Planet Purgatory

by Martin, Benedict

  I launched myself from my chair to pace around the room. “What about guns?” I asked.

  “What about them?” responded Mr. Winter.

  “Say Bill does eventually leave, we’d still have those damn aliens to deal with. If we all had SYS guns —”

  The old man didn’t even let me finish my sentence. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’re too powerful. I know you mean well, but giving everyone a gun? I shudder to think what might happen.”

  “What about giving me something more powerful? Like maybe one of those guns your guards carry. I bet one of those could do some damage.”

  “Mr. Eno. David. Listen to me. Your gun is extremely powerful. I’m not just saying that. Your position as Brew-Master requires that you be well-armed.”

  I picked up my gun, studying it, feeling its weight in my hands. “So you’re telling me this is as powerful as the guns your guards have?”

  “Every bit. In fact, I would go as far as to say it is even more powerful.”

  “More powerful?”

  “The damage from a SYS gun is directly tied to the potential of its owner, and you have considerably more potential than most. We’ve seen to that.”

  Perhaps it was the glint in his eye, but there was something about his delivery that made me very uncomfortable.

  “So there’s nothing you can do?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Well, that’s it, then,” I said, starting for the door.

  “Mr. Eno. Before you leave, I would like very much if you would allow us to examine you. I’m concerned about the amount of chikka you consume.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “But Mr. Eno —”

  “Forget it. You guys have done enough damage as it is.” Without thinking, I slapped my thigh. “Come on, Rosie,” I said. “We’re out of here.”

  Chapter 11

  I was devastated. I’d fought tooth and nail to find my way to the SYS building, and for what? To discover I’m the biggest alcoholic Mr. Winter had ever seen? There was a moment I actually considered taking the SYS director hostage. But that wasn’t me; it was my job to help people, not put them in danger. And something told me Mr. Winter was more than capable of taking care of himself should the need arise.

  At least I had Rosie back. But even that felt tainted. I’d seen her with her throat slit, hanging from the Eggman’s ceiling, dead. Yet there she was, accompanying me down the front steps like nothing had happened. Mr. Winter was adamant that they don’t make clones. They made “versions.” But what did that even mean? And why did I feel sick every time I started to think about it?

  I couldn’t leave that place fast enough, and we were approaching the gate when I heard a familiar little voice call my name.

  “David!”

  “Oh, no …”

  “David! Wait! I’m coming with you!”

  I was a balloon with a slow leak. Honestly, my shoulders must have sagged a good six inches. “Go away!”

  But Flea scampered up to Rosie, pushing her face to within only a few inches of the animal’s nose. They were practically the same height. “Is this your doggy?”

  “Yes, she is. Now go away!”

  “She’s big!” she said, and in a move that caught me completely off guard, she grabbed Rosie by the ears and pressed their noses together, causing Rosie to jerk away with an angry bark.

  “Eww! It’s all wet!”

  “Of course it’s wet! She’s a dog! Now go on! Get out of here! You’ve caused enough trouble!”

  “But you’re my friend.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? You’re not my friend!”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “You lied to me! You told me to go left when I should have gone right!”

  “And you saw right through it. Only a friend could do that!”

  I felt like kicking her. “You’re not my friend!”

  “David, David, David. Don’t you remember what I told you when I helped you escape from the bad scavenger man?”

  My shoulders somehow managed to sag even more. “You said I owed you …”

  “Now you understand.”

  Before I could respond, the imp buried her face into my stomach, hugging me tight while I stared helplessly into the sky.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” I said, peeling her off me.

  Flea looked thoroughly pleased, presenting me with a grin before running to give Rosie a hug as well. Only, Rosie didn’t want one, irritably trotting out of the way while Flea ran after her.

  “She’s going to bite you,” I warned.

  But Flea wouldn’t listen, doggedly chasing Rosie around the asphalt while I trudged toward the gate.

  It didn’t make sense. Why would the angel have sent me here only to fail? Was it me? Did I do something wrong? Or was it all part of the plan? And then I remembered.

  “Dammit!” I said, slamming my heel into the ground.

  Flea paused her chasing of Rosie to raise a quizzical eyebrow. “What’s the matter?”

  “I left my chikka in the SYS building!”

  “Why don’t you go and get it?”

  I turned and faced the Victorian-era mansion; the sight of it, piston thumping relentlessly in the background, filling me with dread.

  “I’m not going back there,” I said, shaking my head. But then I had an idea. “Why don’t you go and bring it back for me?”

  “Me?” Flea wrinkled her nose. “I suppose I could, but …”

  “But what?”

  The imp glanced furtively around before motioning me closer. “I don’t think Julius likes me.”

  “Really.”

  “I make him angry. I don’t know why. I like him.”

  “So you can’t sneak in there and grab my bottles? They’re just in the front room.”

  Flea sank onto her haunches, rocking back and forth in time with the piston.

  “Is it the guards? Are they too scary?”

  Flea rolled her alien eyes. “Pfft. The guards? Don’t be silly. It’s Julius I’m worried about.”

  “What? That old man?”

  “Is that what you see? An old man?”

  “That’s what he is, isn’t he?”

  Flea burst out giggling, rocking so far backward she fell on her bum. “Oh, David. You’re so cute. There are few in this world as powerful as Julius. And when he loses his temper, watch out.”

  “Mr. Winter? Really?” I pictured him tossing water at the imp from his office window, and missing, no less.

  Meanwhile a mischievous glint appeared in Flea’s eyes. “It would be exciting, though …”

  “No. Don’t do that. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you on my account. Is he really dangerous?”

  “You have no idea.”

  Something happened right then. Further off in the compound, behind the factories and warehouses, a ship roughly the size of a sports arena slowly rose into the sky. It looked like a fat, brown shoebox with stubby wings, and once it hit two hundred feet or so, it drifted toward us, a sprinkling of lights blinking along the bottom of the hull. It was surreal, and the three of us, Rosie included, watched as it glided silently overhead before disappearing behind the trees.

  If ever there was a sign to leave, that was it, and without another word we exited the gate and started down the road.

  ***

  I wasn’t feeling well. All I could think about was Mr. Winter’s statement that those who drink chikka are doomed to drink chikka, lest they die. I’m sure it was psychological — it had been less than half an hour since my last mouthful, but I was already experiencing chills followed by bouts of sweating. Fortunately, Flea was there to distract me. She was obsessed with Rosie, chasing her around and tugging the poor dog’s ears. And she seemed especially fascinated whenever Rosie stopped to pee.

  “Ew! Look!” she’d exclaim. And just to make sure I knew what she was referring to, she’d run up to the puddle of urine, point at it, and begin the ch
ase all over again.

  Poor Rosie never got a moment’s rest, and there were moments when she’d snap at the imp, causing Flea no end of delight. It was stressful. Yet at the same time it proved to me that as naughty as the imp was, she wasn’t evil. Rosie would have ripped her apart if that were the case. This was made abundantly clear when I turned around to discover Flea climbing onto Rosie-dog’s back. Rosie looked thoroughly miserable, but there she was, waiting obediently while Flea scampered nimbly atop her shoulders.

  “Don’t do that!” I said, placing Flea back on the ground.

  “Why not?”

  “Because dogs aren’t horses. You’ll hurt her back.”

  “No I won’t.” And in what I could only describe as a complete lack of respect, Flea climbed on Rosie’s back again.

  “I told you, don’t do that!”

  I was angry, but rather than pick her up and place her on the ground, I threw her, sending her onto her hands and knees. I knew I shouldn’t have done it. The hurt expression on her face only made me feel worse, and I closed my eyes in sweat-soaked frustration.

  I expected her to leave. I was sure of it. Instead, I felt a tugging at my shirtsleeve.

  “What’s wrong, David?”

  She sounded so much like a little girl sometimes, it was unsettling and I sat cross-legged in the road, rubbing my face with my palms.

  “Mr. Winter said those who drink chikka must keep drinking it, or they’ll die.”

  “Well, yeah. Everyone knows that.” She knelt beside me, and taking my face into her little hands, forced me to look into her eyes. “What else did he say?”

  “That judging from the amount I drink, I’d probably die quickly.”

  Flea erupted into a smile. “Is that what you’re worried about? Silly man!”

  “What are you talking about? Why are you laughing?”

  But Flea was already busy climbing back onto Rosie’s shoulders.

  “Come on,” I said, rising to my feet. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing, except that Julius Winter is a big fat liar.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying never take a word that man says at face value.”

  “So I’m not going to die quickly?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. But if I had to guess, something tells me you’ll last a few more hours,” she said with an impish grin.

  “Gee. Thanks a lot.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a baby. It hasn’t been that long. How are you feeling right now?”

  “That’s just it: I don’t know! One moment I feel fine, the next I’m experiencing chills. Man, I wish I’d remembered to bring those stupid bottles!”

  “We can always go back—”

  “No!” I closed my eyes and exhaled. “I’m sorry, but I can’t go back in there. I just can’t.”

  And that’s when I was struck by an idea. “What about the stash the Scavenger stole?”

  “What about it?”

  “We can go and get some!”

  The imp shook her head. “They’re long gone.”

  “What? There were nearly a hundred bottles there!”

  “Do you know what kind of stink a hundred bottles of chikka makes? And with the things living in those woods? I bet those bottles disappeared within an hour of us leaving.”

  It pained me to admit it, but she was probably right. At least I still had my cigarettes.

  And so we resumed our travel of the dirt road. At this point I’d given up trying to keep Flea off of Rosie’s back. The truth was, they made a striking pair. All Flea needed was a spear and they could have trotted straight out of a story from Middle-earth. I, meanwhile, was still fixated on my need for chikka. I tried approaching it rationally, telling myself I regularly slept eight hours without ever experiencing any withdrawal. Common sense dictated that I should be able to go twice that before anything truly bad happened. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get Mr. Winter’s words out of my head.

  It was all I could do to keep walking. And then I spied a group of people off in the distance. There were six of them, all dressed in black. I knew exactly what they were. Dhatura.

  My heart raced.

  “Do you think they have chikka?”

  “Maybe,” answered Flea from her place atop Rosie’s back.

  I quickened my pace, gaze locked on the undead party before me. It seemed like one of them was holding onto a bottle. No, he was definitely holding a bottle. I walked faster.

  Meanwhile the Dhatura spread across the road to welcome us. There must be a handbook on how Dhatura are supposed to greet travelers, because the largest one stepped forward and said exactly the same thing as the first one I met, in exactly the same tone.

  “Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

  “Shut up and gimme all your chikka,” I said, pointing my rifle at his chest.

  The monster did a double take. “What did you say?”

  “Give me all your chikka before I blow your brains out.”

  The Dhatura looked genuinely confused, and he turned to one of his mates. “I think he’s robbing us.”

  “That’s because he is robbing you, you idiot,” said Flea.

  “Watch your mouth, runt,” growled another Dhatura. This one was truly frightening, with a scarred face and yellow fangs that hung well past his bottom lip. But I didn’t care. All I wanted was the bottle in his hand.

  “Don’t talk to her,” I said, aiming the gun at his face.

  “Or what? You’ll shoot me with your flare gun?”

  “Do it, David! Shoot him with your flare gun!”

  “I told you to watch your mouth!” barked the scarred demon.

  “I said don’t talk to her!”

  The scarred demon didn’t like that, and he walked toward me, baring his fangs. “I’ve had enough of this. You want this chikka so bad? Come and take it!”

  The promise of getting my hands on some chikka was too much to ignore, and in an example of cold-blooded violence I didn’t think I was capable of, I shot their heads off, one by one, left to right.

  Their bodies had barely hit the ground when I leaned over and picked up the bottle of magical beet juice.

  “Look!” I said, happily holding up my trophy.

  I found a total of three bottles of chikka. Unfortunately all of them were opened, and I was busy trying to figure which one was the least filthy when out of nowhere Flea slammed into me and wrapped her arms around my waist.

  “Thank you, David!”

  “For what?”

  “The way you protected me from those horrible Dhatura!” Flea let go of me to press her hands dramatically against her chest. “It was like something out of a storybook. And the way you said it: Don’t talk to her! It was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”

  “Yeah, well, they deserved it,” I said, feeling my face grow warm. “And I don’t know why you’re getting so worked up. I’m sure you could have gotten rid of them faster than I did.”

  “But it’s the thought that counts. You stood up for me. No one’s done that before. And with that darling voice. Don’t talk to her!”

  “Yeah. Like I said, they deserved it. Now, how do I drink this stuff without catching something?”

  But Flea was lost in her own little world, spinning wistfully with her hands still on her chest, reciting that oh-so-romantic line, “Don’t talk to her!” over and over and over again while I examined my spoils.

  It wasn’t that they were opened that bothered me, it was that they’d touched the lips of the undead. I couldn’t think of anything more unclean. But I was desperate, and soaking the bottom of my shirt with chikka, I wiped the bottles down, taking extra care to clean out the mouths. Chikka was a form of alcohol, after all. An extremely potent form. Surely it possessed disinfectant qualities as well.

  And so I drank, taking two big mouthfuls before letting the bottle hang by my side. It was as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, only
to be replaced by another.

  “What’s the matter, David? You look sad.”

  “I just murdered six demons for their chikka.”

  “So. I would have killed them for nothing.”

  “You don’t understand. I sought out and killed a bunch of strangers for their drugs. That’s crackhead territory.”

  The imp raised an eyebrow. “What’s a crackhead?”

  “I’m an addict, Flea! A goddamn drug addict! I can handle being an alcoholic. I’ve known that for a long time. But this,” I said, holding up my bottle of Dhatura-tainted beet juice, “this is like fishing methadone out of a public toilet! No, it’s worse!”

  I collapsed onto my haunches, burying my face in my arms.

  “If only Sam could see me now …”

  “David, David, David. You’re looking at this all wrong. Those Dhatura would have killed you and eaten you right there. You were defending yourself. And me.” Flea pulled my head out of my arms by my hair. “Look at me, you silly man. Chikka is the reason you’re still alive.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Flea went to smack me in the face, her tiny hand a blur. Amazingly, I caught it.

  “See?” she said, grinning. “You’re fast. Much faster than a human should be. And your leg. It was broken when I first met you. Now it’s fine. How many days has it been? Two? And look how smoothly you took care of those Dhatura. Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! It’s the chikka, David. That’s what’s keeping you alive.”

  It took a few moments before her words even registered. “Wow, when you say it that way …”

  “You’re a champion! A hero! Like that man in green with the bow and arrows. What was his name again?”

  “I’m not sure. Do you mean Robin Hood?”

  “Yeah, that’s it! Robin Hood! Only in your case, you rob from the rich and then you, uh, then you, uh, drink it!”

  Flea loved that. “And I’m Maid Merlin,” she said, jumping to her feet

  “I think it’s Marian …”

  Flea didn’t care. She was back in her bizarre little world, skipping joyfully in circles while I slowly rose to my feet.

  “Oh, look,” she said. “It’s Robin Hood, come to save me from the big bad Sheriff of Nottingham. Don’t talk to her!”