by Chris Welsh
Chapter Twenty-Four. 08:15pm
ROCKET SAFETY TIPS.
The courtyard and gardens were a mess of mechanical scraps. Once-functional parts transformed into fragments of nothing. The flickering blaze from the wreckage quelled, doing a good job of extinguishing of its own accord, downgrading from 'flaming tornado of hot death' to 'camp fire to sit around and sing'. I didn't examine close enough to spy the crispy husk of Nelson's dear mother, but I caught the faint, unmistakable scents of singed hair and cooked meat amongst the powerful odours of petrol and smoke.
The illumination of the fire and floodlights served only to enhance the black of the shadows that surrounded the main building, putting out just enough light to turn the wide open space of the courtyard into a silvery basin devoid of colour.
Stuart poked his head out, spotted me strolling over, and exited the building. Blood covered him, from his shoulders down to his knees and his forehead dripped with flop sweat. His face suggested he had spent his alone time mainlining high-sugar syrup.
"I cleaned out the foyer," he said on approach, flicking a slab of someone else's skin from his thigh. "Bit messy."
"What for?" I asked.
"In case we go back in. Plus, I went slightly stir crazy on my own, panicking at all the gun shots. Found another fire axe. Went to town with it."
"And where is it now?"
"Well, I lost it."
"Why isn't anyone capable of holding on to a bloody axe?"
"I suppose I didn't so much 'lose' it as I did 'throw it away'. After I ran out of zombies at ground level, I spotted one in a window upstairs. You know the fancy meeting rooms with the windows overlooking the foyer? Chucked the axe to smash the window. Turned out to be loads up there; they fell like lemmings, it was almost funny seeing their faces until they burst, like they were going 'Huh? Gravity?'"
"Burst?"
"Yeah, like they have been doing. Not like that helmet-headed cock-end."
He sounded pleased with himself, smiling down at me excitedly from up on his murder pedestal.
"Good work."
He nodded at the burning mound of metal and bushes by the fountain. The only recognisable section of the helicopter was the spinning top bit that held two the original blades, no longer attached to the rest of the craft. Instead it rested against the boy statue. His toy rocket and most of his arm had blown clean off and the rest of his stone body was scorched black. A foul steam rose from the fountain water, heated to a bubbling broth by the nearby flames.
"What happened here then? Where's Susan?"
"Susan is consoling Nelson who, based on last I saw, is having a bit of a cry."
"I assume his mother was a big part of that explosion?"
"I'd say the chopper was the main part. She was...the nougaty filling."
"Okay, so, Nelson is back then? What rock did he crawl out from under?"
"Interesting story. He came strutting out of another green building with a bag of guns slung over his shoulder. Then he encouraged us to shoot at his beloved mother. When that didn't work, he yanked out a fucking rocket launcher and blew a hole in the top of the building."
"Why did he do that?"
"He was aiming at the helicopter."
"He fired a rocket at his mum?"
"That he did."
"Well then. Do you think it's safe to let Nelson wander around with a bag full of guns?"
"I'm not a fan of it but, well, he's the one with the guns. I'm not about to argue."
We trudged across the gravel, avoiding the occasional zombie who hadn't been mercilessly blown up or crushed by falling bits of building. They appeared shell-shocked, dazed. Whatever urge had earlier caused them to attack anything that moved had gone AWOL.
Nelson acted all composed and calm upon our return. He fiddled with the strap of the gun bag and pulled in deep, calming breaths; his eyes had dried, though his cheeks were still flushed and somehow chubbier than usual. Susan gave us hesitant thumbs up and mouthed 'he's okay' as we approached.
"Why do you look like Rambo the Scientist?" Stuart asked him.
"What, the suit? I found a spare, put it on."
Susan took over, filled us in.
"He got out of the room when the fight was going on. Followed his mother out through the door."
"Right. Didn't consider letting us know?"
"I couldn't tell what was happening! I just...ran, with my head down. Found the door as it was closing and dove through. It was more of a hatch than a door, really, and it closed by itself. Didn't have a chance to shout you. But I heard her tell those bastardised versions of me to kill us all. I grabbed a suit from a rack and put it on to fit in, so she wouldn't know I was me. Followed her but she disappeared. I searched until I found her again, going into this vertical shaft that went right up to ground level, I saw the sky out of it. That's where the helicopter was. She was arguing with a few clones so I joined them, spoke up, and called her evil. She slapped me and, when my head didn't twist off, she knew it was me."
He spoke to the floor instead of us, scraping the anguish off his chest like mucus made of painful memories.
"She pointed a gun right in my face and got in the pilot seat. Threatened to shoot me dead if I moved. As she took off the clones panicked and rushed forward, trying to go along. No idea why. Abandonment issues maybe. They clung on, the whole way up."
"Yeah, we saw them. Didn't last long, I'm afraid."
"You should have seen the one that didn't make it out. They were almost out when the poor bastard lost his grip and fell all the way back down. Pretty much disintegrated in the air. By the time he landed only the suit kept him in any sort of shape. They're made of meringue or something."
He paused to consider the strength of his comparison, then shrugged it off.
"Did you meet the other type? The, er, exploding type?"
"Type?" he asked.
"You know, the other other versions of you. We encountered some built like bombs. Evil, horror-film versions of the rest. They popped like helium-filled zits when they took a hit to the stomach."
"No, no only the flimsy ones, luckily. Anyway I found an armoury, small but well stocked. I grabbed what I could carry and came up."
"How did you find your way out?" Stuart asked.
"Followed the green exit signs. Led me to another elevator."
"What else do you have in the bag, then?" I asked. "Just the launcher and the rifles?"
"Pretty much. I grabbed a few extra 'clips', I think they're called, and a bunch of spare rockets."
He pulled one out and waved it about. It was pointy and tipped with red, presumably to indicate which end you aimed at whatever you want to blow up. It looked like a toy, emblazoned with the words 'Exxxtreme Exxxplosives'.
"Is it...is it okay to just have rockets in a bag? Next to a bunch of guns? I mean, all those x's, doesn't seem safe," I said.
"It doesn't say anywhere in the instructions that you can't. No issue so far," Nelson told me. He flipped one up in the air and caught it again, causing Susan to despair mildly and step away.
"Just be careful, yeah?" she said, as if he might throw it at her for a lark.
A batch of awkward silence blossomed, in which none of us knew what to say. I doubt any human on Earth would know precisely what to say to a man who had blown his own mother up with a rocket. It wasn't in my programming, at least. No neat, pre-recorded sound-byte that made everything okay. I wanted to thank him for saving us, but the words collected in my throat and refused to leave.
Instead, I picked up a gun, a spare 'clip', and then enquired loudly as to what the hell we should do next. Stuart did the same thing. His grin was the mirror of mine as he felt the weight of the weapon in his hands.
