by Andy Remic
"Except for us," said Pippa, voice cold. "Shit. Keenan, we've come stumbling in blind. They've not been trying to kill us, not all of them; they've been playing with us. We're the icing for the cake. The cherry on the Bakewell."
"Using Emerald's special powers," said Keenan, quietly. He could see it, now, the colossal cold spaces of VOLOS's brain; or at least, whatever the thing was that formed VOLOS's brain, "I can feel him."
"He's not human, is he?" said Pippa.
"No. He's trapped here. He's stuck. Locked in place. All fresh meat has to come to him; he has to use a carrot, a lure, bait to entice you into his trap. I bet he threw a party when they set up Sick World; I bet he was like a naive kid in a brand new sweet factory."
"I'm losing this," said Franco. "Who's the kid in the sweet factory?"
"Just check your bombs," said Keenan, voice cool. "We're gonna need lots."
Lunatrick led the way, down spotless corridors, past immaculate wheelchairs and trolleys and wheeled stretchers. They crossed wards full of sparkling equipment, polished floors, beds made up with fresh linen just waiting to receive patients - patients who would never arrive.
"I don't get it," said Franco, as they followed Lunatrick down a long ward containing perhaps fifty beds, all neatly made, all with immaculate bedside cabinets containing jugs of fresh water, sprays of colourful flowers, handmade "Get Well Soon" cards and cardboard piss-pots. There were TVs on extendable arms. It was most civilised. "Why keep it so neat? So tidy? What happened to entropy? What happened to the damn and bloody kipple, eh, I ask you?"
"Because," said Lunatrick, whirling and causing everyone to back-peddle. He smiled. "I have pride in my work." He turned, and continued his ponderous march on heavy boots, flab bouncing.
Franco composed his ruffled feathers. "Hot damn, he nearly got a D5 shotgun blast up his nostrils." He shouted, "Hey mate, don't do that again, reet? I nearly shot your big fat head clean off!"
Lunatrick stopped before large white swing doors. Beyond, there was a roaring sound, a little bit like a waterfall. He focused on Franco, and said, "You wouldn't be the first, my friend, no he wouldn't would he tell him about Big Bill Bates and the Mighty Morphine Shotgun Sellers oh we can't what do you mean we can't why can't you two simply be quiet when I'm trying to have a damn conversation all that bloody happens is you confuse the situation and everyone gets mentally mashed up and we don't know who the hell is talking to who. Right? Right. Right." He smiled, nodding in understanding; an understanding only he understood.
Franco was about to utter a retort when Lunatrick pushed open the swing doors and Franco's jaw clacked shut. For beyond was a hospital ward bigger than anything Franco, or the others, had ever seen. It was like a football pitch. No. It was like ten football pitches. The roof was high and airy, the whole place suffused with a strange white light, not quite daylight, but near enough. There were beds. Thousands and thousands of beds, all laid out in neat rows. Amidst this apparent order scampered and cavorted Lunatrick's Army of the Mad. Five thousand mental inmates, more loony than loony, locked away inter-breeding for a thousand years to create -
"Wow," said Keenan, honestly stunned; and not in a good way.
"It's like an inter-galactic gene-pool gone wrong," said Pippa.
"It's cool!" beamed Franco watching a flock of about a hundred patients, wearing straightjackets, go swarming across one area of the massive ward in very much the manner of a shoal of fish.
"What are they all doing?" said Keenan, in awe.
"They are keeping the place clean," said Lunatrick, voice soft as he led the group to a balcony which overlooked the vast ward. "Awaiting the day the great god from the sky rescues them and takes them to a New World."
Franco moved close, and patted Keenan on the shoulder. "That'd be you, then, mate," he said, relishing the irony.
"Shut up," said Keenan from between clenched teeth.
"God to Five Thousand Looonies!"
"Shut up."
"Father to an Army of the Mad!" Franco persisted, never one to let go of a good bone.
"I'll give you an army of my fist in the middle of your face," said Keenan.
"Now now," said Franco, holding up a hand, "no need to be like that! Getting all violent, like. I was just making an observation."
"'Getting all violent?'" snarled Keenan. "We're bloody soldiers!" He calmed himself, and focused. He saw Shazza and Fizzy grinning at him, and gave a short laugh, rubbing his eyes. "Gods, this isn't what I expected when we touched down... well, what seems over a month ago now!"
Olga moved forward, eyes watching the thousands of cavorting lunatics down below. "You are doing well, Keenan. Let's go an find ze VOLOS, no? Let's kick his big Sick World ass to the moon and back, no?" She rumbled with laughter, and cracked her knuckles.
"This way," said Lunatrick. "We need to get on the LooonieTrain. It will take us through the Layers to the Upsamid." They moved down wide metal steps - all scrubbed spotlessly clean - and beneath the staircase stood a small, white train, which gleamed with chrome parts and polished steel. It had a single carriage, filled with luxury.
"This is one damn strange place," muttered Franco.
"Get in," hissed Pippa. "And don't say a word."
"Why, what's the problem?"
"Nothing."
"It's made of bone," said Olga, leaning close to Franco, so close he could see the small blue dots tattooed on her cheeks. "Ze whole thing, carved from one huge piece of bone! It is most disturbing to see, if you take ze step back!"
"Holy hot damn and bloody crotch bollocks!" snapped Franco, staring, eyes wide at what he realised was a very clever piece of... sculpture. A modern art masterpiece, no less. He moved close, eyed the polished tracks of the narrow-gauge lines, then ran his hand down the train's gleaming flank. It was smooth, and polished, like aged ivory.
Lunatrick gestured, and the group piled into the carriage. Lunatrick moved to the engine block, which even now was hissing softly and emitting thin jets of steam. Suddenly, a horde of lunatics came sprinting over the beds and down the ward aisles, gibbering and chundering, drooling and monkeying, some in straightjackets, some with their arms on backwards, many with only one leg, hopping enthusiastically, eyes a-gleaming. Franco leant back, boot raised to ascend the carriage with a squeak of rubbery PVC nurse uniform and revealing one huge and hairy buttock, but the lunatics swarmed past Franco, unseeing, and crowded around Lunatrick, hoisting the fat King's bulk up and heaving, squashing him into the engine cockpit like a rat squeezed into a matchbox. Lunatrick made many grunting, moaning sounds. Franco stared, eyes wide.
Shazza prodded him with her gun. "Get in, idiot."
Franco gawped, but climbed into the carriage and sat on the polished bone seat. The squad piled in, bristling with guns, and stared around at the smooth, polished environment. Despite its cleanliness, it was the cleanliness of a carcass picked clean by buzzards. Despite a lack of stench, it was the non-stench of a quarantined leper colony. Despite its bloodlessness, it was the bloodlessness of a vampire-scourged city. Drank clean.
Franco shivered. "It's like a morgue," he said.
"Don't be so melodramatic," snapped Pippa. "It's a damn train carriage. Act your age."
"No, I agree," said Keenan, and lit a cigarette. Harsh Widow Maker tobacco filled the small compartment. Snake started coughing, and Olga's gun wavered towards the eye-patch wearing mercenary who had remained strangely silent since rejoining the group. Keenan hoped it was a form of contrition; but he doubted it. "This is so plain and simple, yet so creepy. Inside a hollowed out bone. The question that leaps to my mind is, what sort of creature made the bone?"
"It was a big one," said Pippa.
"A big bone," said Franco, slowly.
"Don't," said Pippa, wincing.
"Oh. My. God." Franco's face went wide. "We're inside a cock!" he snapped, face white with shock, straggle-haired beard bristling. "I can't bloody believe it! I've been inside an arse, I've been inside a giant dildo, and now
a steam-powered cock! Does the god of Franco Humiliation know no bounds? Does the many-spined omniscient monstrosity of Mocked Francos have no remorse? Of course not! Because Francis is here to be ridiculed by the Many Gods of Humour Central, to be joked about, to be mocked and slapped and ribbed and poked! If Nature is a natural entity, She is having a laugh, She is pointing Her finger, and She is rolling on Her back spewing comedy situations for our heroic hero, that's me, that is, Franco! to fall and stumble and tumble into unexpectedly like a flickering fly into a Venus Fly Trap, only probably! yes probably! with a giant vagina at the bottom, or maybe a giant vagina bottom, at the bottom! Ha!"
"Here," said Keenan, and handed Franco a small blue pill.
"Cheers mate."
Franco chewed in silence, as everyone stared at him, many with horror. Thankfully, Lunatrick chose that moment to fire up the bone engine and, with a jolt, they eased away from the huge steel staircase and set off between thousands of rows of neatly-made hospital beds.
"What a place," said Keenan, smoking, and watching the lunatics scroll past. Many waved, those without arms encumbered by straightjackets. Keenan waved back.
"It's horrorshow," agreed Pippa, and watched Fizzy and Shazza talking quietly, heads leant close together, eyes shining. They seemed upset. Fizzy reached out, and stroked a strand of hair from Shazza's eyes and something went click, inside Pippa, inside her breast, inside her heart. Suddenly, she realised she missed contact. Real, honest, naked physical contact. She was so caught up in the process of violence and death, destruction and detonation, that she had forgotten, or pushed aside, the simple needs of the woman inside, the girl inside. To be held, to be touched, to be kissed. Simple, real, human contact.
Pippa sighed, and looked at Keenan. He returned her gaze, and smiled. He was ragged and battered, torn and bloodied. He had two broken fingers strapped tightly together; luckily, one wasn't his trigger finger.
Outside, the simple bone train picked up speed. It chugged. Steam formed a billow around the funnel as it sped between hundreds and hundreds of rows of hospital beds, all manned, cleaned, perfected by the Army of the Mad.
Pippa gave a little shake of her head, caught Keenan watching her, and she returned his smile. Then with a sudden start, she wondered how she looked and stood, locating a polished plate of chrome by the door. She stared into the face of a stranger, a battered, bruised, bloodied, tattered hooligan, a street-tramp with crap in her matted hair, grease and dirt-streaks on her swollen face. "Shit," she muttered, equating that to the way she perceived herself now. Something touched her hand, and looking down she realised it was Keenan's questing fingers. She took his hand, and he squeezed her fingers, and in that simple single moment, in that spark of connection, of brushed skin, of honest intimacy, she suddenly realised everything was all right between them. Well, not all right, but the kill had gone. Keenan no longer wanted her dead. And that, in itself, was a massive leap forward; a milestone achievement of incredible understanding. Possibly even forgiveness.
I didn't do it, she said to herself.
And she almost believed it.
I didn't kill his family.
It was a set-up. I was framed.
But how? Why? And by whom?
And a word leapt to her mind, and somehow, deep within the pulse of her blood, she felt a tickling sensation that swept through her veins and this connection with Keenan, this reawakening of trust, sent sparks running up and down her spine and seemed to ignite the alien essence left in her by the Kahirrim, Emerald. Ganger, came the word. Search the ganger. And Pippa knew; knew it was her employer, Quad-Gal Military, who had turned her into what she had become; but more than that, they had betrayed her, made Keenan hate her. In a flash of understanding she realised QGM had murdered Keenan's family. But why? Why would they do such a thing? And how had they used her as the puppet?
Did she really use scissors?
With a start, Pippa realised she was crying, and Keenan stood, his body close to hers and rocking gently with the lull of the charging train. The rock pushed them together, and for a brief instant the lengths of their bodies touched. Then they shifted away, like a tease, and Pippa looked up into his eyes.
"It wasn't me," she said.
"Shh," said Keenan, and touched her lips.
"I wouldn't do that to you."
Keenan grinned, like a skull on speed. He wanted to say, of course you wouldn't, I believe you, I love you, I know you would never do anything to harm my family. But he didn't believe it. He knew; knew Pippa was a killer, a psycho assassin of the lowest order. He knew it. She knew it. And she knew he understood her soul. The dark corners. The dark places only she, alone, could explore in the lost hours of the night.
Instead, she rested her head against his chest. And was happy with that.
Further down the carriage, where Franco had gone to calm himself after the twisted realisation he rode inside a giant phallus, and thus needed medication to straighten his warped brain, Franco suddenly became aware of a proximity. By the time she was there, it was far, far too late.
"Hi sweetie," rumbled Olga, and sat down, taking up two seats which flexed, creaking in protest.
Franco stared into that wide brutal face, with its tiny dark eyes, and he sought as hard as he could to find something to complement her on. "Um," he said, grinning wildly, the narcotics in his system playing sudden havoc with his reality; with his major malfunction. "Your ponytail is looking very neat today," he said.
"I oiled it," said Olga, and leant in close. She stank of sweat and gun-oil and cordite. Her huge bosom pressed against Franco urgently and he laughed nervously, wondering what it was about him that attracted lunatic women who didn't understand a simple "fuck off".
Franco went to shift, but she was there, nuzzling his neck, his throat clamped in one powerful hand. Her tongue wormed trails of saliva across Franco's neck and cheek and forehead.
"Ahh," he said. "You see, the thing is... ahh..."
"You like, no?" said Olga, and nibbled his nose.
Her free hand, the one not clamped around his throat in a strangler's iron hold, stroked along his inner thigh.
"Um, I was just a-thinkin', we, should, possibly, wait, a, like, a minute," said Franco uselessly. He was like a turtle on its back. A newborn chick. A fly caught useless in a web... stuck and struggling.
"Om," said Olga, as her mouth clamped over his, and she French-kissed him with a strength, power and ferocity he'd totally expected. She was like a drowning woman coming up for air. She was like an industrial bolt-sucker. She was a turbine in reverse, only she didn't just suck him of fluids, she sucked him of life, and when she finally released him from her predatory grasp, gasping and flailing like a gassed and headless chicken, blue in the face from oxygen starvation, swooning from a manic head-rush, the small blue pill finally kicked in, surging Franco's system with a flood of narcotic craziness that sent his mind spinning and his brain pulsing. New colours were invented in nanoseconds. New tastes skimmed Franco's palette. He tasted red and smelt chords and saw the essence of peaches and cream.
"Wow," he said. "Do it again!"
And so, as the train chugged through Ward 1 with Franco kicking and flailing like a murder victim, he had the snog of his life.
The train journey went on for longer than anybody expected. Occasionally, Lunatrick would shout back through the open window of the carriage from his perch in the engine's cockpit. Things like, "Over there we installed five hundred new beds, just waiting for the next delivery of needful mental patients no we didn't actually excuse me I think we did gods I wish you two dickheads would stop your jabbering," and, "That's where we had the great Diazepam Wars of the Fifteen Decades but we all agreed on different sides and it's hard trying to direct a battle when somebody else in your own head knows your plans and sells them to the opposing force for extra dollars for sugary donuts in the canteen." The occupants of the bone carriage nodded, sagely, and wondered just how big a ward could actually be. They also wondered just w
hen the hell Lunatrick would realise that he and the other patients were in a closed circuit, a loop, and no matter how well he maintained his Asylum - well, they weren't ever getting any new patients. Period.
The train started to increase its speed, accelerating over the horizon of beds. They thrummed past, and Keenan glanced at Pippa. "How many do you reckon there are? A million? Two?"
"At least," said Pippa. "It's a gross misappropriation of hospital funds. The management should be fucking ashamed of themselves. Ha ha."
Keenan gave a smile halfway between nasty and sardonic. "Well," he said, grimacing, "why change the habits of the last fucking millennia? It's always the hospital management that fuck it up, with deviated funding, backhand bonuses and under-staffing. They should be fucking skewered."
Snake eased forward down the carriage, and sat beside Keenan. "It's going all weird," he said.
Keenan stared at Snake as a lion stares at a human; in base hatred, distaste, but with the wariness of meeting a despised cunning and lethal fellow predator.
"What is?"
Snake nodded to the window. "Look."
Outside, the speeding passage of beds seemed to bend. The whole vision of the outside world was curving, and the mental patients had fallen behind, now leaving nothing but vast acres of spotless, neatly-folded hospital beds. Millions of them. Waiting for patients that would never come.
Even as Keenan watched, the curve became more pronounced and he stumbled to his feet, glancing over at the other members of the squad, all of whom were agitated. All except Franco. He was staring out of the window, whistling.
"What do you see?" snarled Keenan.
"Nothing," said Franco, giving Keenan a strange look. "You OK? You look like that time you had seventeen pints of Wife Beater and that dodgy ostrich kebab. You were sick all over that homosexual lap-dancing senile delinquent. Those were the days!"
"It's curving!" said Keenan. "The whole world outside is curving!"
Franco glanced outside, then back to Keenan. "You're drunk, mate," he snorted. "It's fine, reet?"
