by Jack Yeovil
"Is that a no, Mr President?"
"Yes, goddammit, Alex. I mean, yes that's a no…Boris, I'm sorry. I have someone shouting at me."
"The think tank suggest you act."
"Look, Boris, I'll put it this way. You stand down, and we'll stand down and maybe we'll get to go to the New Century party at the end of next year."
"Our sleepers in GenTech Tokyo just woke up, sir. They report that the corp are taking advantage of this window to sink a couple of Russkie ships in the Sea of Japan. We could go in with them…"
"Alex, shut up. Boris, look, we have some information that may be of use to you."
"Sir, we have a secret treaty with GenTech confirming our neutrality in any corporate war with the Soviet Union. You are bound by the terms of that agreement not to share the intelligence I have just given you with Premier Yeltsin."
"I'm the President, Alex, I can do any freaking thing I want to…Boris, look behind you. Off your Asian seacoast. This has nothing to do with us. We're sharing intelligence, here. We're helping you, now could you please just stand down and we'll stand down…Boris, you know I can't speak Russian."
"Mr President, I would like to tender my resignation."
"Shut the freak up, Alex!…Boris, have you got that? We're sending you charts on the satellite hook-up. The Sea of Japan. Get it to your navy."
"Sir, they've stepped back to DefCon 2."
"Boris, thank you, I love you! Boris? Boris? He's hung up! He can't hang up on me, the commie bastard!"
"Sir, we're still at DefCon 3. We could still hit Minsk. This way, we'd have twelve full minutes."
"I'm the President! He can't hang up on the President, can he?"
"Sir…"
"Oh, freak it, Alex, stand down. Get me a press aide. I need someone to write me a speech…"
Dr Proctor was the mouse. Above him, a giant-sized housecat was tangling with an equally huge bulldog.
He stumbled across the littered desert, trying to keep out from underfoot as the growling, snarling, miaowing monsters locked in their mutually destructive embrace.
Chase, catch and eat! That was the cycle of all life. Chase, catch and eat!
Dr Proctor would not be eaten today. He was too small a morsel.
"Holiness, we have the latest data from Mapache. I'm not sure, but there may be some help. Meanwhile, we have some reports from our man in Salt Lake City."
Pope Georgi studied the strip-prints. Cardinal Brandreth, the camerlengo, took them from him and studied them himself.
Outside, the square of St Peter's was full. People had just stopped what they were doing and flooded towards the Vatican. They knew something was happening, but weren't sure what.
The Pope considered. "We must send Sister Chantal to Arizona. Have her summoned."
Father O'Shaughnessy bowed, and kissed the Pope's ring.
Elder Seth was back in Jessamyn's childhood, her backstripes stinging. The nightmares poured in, as he clung to his disciple.
The focal point within his body, where the Jibbenainosay had lodged, was open again, and the Darkness was pressing at it. He was himself a gateway to the Outer Darkness.
In the beyond, the Dark Ones swarmed.
The Jibbenainosay reeled under the counterattack. The Ancient Adversary was turning its form against it. It realized how little it knew of the physical being of this universe. It had to concentrate, to pull its cloaking Darkness around its Cynosure. The Pawn of the Nullifiers had melded with the woman, and was its superior in terms of this universe. In the Outer Darkness, the Jibbenainosay would have dwarfed the Adversary, but here the match was disturbingly even. It funnelled its power into a vast tentacle, and thrust it through the Adversary's energy field, pumping the Darkness through…
On Monsters' Row, they were going wild. Voorhees had wrenched his door off, and was being held down by a dozen officers. Rex Tendenter hung naked from his bars like a monkey, chattering like a mad creature. Staig, Mizzi, McClean and Brosnan were howling like beasts. Etchison was laughing uncontrollably, plucking his eyelashes out one by one. Myers just stared at the walls of his cell, unperturbed by it all.
Voorhees got a cattleprod away from one of the officers, and shoved it through a uniformed chest. Hector Childress clapped as the blood sprayed, and called for more. Tendenter leaped to the floor. His bars had been bloodied. He licked the fast-drying red greedily, smearing his face. Colonel Reynard Pershing Fraylman lay on his military-perfect bunk, his tongue lolling, his face blackening. He had been struck dead early in the riot, brought down by a burst blood vessel. Herman Katz shouted in a womanish, high-pitched voice.
Voorhees had killed five of the guards, by now. Tear gas cannisters exploded and Staig swallowed his tongue, choking quickly to death. Three hefty officers in transpex riot gear jogged through the door, and levelled their guns. Rubber bullets bounced off Voorhees' broad chest, and spanged against the bars.
"Don't freak around," shouted a sergeant who was trying to hold his arm onto his shoulder, "kill the motherfreaker…"
Herman Katz cringed at the bad language.
The riot bulls levelled semi-automatics, and filled Voorhees's chest. The hulking moron kept stumbling onwards.
"Come on guys," shouted the sergeant, "plug the fat…" He was cut off by the next burst. Ricochet bullets slammed into him, and he relaxed, his arm slipping into his lap. Three other officers died in that volley, and Voorhees kept walking.
The riot bulls put ScumStoppers through Jason Voorhees's eyes, and the back of his bald head exploded.
"What a mess," said Herman. "This will never wash out, you know, never. This dress is ruined!"
They were still screaming. Tendenter dipped his fingers in Voorhees's spilled blood and brains, and raised the chunks to his eager lips.
"Freak," said Officer Kerr, "it's time we settled these bastards' hash once and for all."
He shot Tendenter between the eyes, and the Bachelor Boy slumped, still smiling, in his cell.
Childress realized what was happening, and ran to the back of his cell, hiding behind his bunk. Officers shoved their rifles through the bars and shot the chainsaw murderer through his bedding.
"Who's got the keys?" asked Kerr.
"No one."
"We do it through the bars then," said Kerr. "Sandall, you take Myers with the burpgun. He's the worst of them."
Sandall shoved his weapon through the bars, and looked into the empty eyes of the Haddonfield Horror. Even without a mask, his face was a blank. He flipped the safety catch, but the murderer moved too fast for him, and he found himself hugged to the iron. His head wouldn't fit through the gap, but Myers pulled it into the cell anyway, leaving ears, hair and chunks of flesh on the metal.
"Myers has got a gun. Take him."
The sirens stopped, and more officers arrived. Myers tossed the gun into the corridor, and sat down again.
"What's going on here?" asked Deputy Warden Crighton.
"The monst…the inmates attempted escape, sir."
"There'll be a full enquiry, Kerr."
"Yes, sir."
Crighton looked down Monsters' Row, at the corpses jumbled against the walls.
"Freak, what a mess! This is worse than the Tasmanian Devil's leftovers."
Rex Tendenter was buried in the asylum grounds while an overwhelmingly female crowd of over 300 piled lavish floral tributes against the walls of the institution. The widow of Officer Lyndon Sandall, who had been one of five mourners at his modest funeral a week earlier, threw a petrol bomb into the crowd. Sixteen died, forty-one sustained serious burns, and Clara Sandall moved into Sunnydales' Low Security Wing.
The home had kept Dr Proctor's "confinement area" empty for him, just in case he was ever recaptured. Nobody really wanted him back.
Meanwhile, Jason Voorhees's body disappeared from the morgue.
Krokodil felt the Jibbenainosay's arm pumping lethal filth into her spirit body. Concentrating, she reversed the flow, and sent the darkness rushing back
through the tentacle into the body of the demon.
Physically, she was just standing there, the Jibbenainosay towering over her. But spiritually, she was containing the Dark One, spreading her power around the invader.
This must be the Seventh Level.
Dr Proctor thought he wanted to go home now. He wanted his books, and his cartoon videos, and his lawyers, psychiatrists and interviewers.
He turned away from the dog-and-cat fight, and walked into the desert. His home was out there, somewhere.
In the Surfside Pyramid, Gari the Guru raised his arms, and the Congregation joined in one long "ommm." The House of Worship was on the strip, within sight of the best surfing beach on the coast.
Gari told his tanned and even-teethed flock that it was okay to make money and still be spiritually healtily. He put them in touch with their selves, and purged them of any residual feelings of guilt they might have over their worldly success. He taught them to actualize their potential, and not to look out for the other guy. After all, in life there were winners and losers, and there weren't any Gods for losers.
In his audience were the heads of three Hollywood media conglomerates, four ostentatiously anonymous movie stars, a world-renowned porno stud who had recently turned devout, a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon who claimed to be second only to Dr Zarathustra in the field,
Sonny Pigg of the Mothers of Violence, Shirley MacLaine's personal astrologer, a gaggle of surfie chicks and dudes Gari could have sworn were runaway sexclones, the CEO of the LA GenTech subsidiary, the West Coast editor of Guns and Killing, ZeeBeeCee TV personality Lynne Cramer, author of best-selling roadway action fiction Derek Duck, bonsai tycoon Mike Miyagi, sonic sculptor Ritchie Bassett, the Deputy Governor of California, and the religious affairs correspondent of the Los Angeles Times, Harlan Ellison, who would be writing the Pyramid up in his Church of the Week column.
"Today, I want to rap with you about one of our former co-worshippers," Gari said, waving his crystal-tipped wand.
He pulled down the poster-size picture of Bronson Manolo. The Op was standing beside a surfboard, with a bikini babe, caught by the camera in mid-jiggle, on either side. His teeth shone, and his implanted chest hairs could have been painted on his sculptured pectorals. His ballsack swimming pouch made him look as modest as Michelangelo's David.
"When you look at Bronson Manolo, guys," the guru said, "I want you to see a loser!"
The Pyramid People hissed like Dracula confronted with a crucifix.
"Loser, loser, loser," they chanted. Some people threw things of little value: gold fountain pens, diamond earrings, last year's wristwatches. Gari would have them picked up later.
"Here was a cat who seemed to have it, but inside he was just a zeroid waster or else he would be here today."
They were shouting now, screaming their hatred at the outcast.
"Remember, guys, the beautiful never die!"
"Never die, never die, never die!"
Gari was happy. He had his people at the pitch he wanted them. The collection later would be his best yet.
"Winners never die," he shouted, "never die, never die, never die!"
He stopped shouting, and let the Pyramid People's adulation get to him. It hit him like a cocaine rush, but it was better than that. It gave him a thrill in his penis, and he knew he could convert this feeling into anything. Afterwards, he could have any of them, have all of them if he wanted. Promise people eternity, and there was nothing you couldn't get out of them. Nothing.
"Never die! Never die! Never die!"
Gari showed his teeth and extended his arms. His multicoloured robes caught the light.
From the back of the Pyramid, looking out through the clear-glass windows down to the beach, Gari the guru was the only one who saw the tidal wave coming.
"Never die, never die, never die," chanted the Pyramid People.
It was a pity Branson Manolo was dead. This was one wave he would have given anything to be on top of.
Raging against the Adversary, the Jibbenainosay dwindled, its matter being compressed in on itself. The process introduced it to the concept of agony. It felt the whole physical universe pressing against it, and yet knew there was no way back with honour into the Outer Darkness. The Ancient Adversary squeezed.
"This is Lola Stechkin, interrupting your scheduled broadcast to ask the question that's on everybody's lips this afternoon, October 8th, 1998. Just what the freak is happening? Later, we'll be going over to our weather bureau, our correspondents in Washington, Moscow, Tokyo and Rome, to our espers and to experts from the Universities of the world. And we'll be asking you to interface with your datanets to give us your suggestions. But first, here's a message from GenTech…"
…and squeezed…
"Musterr Banks, Musterr Banks, 'tis turruble, turruble, turruble. Wullie the Whale's alive, alive, alive. And the Bolivian ambassadurr's burruthdae partie's still on insaide hus stummuch! We're doomed, doomed!"
"Freak off, Jock, I'm counting money."
…and squeezed…
"Chantal, it's Father O'Shaughnessy…"
"Father, I'm pleased to hear from you. I've been working through those Glenzugge theorems, and I've had some thoughts."
"Papa Georgi wants to see you. It's important."
"I'll be there directly."*
*for more on Sister Chantal's mission, see Demon Download by Jack Yeovil.
…and squeezed…
Dr Proctor stumbled through the sand. He had lost one of his shoes, and was leaving bloody footprints.
He pushed on, the desert swallowing him.
…and squeezed…
Nguyen Seth convulsed, and his eyes shot open. "Roger, we've lost."
That couldn't be.
…and squeezed…
Hawk-That-Settles had been drifting in and out of consciousness. Now, he snapped awake. The horseman was gone, but his wounds were bound. He felt better. The storm had passed.
…and squeezed…
The Ancient Adversary held the collapsed mass of the Jibbenainosay in its aura, and felt the Dark One lose its grip on the universe. The wormhole opened up, and the Jibbenainosay was sucked back through it, its being unravelling as it jetted back up the funnel into the Outer Darkness. There, Ba'alberith, the Mythwrhyn and Nyarlathotep would be awaiting it, waiting to chastise it for its failure. Strengthened by its victory, the Ancient Adversary allowed itself to shrink, to recede, to spiral down.
Krokodil stood alone in the vast space of the desert. The remains of the monastery of Santa de Nogueira were a mile or so in the distance.
She was tired, but unhurt. The thing she had found in herself, and let loose, was coiled safe in her chest again.
At her feet was a lump of crystal, clear but shot through with threads of red. She picked it up, and was transported…
…she floated in the midst of an eternal Darkness, sensing titanic presences, witnessing their eternal struggles. Aeons passed, and the course of the battle swept across the expanse of the Multiple Creation and back, but nothing really changed. The Dark Ones and the Nullifiers still struggled, but there was no victory, nor did either side truly desire the destruction of the other…
…she dropped the crystal, and it sank into the sands.
That was not an experience she wanted to repeat in a hurry.
"No," Seth said, "we haven't lost. Yet. The Dark Ones are angry, but their wrath is for one of their number. We are excused. The Great Work still goes on. Roger, we must prepare to summon a demon. Quickly. You must nurture this one with your blood. We must strike."
Seth stood up, and straightened his mirrorshades. Inside, he could still hear the tick-tock of the crocodile.
He raised the knuckle of his right forefinger to his mouth, and bit. The finger came off and fell away. A feeble spurt of blood splashed on the table, and he drew a sign of protection with it.
He sucked the stump. The finger would grow back soon.
Hawk-That-Setties sat up, and sang h
is song of life. He felt no triumph, for he had not truly overcome anything. But he was alive, when he had had no chance of survival. From now on, his life was blessed, the gift of the manitou. He must be careful with it.
Krokodil heard him and walked across the sand to find him.
Note: for further adventures of Krokodil, Hawk-That-Settles and others see Comeback Tour by Jack Yeovil.
The End
FB2 document info
Document ID: ooofbtools-2012-1-24-14-5-41-943
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 01/24/2012
Created using: ExportToFB21 software
Document authors :
Boo
About
This file was generated by Lord KiRon's FB2EPUB converter version 1.1.5.0.
(This book might contain copyrighted material, author of the converter bears no responsibility for it's usage)
Этот файл создан при помощи конвертера FB2EPUB версии 1.1.5.0 написанного Lord KiRon.
(Эта книга может содержать материал который защищен авторским правом, автор конвертера не несет ответственности за его использование)
http://www.fb2epub.net
https://code.google.com/p/fb2epub/
