thing.” It seemed, to Justin, a perfect simile.
“We would like you to arrange this before,” Mercury glanced again at the piece of paper, “the semi-finals. Oh, and who is playing, please? Certain Gods want to know what colours they should wear.”
Geoffrey swivelled to his screen and brought up the Afternet World Cup page.
“England against Germany (excluding the Sudetenland), and Brazil against China. Day after tomorrow.” Mercury noted the names on his paper. He waved the scrap of paper in farewell.
“So, that’s understood? Nice seating area for a really good view? I’ll be off then.” And he was, with a faint aroma of burning leather.
“I shall take this task, Justin.” Geoffrey was talking like an extra from The Greatest Story Ever Told, which he always did when a God had blessed him with its presence.
“Geoff, you’ve got to try to get them to build a grandstand in a day and a half. Bit of a tall order, isn’t it?”
“Oh, there are thousands of workers, and besides, look.” He beckoned Justin to the screen focussed on the football pitch and its surrounds. It was a hive of activity, groups of people digging, harnessing tree branches, some appeared to be knitting, and another group were diverting a stream. “They’re all working already. I just have to get them to do a little bit extra.” He glanced at the extinction clock as though it told the time rather than of the end of the line for the Purple Lipped Stickleback. “I’d better get going.”
Even as he said
the words both of them looked up into the air as if sensing a storm, although in fact it was becoming thick with the smell of rotting vegetation. The stench increased and Justin and Geoffrey dived around the room to find suitable pieces of cloth, which they sprayed urgently with Febreze and tied around their faces. Just in time, for Sterquilinus oozed into the room to be confronted by what looked like the remnants of the Hole in the Wall gang.
Justin noted that even Geoffrey didn’t succumb to grovelling to the God of fertilizer, who glanced around the room as the pair cowered in the corner.
“Seen Mercury? Or Hermes, or whoever he is today?”
“He’s gone mate,” said Justin, his voice muffled by the towel impregnated with an aroma reputed to be a mountain stream. “Few minutes ago.”
“He’s a bit slippery, that one,” he shuffled back to the door, leaving scraps of straw and mulch as he went, “I’d better get after him.”
He left, and almost immediately afterwards, so did Geoffrey, both leaving only their inimitable aromas, which Justin sought to combat with an orgy of spraying.
This was incredible. Only a year or so earlier, he had also been solitary, in the office from which he ran his business ‘empire’, and now he was in a miasma of synthetic woodland smells, in sole charge of the system controlling the fate of the dead. Or at least, he was sitting in front of it.
He stared at the screens. The master continued to churn its blur of processed names, several silently ran feeds of television, another showed his rapidly increasing wealth. In life he had largely avoided too much company, unless it somehow gave him cachet, or contributed to his ‘respect’. In the rapidly darkening room, before the flickering VDUs, he felt unutterably lonely.
The Complete Afternet: All 3 Volumes In One Place (The Afternet) Page 51
