Apocalypso

by Robert Rankin

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘All right.But just one. And no tongues.’

  ‘Urgh!’ said Dilbert’s mum. ‘You revolting boy.’

  Dilbert leaned down to his mum and puckered up.

  ‘And your breath smells.’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ Dilbert puckered up some more.

  ‘And you’re not wearing any trousers.’

  ‘No, Mum, I’m sorry.’ Dilbert did further puckerings up. ‘I’m very sorry indeed.’

  ‘And so you should be. You foul and filthy fiend.’

  ‘Yes, Mum, I . . .’ Dilbert ceased with the puckering up. He drew his big face back from his mums little one and stared most deeply into it. ‘What did you say?’ Dilbert asked.

  ‘Give your mother a kiss.’

  ‘No, not that.’

  ‘Don’t argue with your mother. You’re not too big for a smack.’

  ‘Hold hard,’ cried Dilbert, peering. ‘Something smells here and it isn’t my breath.’

  Dilbert’s mum turned away as if in disgust.

  And then she turned back.

  Of a sudden.

  To reveal that she was not really Dilbert’s mum at all.

  But really Porrig.

  Ta-rah!

  With Rippington on his shoulders.

  Ta-rah! Ta-rah!

  And Porrig held in his hands an axe.

  A big fire axe from the emergency kit on the helicopter.

  And as Dilbert stared down in horrified awe, Porrig swung this axe.

  And what a swing it was. The kind of swing that the Mighty Thor might have taken. Or even the Wolf of Kabul. Had it struck home in Dilbert’s head, it would damn near have cleaved it in two.

  But Dilbert’s head was out of reach.

  His left foot wasn’t though.

  The axe head caught the sprout three-toed big fat foot and pinned it to the pavement.

  And then there was a silence.

  It wasn’t your twenty-past or twenty-to kind of silence.

  It was more your calm-before-the-storm kind of silence.

  Your calm before the apocalyptic holocaust.

  And then Dilbert screamed and the silence was over.

  Dilbert screamed and screamed.

  It was a sound like no other ever heard upon the Earth. A sound so terrible and loud and awful that it rattled the chimney-pots three miles off and turned the milk sour on the steps. It made babies fill their nappies and strong men weep into their beer. And it just got worse and worse.

  Dilbert screamed and threw out pain and he tore the axe from his wounded appendage and flung it high in the air. And he yelled and he howled and he hollered and he sought the most hideous vengeance.

  He turned his great head to the right and the left in search of his tormentor. His great head raged with pain and fury. With disbelief at this atrocity. This attempt at deicide. This blasphemy. This abomination.

  Dilbert stooped painfully and clawed up the bundle of rags and the mask of screwed-up newspaper that had somehow fooled him. Fooled him! And the spacecraft! Dilbert stared at the spacecraft. It wasn’t a spacecraft at all, it was just an old parachute, draped around an inflatable dingy. And suspended from . . .

  Suspended from? Dilbert’s awful pain-filled eyes turned upwards. A cable dangled from a tiny cloud. A tiny cloud not fifty feet above.

  Dilbert snatched at the cable and gave it a tug. A vicious one. And out of the cloud came a helicopter. A long black secret unmarked Ministry of Serendipity helicopter, that had been silently hovering in stealth mode. (The way they often do, which is why you rarely see them.)

  Dilbert flung up terrible pain and those in the helicopter caught it.

  The old bloke clawed at his head and Danbury clawed at his head and Sir John Rimmer clawed at his head. And Dr Harney, who had been shouting into his radio, clawed at his head also.

  Down came the helicopter, CHB CHB CHBing, shaking and rocking and turning about in a circle. And the forward rotor nearly took the head from Dilbert Norris. In fact, had not a second and sudden and most excruciating pain, this time in his backside, caused him to leap up and somewhat sideways, he would surely have been done for.

  Dilbert’s face took on an agonized expression and his hands did some clawing of their own. He screamed once more as his clawing hands came quickly to the cause of his latest torment: the shaft of the big fire axe, protruding from between the cheeks of his very big behind.

  Dilbert swung around, howling and moaning. The old bloke yanked back on the joystick and the helicopter rose once more, went into stealth mode and vanished.

  Dilbert floundered around, green fingers fumbling, black eyes crossed.

  ‘I’ll bet that smarts,’ said Porrig.

  Dilbert’s eyes uncrossed. He drew in breath and held it. He gazed down upon the defiler of his holy posterior and a great roar rose from his mouth.

  ‘Keep it down,’ said Porrig. ‘What a fuss you make.’

  Dilbert turned his pain upon Porrig. Every ounce of it; every pound. Every hundredweight and every ton too.

  But Porrig just stood there and grinned up at him. ‘You can’t hurt me,’ he said.

  Dilbert’s jaw went drop drop drop. His brain went hate hate kill. He knotted his fists and folded his brow, he hunched up his shoulders and screwed up his eyes and squeezed pain from places there’d never been pain and he hurled the lot upon Porrig.

  Porrig just laughed. ‘You’re losing it, fat boy,’ he said.

  ‘Maggot!’ slurpy-gurgled Dilbert. ‘Worm! And filth! And vermin!’

  ‘Who ate all the pies?’ sang Porrig. ‘Who ate all the pies?’

  ‘What . . . I . . . what?’ Dilbert’s mouth flapped up and down, his ghastly eyes bulging from his ghastly head. ‘I am your God,’ his voice gulped and gargled. ‘Kneel before your God.’

  ‘God?’ Porrig laughed again and offered the use of two fingers. ‘That to you, you fat ratbag.’

  Dilbert rocked and shuddered. He took a step forward, paused and winced. Then, with much moaning and groaning, he wormed the axe out of his big bottom parts.

  ‘You’re dripping your juices,’ said Porrig.

  Dilbert viewed him from on high. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘What are you?’

  ‘It doesn’t really matter who I am,’ said Porrig. ‘But as to what I am, I am this. I am your Nemesis, Norris. I have come to kill you.’

  ‘Me?’ Dilbert broke sweat from many strange places. ‘You kill me?’

  Porrig nodded. ‘I have already tricked and ridiculed you. I’ve walloped you with a fireman’s axe and I scoff at your mighty powers. Your followers have gone and there’s just you and me. Do you want to beg for mercy?’

  Dilbert shook from baldy head to big and horny toe. He was genuinely lost for words. This was unthinkable. Impossible. Preposterous.

  ‘Yes,’ said Porrig. ‘It is, isn’t it? But nevertheless it is true.’

  ‘You . . . you . . .’ Dilbert made great pump-house pantings. ‘You can read my mind.’

  ‘Correct,’ said Porrig. ‘And it’s in a bit of a state at present. You’d really like to stamp me flat, but time is running rather short and if you don’t get to your spaceship in the next couple of minutes, you are one cooked sprout.’

  Dilbert glanced towards his seven-pointed spacecraft. It stood upon the raised plaza next to Nelson’s Column.

  ‘So near, but yet so far,’ said Porrig, who stood between Dilbert and his means of escape. ‘You’ll have to get past me.’

  ‘You think that you can stop me?’

  ‘I can do anything I like.’ Porrig danced a little jig. ‘I am the miracle worker. I am your god now, Norris.’

  ‘Out of my way, little man.’ Dilbert took a giant step, but Porrig cast wide his arms and Dilbert’s giant step stayed hovering in the air. Dilbert gaped down in horror.

  Before him a chasm now yawned with a wide open mouth. It was deep, it was dark, it was wide, it was there.

  ‘Don’t fall down the hole,’
called Porrig from the other side. ‘And watch out for the killer wasps.’

  The wasps came down from nowhere and engulfed Dilbert in a wild and buzzing storm. He floundered and swatted, shrieked, swore and staggered. And Porrig just stood there and laughed.

  What are you laughing at?’ asked Augustus Naseby, climbing into the pod.

  The pig peered in after him. ‘Nothing,’ said the pig. ‘Although you really don’t expect this thing actually to fly, do you?’

  ‘It’s a masterpiece of Victorian technology.’ Augustus made all-encompassing gestures that encompassed all there was. ‘Look at it, it’s wonderful.’

  The pig did further peerings in. It was very smart, it was true. Two padded leather armchair jobbies, bolted to the floor. Lots of polished turncocks and dials with flickering needles. Heavy emphasis on the brass and the mahogany. Even a Constable landscape hanging over the fireplace. And all gas-lit and all just waiting for the off.

  In a future time it would be known as Steampunk, but not for some years yet.

  ‘I think I’ll give it a miss,’ said the pig. ‘I have a “certain feeling”.’

  ‘I’ve a “certain feeling”,’ said Danbury, peeping down from on high.

  ‘Keep this one to yourself,’ said Sir John. ‘Porrig is doing a fine job down there.’

  The old bloke’s old hands gripped tightly on the joystick. ‘What news, doctor?’ he asked.

  Dr Harney shook his radio. ‘The idiots have me on hold. They say that the top brass chap with the special key has gone off to the canteen. They’ve sent someone to look for him.’

  ‘You’ve really stuffed us,’ said Danbury, turning and thumping the doctor. ‘We’re all going to be blown to dust and it’s all your fault.’

  ‘At least we’ll have died in a noble cause,’ said the old bloke. ‘If the monster is destroyed, it will all be worth it.’

  Danbury sighed and returned to the cockpit. ‘Let’s just hope then that Porrig can keep it confused. If the monster cops on, then—’

  ‘Cops onto what?’ asked Dr Harney. ‘I was unconscious when Porrig outlined this plan of his. What exactly is he up to down there?’

  Danbury sighed again. ‘I really shouldn’t tell you,’ he said, ‘you being such a double-dealing turncoat and everything. But as it looks like we’re all going to die anyway, it can’t hurt. The Porrig you see down there squaring up to the monster isn’t really Porrig. It’s Rippington. Rippington can hear the monster’s thoughts, he can tune in to their wavelength, but he isn’t affected by them. So, using Apocalypso’s stage magic, Rippington is impersonating Porrig, while Porrig is running the other illusions. Fake chasm in the ground, fake bees buzzing, all that kind of stuff sufficient to slow up the monster until the nuke gets here. It’s all very brave and very noble and—’

  ‘Very far-fetched,’ said the doctor. ‘But as long as the monster doesn’t cop on—’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Danbury Collins. ‘As long as he doesn’t cop on.’

  Below the wasps stopped buzzing and the chasm ceased to be. Dilbert grinned a terrible grin. And Rippington said, ‘I think he just copped on.’

  Dilbert tapped at his swollen temple. ‘Just listened in,’ he said. ‘To your chums in the helicopter. I could easily have killed them, you know, but I’m far too clever. I’m too clever for any of you and now I really must away.’

  Squaring up his massive shoulders Dilbert strode towards his spacecraft. He swung a great hand at the pseudo Porrig, scattering rubbish and empty apparel. He stamped the lot flat and continued to stride.

  ‘What now?’ whispered Rippington to a shaking skulking Porrig, lurking down behind the spacecraft.

  ‘Any suggestions?’ Porrig asked.

  ‘Only one obvious one.’

  25

  Dilbert climbed into his spacecraft. He lowered the dome and fastened his seat belt and reached out to turn the key in the ignition.

  But the key wasn’t there.

  Porrig raced across the square, Rippington clutched under his arm and Dilbert’s key in his hand.

  ‘Now he’s stuffed,’ puffed Porrig.

  ‘No I’m not,’ said Dilbert.

  He delved beneath the dashboard and brought out the spare. Stuck it in, gave it a twist and the engine caught first time. Rockets roared and the craft began to rise.

  Porrig stopped short and stared back. ‘Damn damn damn,’ he cried. ‘The rotter’s getting away.’

  ‘The rotter’s getting away,’ cried the old bloke. ‘Get out of the helicopter. All of you. Now.’

  ‘What?’ went Danbury. ‘Just hold on.’

  ‘Jump out now, just do it.’

  We’ll be killed. Let me shoot him, this gunship is covered with—’

  ‘No time for that. Just jump.’

  ‘No,’ said Danbury.

  ‘Right,’ said the old bloke, dragging back the joystick ‘I’m sorry but you have to go.’

  The helicopter rose with haste upon its forward rotor. Danbury and Dr Harney and Sir John toppled backwards and rolled towards the rear. The old bloke pressed a button or two and the cargo door swung open. With screams and cries and very bad language three men plunged down from the sky and fell into one of the fountains.

  The old bloke forced the joystick forward and the throttle down.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ Porrig asked, as the helicopter swept above his head.

  ‘He’s going to ram the saucer. Run some more.’

  And as Porrig ran some more, the old bloke gripped the joystick in his ancient wrinkled hands and said what prayers he could before the impact.

  Dilbert’s eyes grew wider as he watched the helicopter come. He stomped his big foot on the accelerator pedal and flung mental pain at the kamikaze pilot.

  The old bloke caught the agony. Caught it full force. The anger, the loathing and the disgust. The hatred of Dilbert for all the human race. He caught it and he screamed.

  But he didn’t let go of the joystick.

  The helicopter smashed into the saucer, driving it backwards onto Nelson’s Column. Right onto Nelson, in fact.

  Dilbert opened wide his legs, as the huge bronze head of the great hero’s statue burst through the bottom of his spacecraft and damn near through his own.

  The helicopter, broken backed, its forward rotor gone to ribbons, swung in faulty circles, then crashed down to the square.

  Porrig stared in horror and then rushed to offer help.

  Smoke belched from the twisted hull and those little electrical sparks that always precede the explosion of the ruptured fuel tank fizzed and popped.

  Porrig struggled with the cockpit door and strained to force it open. The door jerked back and Porrig stared within.

  The old bloke was slumped across the instrument panel. Blood dripped from his left ear; his neck was clearly broken.

  ‘Oh no.’ Porrig climbed into the cockpit. ‘Don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.’ He ran a shaking hand across the dog-eared tufts of snow-white hair. ‘Please God let him be alive.’

  The ancient’s eyelids flickered and his mouth took in a gulp of air.

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Porrig. ‘Come on, let me help you.’

  ‘No!’ The old bloke’s voice was strong and loud. But it came not from the trembling lips. It came directly into Porrig’s head. Into his thoughts.

  ‘Go Porrig,’ said the voice. ‘Go before this thing blows up. You have work to do and I have done all I can. If now is my time to die, so be it.’

  Porrig shook his now crowded head. ‘I won’t leave you here to die,’ he said. ‘And anyway, you can’t die. Not until you’ve returned the angel’s feather. That’s what you have to do and I’m getting you out of here whether you like it or not.’

  There was a blinding flash and Porrig fell back shielding his eyes.

  ‘Get out,’ called Rippington. ‘It’s going to blow, Porrig. It’s going to blow.’

  ‘No, not until I . . .’ Porrig’s voice trailed off as he opened his eyes. He bl
inked and he stared and he blinked and stared again. There was now someone else in the cockpit. He was small and he was naked and he perched upon the dashboard with his feathered wings outspread. A golden light flickered about him, glittered on his wings and perfect face.

  ‘The angel,’ whispered Porrig. ‘The angel has returned.’

  ‘Give him back the feather.’ The voice in Porrig’s head was just a whisper now. ‘Give it back so I can be at rest.’

  Porrig fumbled in the old bloke’s waistcoat and pulled out the slim ebony box. He glanced down at the date engraved upon it. 1837.

  Porrig sniffed away a tear and as he sniffed the smell of lilacs overwhelmed him. The odour of sanctity, the perfume of perfection. He held out the box and the angel took it in his tiny hand. The angel smiled at Porrig and Porrig sniffed another tear away.

  ‘Come out,’ called Rippington. ‘Porrig, come out now.’

  ‘Goodbye then.’ Porrig gently patted at the old bloke’s shoulder. ‘And I hope you find perfection.’

  ‘Goodbye Porrig.’ And the voice, a fading whisper, then was gone.

  ‘Porrig, quickly. Hurry now.’

  There was another flash and this one came with flames.

  Porrig leapt from the helicopter, snatched up Rippington and ran. The electrical sparks found the ruptured fuel tank and did what was expected of them. The helicopter erupted in a bristling bubbling burst of fire. Porrig flung himself down, shielding Rippington as shards of flaming metal span and fell about them.

  ‘Rub a dub dub,’ said the imp, raising his little bald head. ‘That was a close thing, wasn’t it?’

  Porrig plucked something hot and painful from the seat of his pants. ‘He’s dead,’ he said in a voice all cracked and broken. ‘The angel came and took him and he’s gone.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Rippington. ‘That’s that then.’

  ‘What did you say, you little tike?’ Porrig raised his hand to strike the imp. But as he did he stared him eye to eye. And there in the small blue cat-like eyes of Rippington he saw the tears.

  ‘I cared,’ said Rippington. ‘I loved him too, you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Porrig. ‘I know.’

  Rippington pointed over Porrig’s shoulder. ‘That gobshite up there is still alive,’ he said.