by Andy Remic
Suddenly, all the wounded children started screaming, the boys and girls howled high-pitched and loud, ululating cries ringing out and out and filling the cubic playground with pain and terror.
"STOP!" bellowed Keenan, but his voice was drowned as by a waterfall of sound. The screams continued, all merging into a whole of high-pitched squealing noise which seemed to pierce Keenan's ears and drill right through to his brain stem. He covered his ears, and felt something hot there, and when he looked at his fingers he realised it was... blood.
The screaming continued, an endless river of sound, and Keenan turned around, useless gun clasped in useless hands as he realised, for the first time in his life, despite his personal armoury of guns and bullets, knives and bombs, his elite training and decadent, single-minded purpose, he was effectively unarmed, helpless, weak, more childlike than the screaming children who tortured him. He tracked with his weapon, but dropped it. How could he shoot injured children? And what was their crime? To scream? To show their pain and endless torture?
Across the playground, a gate suddenly opened. It was a wooden gate, painted in bright, gay colours. It squeaked, a penetrating noise through the cacophony of deranged children, and Keenan's gaze snapped to see -
His mouth fell open, for there were his two young girls, Rachel and Ally, and they ran to him across the playground, eyes bright and excited, faces flushed with joy. They wore long dresses and sandals, and hair flowed behind them as they ran. They stampeded across the playground, seemingly ignoring the hundreds of screams, and they fell into their daddy's arms and he was on his knees, holding them, smelling the fresh scent of their hair and feeling the soft warmth of their skin.
Keenan fell into his little girls, fell into their smell, into their essence, into their very being. As they hugged, so the screaming backdrop began to subside, began to drop in pitch, declining like a turbine winding down. Eventually, the screams were gone, and only Keenan's peripheral vision showing hundreds of faces, mouths twisted in silent Os, like automatic kids with the volume on mute, disturbing his equilibrium...
"We missed you, Daddy," said Rachel.
"We love you, Daddy," said Ally.
And Keenan was sobbing, great tears of mercury falling down chilled cheeks. A cold, ice-filled wind blew, ruffling his hair, cutting between their embrace like a nitrogen knife. Keenan pulled back a little, looked into their eyes and they smiled sweet beautiful child smiles and something cracked inside Keenan's heart, like a delicate rare bird's egg breaking to spill out precious yolk. There was something wrong. Something twisted. Something deviant.
They are not real, whispered a part of his soul.
They are... dangerous.
But he was overcome, with joy, with grief, with regret, with frustration, and he chose to ignore the warnings because the love he felt, the great surging uplift of joy and thankfulness, quelled any and all negative energy and Keenan decided, there and then, that if he had to, he would die with them, die for them. No regrets. No bullshit. He would be with his girls, forever.
"Will you take us on the slide, Daddy?" asked Rachel giggling.
"And the swings oh please the swings first!" cried Ally.
And it was there, the strangeness; the looks on their faces were wrong, as if they were wearing human masks, and Keenan pulled back a little, frowning, and this action saved his life. The knife blade whistled a millimetre from his throat, so close it almost kissed his flesh, and he blinked, hard, staring at Rachel whose face had changed in an instant from love to hate, from create to destroy.
"Motherfucker," she snarled, and stabbed forward with the blade, young face twisted into a vision that should never sit on a child's face. Keenan swayed, fast, an instinctive movement, and his right arm smashed up and right, knocking the blade away. He rocked back on his heels, took several steps back, and surveyed the two girls.
"What are you?" he whispered.
"I'm going to kill you, Daddy," snarled Rachel, advancing, the long knife held out. Keenan saw ice glittering on the blade. More cold wind blew, sending leaves skittering across the playground. It smelled like fresh snow.
"I'm going to cut out your liver, Daddy," said Ally, and she was more calm than Rachel, less filled with dark emotion. "I'm going to eat your organs. Then we'll see how much you fucking love us." She giggled, the sound jangling, out of place, echoing and hollow like dice in a tomb.
Rachel charged, and she was fast, a blur of movement, too fast to be human and Keenan twisted as she leapt, the blade flashing past his face, but Ally was there, also leaping and Keenan ducked, whirling around and back, backing away, reclaimed gun limp in his hands and he could shoot, should shoot, should mow them down because they weren't his girls, weren't his dead children, they weren't human, no human could move like that, twisting and bending, spider-like in their flexible leaps, but they looked like his children and his finger slid from the trigger. How could he kill his little girls? How could he kill them, again?
Crying, Keenan was backing away. Rachel and Ally spread out, grins elastic on pale faces.
"Gonna cut you up."
"Gonna fuck you up."
They charged, moving fast, twisting and bending and Keenan backed to the see-saw and tripped, fell hard. All wind was knocked from him and Rachel and Ally appeared above, demonic faces gazing down, sneering at him, mocking him.
"Not so tough now, soldier boy."
"You're going to taste death, you pointless cunt."
Keenan blinked, in lazy-time slow-motion. The world descended into a hazy, snow-filled globe and everything was moving slowly, disjointed, unreal. Keenan lifted his hand and stared at his fingers, and they were pale white, fish-white, and he moved them, in slow-motion, as the girls continued to speak but their voices were slowed, lethargic, deep and masculine and making no sense. They lifted their knives, a unity in destruction, and the blades plunged down fast, hard, intent on death and Keenan moved so fast he felt his muscles straining and tendons tearing and self-preservation kicked him up into the sky from a deep well of despair and he slammed sideways into the girls' legs, toppling them like skittles and rolling fluidly to a crouch, eyes narrowed and lips compressed and gun, now real, no longer a dormant thing, in his hands.
"You want to kill me?" he growled.
The girls climbed to their feet, legs heavily bruised, and snarled at him with strings of saliva and snot pooling from clacking jaws. They shook their heads from side to side, as a dog shakes a bone. Their eyes were black now, and feral.
"You're going to have to work for it."
They leapt, and Keenan dropped his gun and lunged, right fist slamming out and snapping Ally's head back. A spray of blood burst from her nose, and Keenan ducked Rachel's blade and smashed his right elbow into her face. She hit the ground, still, breathing ragged. Keenan turned to Ally, but she was stunned, lying on her back, the knife lost beneath the swings.
Keenan uncoiled, releasing a slow breath. He retrieved his gun, and stared in abject curiosity at the matt stock. Then he looked up, suddenly, into a sea of faces.
As the fight had unfurled, so the children had filed out from the Children's Ward. They were no longer screaming, but instead filled the playground with their diseases, their abnormalities, their injuries, their cancers and their amputations. The girl with dark hair and dark eyes stepped forward, and spoke to Keenan.
"Kill them," she said.
"Why?"
"They tried to slaughter you. They deserve to die. They are evil things, they should not be in this place. This is our hospital. This is our ward. This is our playground!" Her voice had risen, and spittle flecked her dark lips, her neat teeth, and her eyes were filled with tears of passion.
"No," said Keenan.
"Kill them!" she shrieked, lurching forward, then stopping.
"No," said Keenan, and he lifted his eyes, met the gaze of the dark child. "I cannot. And I will not."
"Then we will murder you!" she hissed, and pulled free a long, glinting scalpel. The re
st of the children produced weapons, and their eyes were fixed on Keenan, and they smiled dark smiles and their knowledge was infinite, their malevolence a deep dark ancient thing. "We will cut your heart out. And feed."
Keenan threw down his gun, his face bleak, his eyes tired. "So be it," he said, as the MPK clattered.
He closed his eyes, as hundreds surged over him...
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
HARDCORE
Cam limped into the huge domed cavern after a myriad of miniature yet death-defying nighmare encounters he would rather not talk about, withhis twisted scanners only registering at 13%. He tried, again and again, to grab fixes on Keenan, Franco, Pippa, or any of the other members of the squads. And, infuriatingly, the only one he could determine was Sax, the robot dog with the bad wig, asleep and snoring as he recharged back at the Giga-Buggy at the REC Centre, amidst a fresh fall of deep snow.
Cam spun slowly, blue lights flickering. It was very quiet, and very cold.
Above him, the massive dome was smashed through, and the floor below littered with debris. Something had forced its way down here. Something big. And something with devastating firepower. It stunk of Combat K.
Did they leave? Exit by the tunnel?
And, with little other option, Cam had only one set of co-ordinates in his damaged and fizzling memory.
Sax. He would locate Sax.
But then... what was that? Cam detected a huge field of crushed proto-matter; the birthing agent of Stars. Hmm, he thought. If Combat-K are in danger, I could add ignition to that huge source of proto-matter... what a source of detonation! I can damn near destroy half the planet. Inside, Cam's Put Down[tm] War Technology twinkled. It would be like an entire World War! Started by him. He coughed. To save his friends, of course.
Cam rotated.
Which way?
Out of the tunnel, towards Sax and the Giga-Buggy? Or down.
Towards the bomb.
Cam whistled a little tune, and made his decision...
Keenan span in the vastness of space, the vastness between worlds, between dreams, the place where nightmares were spun and made real. Slowly, he drifted for a billion years and the pulse of alien blood in his veins beat harder, and faster, and it burned him for he was merely human, his shell not designed to take such substances.
You are the Dark Flame, said a voice in his mind.
You are special. So very special. This world depends on you.
Keenan opened his eyes, slowly. His eyelids were rigid, almost solid, soiled with a sticky glue. He forced them up and stared at white dust, like flour, which filled his vision. Keenan groaned, and a puff inflamed before him, a mini holocaust. Keenan realised he was lying on his belly, and he rolled over to his back, slowly, the dust soft beneath him and covering his WarSuit, his hands, his hair with its fine powder. He coughed, and chemical needs fought for precedence in his system. Cigarettes, or Jataxa? He realised he wanted a smoke more than anything, and crawled onto his knees, the dust sinking beneath him, soft, pliant, almost dragging him under with its instability.
Keenan glanced left, saw Franco emerging from dark dreams. Franco sat up, powdered in the dust, and glared at Keenan. "Nobody said it would be like that! I had a bastard of a time, I did. It was all... urgh!" He shivered, and checked his penis manically, eventually calming down and giving a big sodden sigh. He looked at Keenan. "How about you, Big Man?"
Keenan shrugged, and climbed unsteadily to his feet. "It was a test. We were on our own, facing our own little nightmares, I think. What happened to you?"
"Mad VD clinic," said Franco, face grim. He scratched his groin. "You?"
"Hundreds of diseased and dying children trying to kill me." He refrained from mentioning his own girls; the memory was too painful, like a glowing hot splinter through the centre of his brain, placed there by the tender caress of a sledgehammer.
"Hey, guys!"
It was Pippa, trawling towards them as if wading through fine sand. She was coated in the substance, and appeared from the gloom almost as a ghost. She stopped, and started laughing at their appearances.
"You two look grim," she said.
"It was a grim time," said Franco, scratching again. "Damn that VD clinic. Damn that dodgy alien sexual disease!"
"What happened to you?" said Keenan. He had found his small tin, and rolled a cigarette. He glanced at Franco. "Is this shit explosive? Because if it is, we're all going up in a ball of flame."
Franco wet his finger and tasted it. Shook his head. "No, nothing detonation worthy here. Feel free to cancer yourself out."
Keenan lit, and Pippa shrugged. "It was a... burns unit." Keenan nodded, understanding evident. He knew Pippa's history, knew exactly why she was such a fine example of damaged goods.
"Sounds like a walk in the park compared to my experiences," Franco muttered, and pushed his hand down his pants, pulling a funny face as he once again fumbled and fought with his own tackle.
"What the hell are you doing?" said Pippa.
"Rearranging the old meat and two veg," scowled Franco. "Leave me alone, reet? It's a very delicate process."
"We obviously passed the tests," said Keenan, staring around himself at the bleak, endless white desert. It rose on dunes, rolled away like a sea of powder, an addict's wet dream. "But where is Betezh? And Olga?"
Pippa searched, eyes wide. "Are they dead?"
"There's only one way to find out. We need to meet VOLOS. But where do we go?"
"That way," said Franco, confidently, pointing in one direction.
"Why?" said Pippa. "What distinguishing feature of the featureless landscape attracts you?"
"I'm just telling you, it's that way."
"Why?"
"Because it is."
"Yeah, dickweed, but why?"
"Because my seventh sense tells me so! They don't call me Franco 'Lucky Compass' Haggis for nothing, you know!"
"There is no direction," came the voice of the avatar. It stood, ankle-deep in white powder, watching them with a featureless, translucent face.
Keenan frowned. "You cheated us. You never said we would be split up; we operate as a unit. A squad. We are Combat K." He gave a grim smile. "Until the day we die."
"It was no trick," said the avatar of VOLOS.
"Where's Betezh? And Olga?"
"They did not pass the test," said the avatar, grimly.
"So they are dead?" bleated Franco, fists clenching.
"No. I did not say that. They are merely... somewhere else. In a holding cage. With the one you call Snake. They will not be harmed, but they may not enter this domain. You see, VOLOS has to make sure you are worthy before you enter the inner sanctum. Once inside, he is defenceless against you despite his might, his age, and his vast intelligence. VOLOS needs to know you are not too... twisted, as examples of your species. He needs to make sure your genetics are of the right calibre, shall we say. VOLOS may be old, but he is wary. He doesn't open the door to those he does not trust."
"I like words like defenceless," muttered Franco, and Keenan could see it, could read it in his comrade's eyes. Get in close and blow the motherfucker away. VOLOS was a scourge, an ancient evil, he had created the junks and now they spread through the Quad-Gal like a pestilence, a horde of insects, destroying everything in their path, toxifying every living planet and species with their vile poison...
Something shimmered in Keenan's mind. He began to comprehend. He began to grasp the strands, and weave them together into a rope of understanding. What made VOLOS evil? Perception. And yet, what did he want with Keenan? With Franco and Pippa? VOLOS was mighty. He could have taken them apart at any point, plucked them from the surface of his planet, his Sick World, and done what he liked with their corpses. Why go through this elaborate charade?
"You are beginning to realise," said the avatar, blank face turning towards Keenan. "That is good."
"We are?" said Franco, and puffed out his chest. "Superb!"
"Keenan is," said Pippa, understanding the si
tuation implicitly.
"Is VOLOS coming here?" said Keenan.
"No. This is the Furnace. VOLOS would not venture this far out."
Franco, who was tasting the powder again, scowled. "It's a bit sour, this stuff, so it is, and it ain't going to win you any culinary awards mate," he said. He laughed at his own joke. "Why do you call it the Furnace? A bit damn and bollocks over-dramatic for what is, if I am not mistaken, a huge sugary bowl of white dusty shit!" He grinned, showing his missing tuff.
"You are mistaken," said the avatar, no element of emotion in its asexual voice. "You walk upon the powdered remains of a billion dead souls. They are cremated in the Furnace. This place is also known, to some on Sick World, as the Mausoleum."
Franco choked, and started scraping coagulated white paste from his tongue. "You mean to tell me you stood there watching me taste powdered dead people?" Scrape. "Their remains?" Scrape scrape. "Their bloody damn and bloody ashes? You sick sick son-of-a-bitch!" Scrape scrape scrape.
"Curiosity killed the cat," said Pippa, smugly.
"Shut up, fine words coming from someone who's bloody frigid."
"Frigid! Why, you..."
Pippa's voice tailed off. Keenan gestured, and Franco, too, halted his erratic oral scrapings.
"There is one more test," said the avatar, and seemed to look up at the sky, agitated now by demeanour, if not expression.
"Do we have a choice?" Keenan's voice was little more than a whisper.
"Not this time. You have come too far. You made your choices, many of them, over previous hours, previous days. Now you are here. Now VOLOS needs your counsel. But first, you must prove yourselves worthy to enter the inner sanctum. I will take you there, when you are ready."
"What's the next test?" blurted Franco.
"So far," said the avatar, "you have been through the world of the child, the babe, the infant. The world of birth. Then you endured individual experiences - moments from your lives which are there like vivid scars deep within brain tissue; not so much earned, as inherited. And now... now you will face..."
