The Emerald Burrito of Oz

by Skipp, John; Levinthal, Marc

  Ralph jumped out again, and stumbled up to the front door. I followed him, and Ledelei followed me. Ralph pulled up a huge, ornate brass knocker from the center of the door, and slammed it down again, three or four times.

  After a few seconds, an old man with a long, white, soup-stained beard opened the door. He peered out cautiously, holding a candlestick up in front of him.

  "Yeah?"

  "I came to get somethin," Ralph said to the guy.

  "You need what..."

  "I came to get somethin. About twelve years ago. I left it here."

  "Left it here, you say?"

  "Yes."

  The old man looked down at his feet for a second.

  "You Ralph?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, come in, boy, come in."

  We were all ushered inside, into a long, low room where a large fire burned in a hearth, and a grandmotherly woman sat in a rocker near the fireplace, knitting what looked like a sweater. She had a pile of these, already completed, lying on the floor next to her. She smiled sweetly at us.

  "The Three Adepts got tired a long time ago," the old man said to me, apropos of nothing. "They moved on—to where, I can't say, but when they did, Ozma decided to leave the boys and girls in our care, and we been takin care of 'em ever since."

  I nodded my head, said "Is that so?" at appropriate moments, wondering what the hell he was talking about.

  Then he said, "Abadabio somingali tovena, sti nali porenga," and I must have gotten a really weird look on my face that was familiar to Ledelei, because right then, she said something equally incomprehensible, and shoved a fistful of language leaves into my hand.

  A few seconds after I ate those, the old man introduced himself as Sahmamool, but told us to call him Sam, and said that his wife's name was Lahda.

  Lahda looked up for a moment, smiling, then lowered her eyes back to her task and began to rock again.

  Sahmamool beckoned us into the next room, which turned out to be another long, low hallway. He stuck the candlestick out in front of him, and beckoned us some more. Down at the end of the hallway was a large, high door. These people in Oz were incredibly fond of big doors for some reason. Go figure.

  "Useta call em Flatheads, way back when. But now, it's not-—what do you Earthers say? Not 'P.C.' P.C., shit. Them boys' heads always been flat as a table top. Nothin much in 'em. The Adepts tried to give em brains one time. They were all smart as a whip when they had 'em. But they just made a mess of it, like always. Got themselves into a war, started makin' magic. Real good at making messes, these ones.

  "Ozma didn't much care for the war or the magic making. Took 'em off their mountain, took away their brains, brought 'em up here where somebody from Emerald could look in on 'em once in a while." He looked at me, pointed. "I heard one of you Earthers wrote a pretty story about it all one time. Slapped a ridiculous happy ending on there. Heh—least they still have a mountain." He leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, "Still got a little magic, too."

  There were maybe a hundred of them, men, women and children, all dressed in long shapeless, filthy gowns, in a gigantic room like a gymnasium. They were curled up in various states of sleep, and their snores rose up as one, like a chorus of chainsaws in the distance. They appeared to be examples of a race of humanoids I hadn't seen yet, kind of a cross between the Frankenstein monster and Zippy the Pinhead. They were all completely bald and, starting at just above the eyebrows, their heads were absolutely flat.

  "Now you gotta be quiet," Sahmamool whispered, "they sleep pretty sound, but no use takin chances. One wakes up, they all do."

  We stepped gingerly through the room, following Ralph as he tried to recall exactly where whatever it was he was looking for was.

  "There was a goddam trap door aroun here somewhere," he said, a little too loudly. A few of the Flatheads stirred in their sleep, rolled over and resumed snoring. We all gave him really dirty looks, and Sahmamool waved us over to a particular patch of wall that looked, to me, the same as the rest of the wall.

  "The switch is right here," Sahmamool said, as he set his candlestick down and reached his hands up to perform some hex on the wall. He hesitated in mid-whammy. "Are you sure you need t'do this now?" he asked Ralph, "because this here trap door ain't been oiled in quite some time, it just occurs to me." He looked around at the sleeping giants. "They might make a rukus."

  "Look, Sam," Ralph shot back, "I don' know if you know what's been happenin outside lately, but, yeah, I need ta do this now." Then he looked around nervously through his drunken haze. "I need to. I'll take my chances."

  Ledelei and I stared at each other, deadpan.

  Sahmamool wiggled around like Charles Manson doing a jail-cell crazy dance, and a trapdoor of gnarled old wood appeared on the wall where there had been nothing a moment before. It started to tip outward and down, on chains and hinges that had been shut, seemingly, since the beginning of the last ice age.

  It creaked long, and loudly. From behind us, there was a collective groan, like a thousand Boris Karloffs simultaneously flinching from the peasant's torches.

  "Oh, shit," said Sahmamool.

  I turned around in time to see the first oversized turd wizz by my head, slam against the wall and slowly slide to the floor. This was followed by several more, which I, along with everyone else, had distinct trouble dodging. They had pretty good aim, those Flat-heads. In no time we were all groaning in disgust as we were pelted with filth, as they scored hit after hit. The Flatheads were shambling towards us, children in tow, flinging feces that seemed to be materializing into their hands. The few who didn't possess the remnants of their magic were stopping to squat, producing their projectiles the old-fashioned way.

  The trapdoor took an eternity to finally make it to where we could all squeeze through it, and away from the gymnasium full of excited Flatheads. We got inside, and all grabbed hold of a rope that was attached to the inside of the door. That sucker was heavy, but we got it shut without too much trouble, just as the Flatheads reached it and started banging on the outside.

  The stench from our clothes and hair was appalling. We looked around us in the feeble light from Sahmamool's candle. The room was of the same rough-hewn wood as the rest of the place, but this hidden chamber was filled with junk: boxes and chairs, and old tables, the usual attic detritus. Everything was choked with dust and cobwebs.

  Ralph started searching around as if nothing had happened, swatting at cobwebs, overturning crates, peering into corners.

  I flashed Sahmamool a look of pure hatred. "You call that a 'rukus'?"

  "Seen worse," he muttered sheepishly from over his candle, shadowed from underneath in the classic scary-story light.

  "I need to bathe," Ledelei said casually.

  "Overhere!"

  Ralph motioned for us to come over to where he was hefting a large canvas sack out of a crate. There were four of them in all, surrounding him on the floor. At his instruction, we each picked one up. They were heavy. Sam had trouble with his, so Ledelei and I each grabbed an end of his bag and lifted it.

  "Issere another way outahere?" Ralph asked Sahmamool.

  Sam looked down for a moment, then fixed Ralph with a serious gaze. "Not that I know. But I only been in here the one other time myself. So..."

  We stood there for a little while, listening to the Flatheads growling outside.

  Sahmamool scratched his chin. "Hmmm. There is one other way. Seein' as I already did the hex to get in here, I might as well." He looked around at us. "You won't tell Ozma, willya?"

  We all assured him that we wouldn't tell Ozma.

  "All right, then," he said.

  Sam wiggled his hands over his head, and made some incomprehensible sounds that would not lend themselves to translation by the leaves. There was a popping sound, and instantly, we all found ourselves in the front room again with Lahda, next to the fireplace. We were all miraculously clean, too, just like we were cartoon characters, fine and dandy in the next scene
after just having being steamrollered or burnt to a crisp.

  Lahda looked up from her knitting. "Some trouble with the children, Sam?"

  "Yeeap," he replied. "I reckon we got some cleanin up to do in there"

  "Hmm," she said, not looking up again. "Best stop it, now, with the hexin'. We'll clean up the regular way. Looks like we got us a late night tonight again, husband."

  War Journal

  Entry # 11

  After the battle, back inside the city walls, the last of the venders moved their wares in through the gates. For some reason, no one wanted to stay out there and party with the black cloud and its friends.

  The big stone guys—who I now referred to as "Rockys I through VT'—had successfully carried back Lion and Tiger. Both of whom were still alive. Both of whom were real messed up. They were among the first to be treated, although dozens of healers were tending to the wounded. It felt like I was the only one who hadn’t gotten maimed.

  Aside from some minor cuts and abrasions, Allalo and his pals had done pretty well, too (except, of course, for the one who died; and evidently, even he died well). The whole batch of us hung out together on the sidewalk near the gate, passing around a bottle of this extraordinary tonic that he'd been saving for just such an occasion. I could feel my poor old depleted tissues revitalizing by degrees, my exhaustion transforming into a warm, slightly drowsy contentment.

  Lots of folks stopped by to thank us for our valour. These included defectors from the opposite camp, who were grateful in the extreme. They corroborated our worst fears about the Hollow Man's black-eyed minions, telling horror stories about draft resisters— zapped with black lightning—who vanished, then returned as violent Stepford munchkin replicas of themselves.

  It made me wonder if that was a process that happened automatically, the second you got absorbed; or if it was an optional feature of the lightning, controlled at the discretion of Bhjennigh. If it was the former, that would help explain why Hwort and Waverly had no personality, and why O'mon couldn't fight for shit.

  In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that Bhjennigh had no control over this aspect of his magick. Like he conjured up some genie to ask for evil power, and the genie said, here’s your evil power. Take it or leave it. It's all we got. There was no practical reason I could think of to make second-rate drones out of serious, willing allies.

  Unless, of course, they were starting to get uppity.

  (I wasn't sure, though, what that said about Skeerak. He didn't seem like he needed any extra villification at all; but there he was, with his eyes all black. And if he was only operating at partial capacity, then thank God I hadn't faced him in his undiluted state!)

  Everybody had their theories on the subject, but I realized that I really wanted to discuss it with Mikio. Or maybe Ozma. Or maybe both.

  I also wanted to know what that green glow was.

  By this time, another hour had gone by; and though tuckered to the max, I felt like I could at least get up and walk around. So I bid adeiu to friends old and new, then headed on back toward Mikio's place.

  The mood in the streets was one of sober celebration; you really couldn't help but be cheerfulness-impaired by the presence of so much carnage. All the same, I saw plenty of action going down at the kissing booths, which now lined the streets. And it wasn't like anyone had stopped eating or drinking. I smiled at the throngs of well-wishers I passed, but could not be persuaded to dance with any of them.

  Dragging my ass up the trillion steps to Mikio's roof was no fun at all, so I was slightly cranky by the time I arrived. But this burned away quickly when Mikio swept over, surrounded by his friends, and the whole lot engulfed me in an upright monkey love pile.

  "We're so proud of you!" Mikio said, evidently speaking for everyone. I wallowed in the adulation until I had to sit down again. Fortunately, Mikio sat down with me, letting me dissolve into a purring mush-woman as he held me in his arms. I babbled about my black lightning theories for a while; he went "hmmmn" a lot and periodically squeezed me, not having much more to add on the subject.

  But when the subject of the green glow came up, he said, "I was meaning to ask you about that." So I told him what happened. And

  he said, "Wow."

  Then he told me about the beam. How, in fact, it was the Skyrrla that I'd felt out on the field. He and Dr. Pipt and the rest of the gang had fiddled around with their device until they managed to refine a beam out of it, which they then began to experimentally fire down at the battlefield.

  So far, the few results they'd gotten back were extremely mixed. There were reports of slight headaches in the first round of firing, followed by a second round that just seemed to make people confused. The third time didn't do much of anything, so they tinkered some more, basing their adjustments on the way the shifts in Skyrrla-energy made them feel. When they got what they felt was a pretty good vibe, they fired again.

  This time, more than a dozen people reportedly found themselves stark naked, in the middle of pitched battle. This resulted in much hilarity, and only one death: the fabulous T'wah Sampo, who got so entranced by some black-eyed munchkin's knockers that she easily staved in his teeny little head. (I tried to feel bad, but I just couldn't. Based on my figures, the potential for date rape in Oz had just gone down 100%.)

  Then the Skyrrla-device started acting funny, so they modified again. This was the final blast, to which I was privy; and this time, not only was the beam intensely focused, but the Skyrrla actually aimed itself. (Which would lead me to believe that it was looking for me.)

  The beam lasted, they said, for just over a minute. Then the device started overheating, and abruptly shut down. This concerned me. I asked if the Skyrrla was okay. Mikio said, "Oh, yeah. It's just resting, I think." He was guileless and sweet, so I believed him intrinsically.

  After that, I got very sleepy; so I was delighted when Ginko and Faffo Boff announced that they'd made me a rooftop bunk, then cheerfully carried me to it. That way, I could nod out in regal splendour, but still be close to the action if it happened. Mikio kissed me again, as a send-off to slumber, then went back to work as I snuggled my pillows. His taste was on my lips, but I was too beat to whip up serious horny thoughts.

  The next thing I knew, I was out like a light; and I didn't wake up until several hours later, when the black clouds finally scraped against the walls of Emerald City.

  "If you stare into the abyss long enough, it will punch you right in the nose."—Gene Speilman, 2007. That seemed to sum up the enigma wrapped in a riddle that was Ralph, apologies to Nietzsche and all that. He had stared into the abyss with the best of them, and now he was somehow going to unzip his pants and piss right into the abyss. What concerned me was whether or not we would live through that particular activity.

  We barreled down the mountain in the feeble yellow predawn light, tires squealing as the humvees preternaturally hugged the edge of the cliffside at speeds no human driver could ever maintain.

  Ralph had still given no information about our destination. I mean, I knew which direction we were headed, but I still couldn't figure out precisely what he had in mind, if anything. Or what he had in those bags. I guess it served me right.

  In no time we were off the mountain, hauling ass across dark rolling hills.

  Ledelei and I had come to the sleep-deprived conclusion that this might be our last cruise, and so after some awkward silence decided to pass the time in our cosy little humvee in the best way possible: rolling around in the back seat with our clothes off. It was really weird, that first time. Don't get me wrong—I liked it alot, but the sense of urgency about it made me feel like a spawning salmon. Impending doom, random destruction and fucking: I'd heard of this sort of thing happening during wartime, but it had never happened to me before.

  Well, enough of that. I mean, it was great, but who the hell wants to hear about it? Writing about it seems to be the literary equivalent of those horny couples at parties who can't seem to
figure out that they should leave, and spare everyone the embarrassment of seeing them stick their tongues down each other's throat. You know, great, hooray, I got laid, next.

  Yeah, next.

  The sun rose in the sky for about five minutes, then proceeded to set again in reverse as it grazed the hideous black cloud. But before it retreated, the dawn light revealed the shapes of the six radio dishes, the ones Ralph had told me I'd seen before. I could now clearly discern what I had first taken to be smoke rising from under them: the black cloud was actually emanating from the back side of the dishes. It was flowing through them, coming from some unknown source, and shooting out the other side, into the Ozian sky. The last time I hadn't been so close; we'd approached the castle from farther to the west, and the view of the dishes had been obscured by hills.

  Now I could see just how large that battle had been. We shot by what must have been the remnants of the south-eastern end of the carnage. Corpses dotted the hills, and I could see, off to the right, the gutted frame of a farmhouse smoldering, complete with a stiff belly-up cow on what used to be the front lawn.

  There was a thud, and a change in the frequency of the white noise under our feet. The ride smoothed perceptibly as the wide dirt path we'd been traveling on became paved asphalt.

  The dishes and environs were now close enough to be seen in detail. Behind them was the fog-obscured outline of the Fortress, an ominous tall column stuck in the middle of a low, long rectangle, looking more like some Dickensian factory than the castle of an evil warlock. It looked to be maybe two miles away, which was close enough as far as I was concerned.

  Following Ralph's cue, our vehicles all slowed as we approached. A chain link fence surrounded the land containing the radio telescope array, and a gatehouse, next to a bigger barracks building, stood in the middle of the paved road that led up to the complex. That road went through the gate and crossed another road before continuing on to the fortress. The other road ran out in both directions to the dishes, which were spaced out over a few miles in the surrounding hills.