The what-if hypotheticals of the way Jim's life might have gone if he hadn't met Ruska were the worst part. For instance, perhaps he may have beaten the odds and actually survived another Scumbag's tour, and this might have even meant engaging in lots of messed-up debauchery with groupies who wouldn't pass for carpet-people. Maybe, given the right breaks, Jim might have hit the big time by saving up enough wrinkled Amerikan pounds to buy an all-seasons pup tent and a padded sleeping bag. Or he might have even gotten into the formal property market and invested in his own shelf in a utility cupboard somewhere...
But no. Instead, all Jim had was this dump, his despised family and the nose hairs of a long-dead rat tickling his throat.
Jim had made his decision by the time the cloud had come within three hundred metres. He slipped into the dumpster, closed the lid, and cowered like the mutt he was.
He waited, listening intently in an attempt to gauge the storm's progress. Although Jim was sealed inside a metal skip, he could clearly tell that the dust flurry had come to a sudden halt outside. Jim wasn't the sort of idiot that would get fooled by the same thing six times in a row, so he continued to listen intently for the storm to start up again. After all, Jim assumed that he was in the calm eye of the storm. He'd heard about “the eye of the storm” at some big building full of very small people wearing identical uniforms that he used to attend as a kid, but Jim couldn't remember what the place had been called.
Scawl? Scrawl? Skewl? Something like that.
Standing up a little - just enough to poke his face out of the dumpster - Jim watched the biggest, blackest, shiniest Imperator-model limousine he'd ever seen as it gradually faded into existence from the heart of a thick, brown cloud of spraying grit and dust. Its glossy finish was showroom-perfect, despite just completing a trip through the badlands.
With only his beady eyes poking from the dumpster, Jim watched and waited.
*
Jeeves stepped from the driver's door, and Ernest's limousine visibly tilted from the massive shift in weight. Stomping down the entire thirty-eight metre length of the ridiculously impressive luxury vehicle, Jeeves opened the rear door for his employer. Two red-carpeted steps unfolded and Ernest Fell emerged, wearing Armani sunglasses and obviously not enjoying the weather. The size difference between Ernest and Jeeves was almost comical.
It had been years, but Ernest immediately knew something wasn't right. Scanning his lensed eyes over the “abandoned” service station, Ernest could see clear signs of habitation everywhere. For starters, the layers of festering garbage and corrosion had been carefully sorted into separate piles according to type: metal, plastic, wood, paper, and so on. In addition to this, there were another two large heaps. One was made up of thoroughly-picked bones of every size and shape, and the second was composed of pelts, skins and home-brew leather. On top of that, all the walls had all been decorated with primitive paintings of mutated animals in reds, browns and black. Ernest couldn't see any paint cans, so he assumed the designs had been done with the bodily fluids of some animal.
“We are not alone,” Ernest growled.
Jeeves burped into his gloved hand. The black leather sizzled and smoked a little from the corrosive fumes. Ernest gave him a Look.
“Sorry, Mister Fell,” Jeeves rumbled. “Acid.”
Before he could say another word, Ruska came knuckling out of the heat distortion at full speed with Bob still clinging to her shoulder. She skidded to a halt at the sight of Jeeves, who was roughly her size. She shielded her small child from the strangers, looking at Jeeves with an odd expression. Although Bob was hidden behind his Mum's leg, he did his best yokel impression by staring at the two men with his mouth hanging open.
“You not welcome here,” Ruska snapped.
Ernest smiled. It was made of ice.
“An interesting order to give, seeing as though you are on my property.” Ernest chided. “Now, tell all of your fellow squatters that you have exactly one minute to pack your things, otherwise...” The frosty smile returned. “Well, let's just say being evicted is the least of your worries at this point.”
Still cowering in the dumpster, Jim held his breath as Jeeves drew a tiny, tiny kinetic accelerator pistol. Jim couldn't muster enough courage to do anything more than silently watch things unfold, even though the accelerator pistol was smaller than a child's cap-gun.
Ruska reared up to her full height. The weapon didn't intimidate her in the slightest.
“Is our home.”
Ruska's words hung in the air like a bad smell. Nobody moved, blinked or breathed for a few silent seconds. Finally, Ernest nodded wearily at Jeeves. The massive man calmly turned off both safeties with one flick, but he didn't bother raising the weapon in threat. After all, Jeeves followed the most basic tenant of gun use: don't point a pistol at anything unless you intend for it to die.
Ruska sniffed at Jeeves from ten metres away. She had a weird look on her face, as though deep in thought.
“I know you.” Ruska hissed. “I know your smell.”
Jeeves' expression didn't change. He blinked.
“I believe you are mistaken, Miss.” Jeeves finally said, scanning his eyes up and down Ruska's thick pelt. “I'm would have great difficulty in forgetting you.”
Unable to hold his breath any longer, Jim picked this moment to exhale noisily. Ernest's head snapped around to regard the dumpster, and the crimelord raised a thin, manicured eyebrow above his Armani sunglasses. Producing a small item from the pocket of his double-breasted jacket which appeared to be no larger than a packet of cigarettes, the box unfolded into a weapon that had more in common with a minigun than a cap pistol. It whined in activation and little lights flickered on.
“Safety off,” the gun chirped.
“Come out, please,” Ernest requested calmly, looking down the sights.
Pushing up the dented metal lid with his equally dented head, Jim held up both hands as he slowly got out of the dumpster. Thanks to the fact he was clumsy at the best of times, Jim tripped over the cusp and sprawled in the sand. Dozens of colourful pills spilled over the glassed earth from his loinskin pockets.
Ernest froze. He recognised the Blink tabs straight away, and gaped like an imbecile at the thought of what their presence meant. Whipping his head back towards the service station, Ernest finally noticed that the trap door to his automated drug lab was yawning wide open. In shock, Ernest had to hold onto the door of his limousine for a moment.
“They got in!” Ernest choked.
Grinning hopelessly from the ground, Jim remembered how to put two and two together and came up with the best answer he could at such short notice.
“We, uh, saved some of your stash.”
Ernest's temples began to visibly throb. Veins popped out over his forehead and neck, and his skin turned lava-red. Ernest's eyes opened so wide that it was a wonder they didn't simply fall out of their sockets.
Jim guessed that the guy was mad.
“How much have you stolen?” Ernest whispered. His voice was like a blade running across bone.
“Uh...” Jim managed.
“How much?”
Jim sighed.
“Roughly...all of it.”
Ernest lost all colour. He was beyond angry, beyond insulted. He twitched a little. That enormous gun hung limply from his fingers.
“Okay,” Jim said quietly, trying to sound plactating. “Okay, look, I'm sorry, all right? I kinda thought it was weird that somebody would leave such primo gear out here, but...”
Jim’s words ended on a cliffhanger, for Ruska chose that moment to bellow and run for Jeeves with both her thick ape arms raised for war. Turning, Jeeves smoothly caught both her meaty paws with his own, dropping his accelerator pistol in the process, and the two equally-matched titans began to wrestle. Gritting their teeth and growling like animals, Ruska and Jeeves pushed against each other with all their might, fighting for supremacy. Soon, Jeeves glowed scarlet with exertion. Lines of sweat carved down his
slab of a head, and after a few more seconds Ruska finally began to get the upper hand. For a moment, it seemed like Ruska was going to drive Jeeves all the way down to the ground and crush him like a sparrow egg, but then the hired thug did something unexpected: he gave up.
Jeeves fell suddenly and deliberately to the sand, causing Ruska to overbalance. With a flick of his mighty legs, Jeeves slammed Ruska face-first into the glossy black paintwork of the limousine with all his strength. Faking one way before rolling in the other direction just in case Ruska wasn't as stunned as he hoped, Jeeves snatched up his lost pistol, tumbled to his feet in a way no man of his size should be able to, and prepared to pop Ruska in the back of her skull. However, the moment Ernest had a clear line of sight on Ruska he opened up without hesitation.
For Bob and Jim, the entire Universe stopped.
Ernest, a man who was as thorough by nature as he was cruel, calmly offloaded an entire clip into Ruska's prone body in a cordite-scented tornado of smoke and fire, and he continued to blast away until his unfolding kinetic carbine helpfully chirped, “Your ammunition has been depleted, Mister Fell. Please reload me at your convenience.” Stepping over the splattered mess, Ernest checked where Ruska's head had slammed into his limo during her final fall: nope, not a scratch. Good paint. Very good paint. Worth every penny.
Stunned beyond the point of rational fear, Bob sprinted over to his dead mother's body and screamed and shouted as he tried to make her get up, to shake her awake. Ignoring the shrieking of the small boy, Jeeves calmly turned to regard Jim. The thug raised his comically small pistol at Jim's stupid expression and called over his shoulder to Ernest.
“Kill them, too, Mister Fell?” Jeeves asked. The thug said it so casually that you'd think he was asking if a passing cloud looked more like a pony or a clown.
Jim’s eyes remained fixed on the barrel of that tiny, tiny gun. He was well aware that even the smallest kinetic accelerator pistols could splatter you all over the room with a single shot, and this one looked illegally modified. For a time, the silence was somehow worse than simply copping a round in the face and getting it over with.
Ernest finally managed to regain his powers of speech at this point, and looked down at Jim as though regarding a rodent who had crapped on his kitchen floor.
“Look at him,” Ernest growled, narrowing his eyes. “Life is far crueller than a bullet could ever be. Beyond revenge, there is no value in killing him.” Ernest blinked, regarding Jim in a mathematical way. “There's no Face value in stepping on bugs, is there?”
Jeeves nodded and holstered his weapon. Bob was still screaming in the background, clutching his Mum.
“I'm taking Mister Fell home now.” Jeeves explained to Jim just in case he was as stupid as he appeared. “Do anything comical and you both go the way of the monkey, understand?”
Jim stuttered and slurred for a few seconds, dribbling, but nothing coherent came out. His eyes flicked from Ruska to Jeeves, Jeeves to Bob, Bob to Ruska and so on, unable to process the scene for far too long. He finally spoke.
“Wait!”
Jeeves looked at Jim like he was some special kind of moron. Ernest tilted his head in confusion, amazed at the sheer lack of intelligence he was witnessing. It was borderline hilarious.
“Yes?” Jeeves asked slowly.
“You carn't just leave me here!” Jim wailed. “Or me son! Me kid! The boy won't last a week without his Mum!”
Before Ernest could explain how amazingly little he cared about the issue of Jim's life and/or the life of his son, a blur slammed into Jeeves' tank-like chest and a pair of things that were equally orange and sharp bit into Jeeves' face at high speeds. Bob repeatedly swung his hook and cleaver against the thick head as hard as he could, but within half a dozen strikes the weapons had exploded into a shower of rust. Furious beyond words, the wildboy immediately latched onto Jeeves' nose with all of his baby teeth, and attempted to bite it off.
One of Bob's canines broke away on impact. It was like trying to chew through marble.
Although surprised for an instant, Jeeves quickly grabbed a handful of Bob's filthy hair. Despite just having his face panel-beaten with weapons, Jeeves didn't have a mark to show for it. It was as though the thug's skin was bulletproof or something.
Jeeves held Bob up to the sky by effortlessly straightening his arm, and didn't so much as flinch when the small child tried to bite off his thumb. Yet again, Bob found that Jeeves' skin was like living rock, and couldn't break through it no matter how hard he tried.
“I reckon he can look after himself just fine,” Jeeves noted calmly.
“Now,” Ernest said slowly, looking from Bob to Jim and savouring the moment. “I am a fair man, and I understand that it's very likely you have little in the way of...resources.” Ernest blinked slowly, like a lizard. “So, although I'm not going to kill either of you, you are going to pay back what you owe.”
“I don't have nuthin,” Jim sulked.
Ernest sighed in frustration.
“Yes, that is what I just spelled out. However, despite what you may think, you actually have something of value, a single treasure that may serve to repay your considerable debt. This one thing stands directly between your life continuing, and having your organs sold to the highest bidder.”
Jeeves didn't need any further prompt. He carried Bob to the back of the limo, popped a generous trunk, and threw the nine-year-old into it like so much luggage. Jeeves adjusted his tie and regarded Jim before getting back in the driver's seat.
“Have a nice day, sir.”
All of the open black doors scissored back into place, Jeeves revved the antigrav wafers with a whine, and Ernest's limousine flew away at top velocity. Glass and rocks sprayed in their wake, pelting Jim as he helplessly ran after the speeding limo, tripping and falling pathetically in the slipstream within a hundred staggering metres.
With unexpected tears now coursing through the dust on his face, Jim began to wail in agony. Snot strings mingled with the ropes of saliva gushing from his mouth, and Jim lay with his face on the ground as though praying to Mecca. Jim collapsed, his shoulders fell, and he died a little inside.
*
Night rose high in the sky like a black cat arching its back. Jim slowly continued to drudge his way through the badlands and salt plains of the monochrome desert, holding the raw, painful stump that used to be his left ring finger.
Eventually, the deep purple of midnight transitioned into the muddy pastels of dawn, and still Jim continued to drag his feet one after another, his tongue and the roof of his mouth rubbing like pieces of sandpaper.
All Jim could do was concentrate on getting slightly closer to the next endless dune, hoping against hope that he'd see a glimmer of the neon skyline of outer Vegas, which could be anywhere from ten to a hundred kilometres away.
He had a long, long way to go.
Ruska's death had brought things into perspective for the first time. Rather than feeling set free by yesterday's events (as Jim would have expected), losing his little family had instilled a new, powerful drive in place of his usual self-destructive misery: he had to find Bob, his son, a child he’d never wanted for a single minute before this point, and he needed to do it at any cost, even if it took forever and cost him his very soul.
Jim swore, spitting on the dunes in distaste, that he would find his son. He would find Bob.
“And where's my lighter?” Jim screamed at the uncaring sky.
CHAPTER FOUR
CELL BLOCK PRESCHOOL
Bob lay curled up in the limousine's dark boot - silent, alone, and in shock - for what seemed like hours. Although his prison was the trunk of a car, the ride was so smooth and silent that it was hard to tell if the limo was even moving, and the carpeted area was plusher than the finest moleskins. Of course, Bob’s mind was busy with something else entirely: mentally replaying the death of his Mum, over and over, on an eternal loop. This horror was occasionally broken up with one question: where were they takin
g him?
Bob soon got sick of being miserable in the dark, so it was lucky he'd filched his Dad's Zippo lighter when nobody was watching. Bob had inherited a defective neurological condition from his Dad that was officially classed as 8CFG9, though this trait was more commonly known as “having sticky fingers” or simply “being a thieving git.” So, the moment Bob had seen the shiny silver treasure lying in the sand, he'd pinched it. If it wasn’t for the chaos that had followed, Jim Tuesday would doubtlessly have retrieved the Zippo and given Bob a clip on the ear for his trouble.
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