The Fall of Deadworld Omnibus

by Matthew Smith

  “What do you proposssse, then?” Fire asked.

  De’Ath faced them. “There isss an expresssion regarding boiling a frog. While the heat isss increasssed sssslowly, the frog iss unaware that it isss being cooked… until it isss too late. Thisss world issss that crucible in which our ssssubjectsss exisssst—we have been changing the environment around them, poisssoning it, toxifying it, sssso it becomesss uninhabitable. It wasss done under their nosssess, ssset in motion while they were unaware and before they could sssstop it. But now we mussst turn up the heat further, ssscourge the world of all life entirely. The time for sssubtlety is gone—sssscorched earth isss the only way.”

  “You believe we’ve been too… ssssubtle?” Fear asked, sailing close to the wind again. He couldn’t help himself; he manipulated everyone around him, even his own kind, poking their sensitive areas.

  “We’ve been ssssyssstematic, ordered in our purgesssss,” De’Ath replied, “or relied on nature to take itsss toll. But thisss has proved a time-conssssuming method. There mussst be more… blanket approachesss.”

  “We dissscusssed the nuclear option,” Fire said.

  “Yesss, yesss,” De’Ath answered. “Before I ripped out the heart of that traitor Drabbon, he’d locked down the sssilosss. No accessss for anyone without the required keycodessss, and he took thosssse with him to hisss damn grave.”

  “I could ssssimply set them ablaze. The reactorsss too. The radiation would causssse untold damage, and the resssulting atomic fireball would be without quessstion a sssight to ssssee.” Fire’s crackling eye sockets veritably glittered in anticipation.

  “You’d rissssk global rupture. The planet’ssss crussst could not weather sssuch damage.”

  “Issss that sssuch a bad thing?”

  “We want the world to ssstand, not collapssse in on itsssself.”

  “You’d achieve your required body count, brother,” Fear put in.

  “The world mussst ssstand,” De’Ath insisted, refusing to be goaded. “It mussst exissst as a monument, a blasssted ruin. A bone-ssstrewn offering.”

  “To whom?”

  Sidney didn’t reply. Instead he wandered, head down as if contemplating the dust at his feet, hands clasped at the small of his back, tapping softly together.

  “The Sisstersss,” Fear said after a moment’s pause. “Or the beingsss they ssserve—that’ssss who it’ssss for, isssn’t it?”

  “Have a care with your tone, brother,” Sidney responded.

  “Well, isssn’t it?” Fear persisted. “That’sss to whom we owe our anti-life exissstencesss, after all.” Fear looked around the shadowy room. “But how to explain Nausssea and Phobia’ssss absssence now, given how rarely they leave your ssside… are they otherwissse occupied?”

  “It’ssss no ssssecret that they have projectsss of their own that require their attention.”

  “I’ll warrant that it’sss them who are pussshing for thisss rapid turnaround in resultssss. Are you disssappointing them, Sssidney?” Fear’s voice took on a sickly aspect, sing-song yet dripping with malicious intent. “Are you not the massster of the apocalypssse that they believed you to be? Have they dessserted you in favour of a more productive ssservant?”

  De’Ath flew across his office and squared up to the other Judge, the darkness in the room appearing to swell and shift as if excited by the exchange. There were more eyes watching them than they had perhaps realised. The air became heated, motes flickering in the purple blackness like miniature flashes of lightning as the pressure increased. Fire seemed to be reacting to the new atmospheric conditions, his orange halo fading to green and blue, and he held up a skeletal hand to watch the flames flare and spark before casting an enquiring look at Mortis. The other Dark Judge simply gave the smallest shake of the head, warning against further questions, and returned his attention to his warring brothers, who growled softly as they sized each other up. He watched for long moments, fascinated, having never seen an outburst like this before; there’d been plenty of violence meted out against the living since the start of the new regime, but it hadn’t ever been turned inwards. Fear and the Chief were snapping and hissing at one another like predators over a carcass.

  In Mortis’s clinical mind, he idly wondered how such a fight would manifest itself, on what resources the two would draw to settle their differences, but it was only a fleeting fancy. Conflict between the two would achieve nothing. He stepped forward and raised a hand. “Enough, brotherssss,” he said stridently. The low rumble of antagonism between the pair ceased as they turned to look at him, then stepped back, the tension broken. The shadows ceased their roiling.

  “Sssuch petty sssquabbling ill befitsss thisss office and all it ssstandsss for,” Mortis remarked. “We have a common enemy, don’t you agree? Our energiessss are better placed in eradicating that enemy.”

  “Indeed,” Sidney responded, drawing himself up as if trying to pull back some dignity. “We ssshould be directing our ire at the criminalsss, not allowing it to conssssume ourssselves. Ssssuch passssion for jussstice ssssometimessss… sssseeksss an outlet.”

  “An outlet, aye,” Fear muttered.

  “Asss it happensss, I may have a ssssolution to the issssue of fassster massss annihilation,” Mortis continued. “The Red Mosssquito project.”

  “I thought that had foundered,” Fire said, his flames now orange and red again as the ethereal spirits withdrew and the background pressure returned to normal.

  “It’ssss true that I had encountered sssome difficultiessss. The enzyme I had ordered produced was too powerful; it burnt itsssself out even as it killed. Livesssstock it wassss introduced to through their food chain all collapsed and died in a matter of hourssss… but it wasssn’t being passssed from animal to animal—the Mosssquito lossst power and dissipated.”

  “No one in your tek team could come up with a way to make it work?” De’Ath asked.

  “No, every iteration, every experiment, every variation in the methodsss, all produced the sssame resssult. It wassss, essssentially, too good at what it did, and wasss coming apart in its eagernessss to kill cell growth. I had my lab ssstaff toiling day and night on the conundrum to no effect. It wasss unfortunate that one of my bessst mindsss chossse to run, and died before we could return him here.”

  “Sssstender,” Fear hissed.

  “Yess, Ssstender. But it wasss that very notion of intelligence assss an abssstration—what the besssst sscientific headsss can achieve—that took me in a new direction.”

  “Go on,” De’Ath prompted.

  “The ssscientissstss in my tek-lab, all I needed from them wassss their mindsss. Their bodiesss and their physssical pressssence were of no interessst to me. Sssso I ssseparated the two, created a linked intelligence unit—I plugged their brainsss together—sssslaved to the technology I’ve been employing on the psssi-ampsss. It boossssted their calculating and cognitive power to a phenomenal degree.”

  “Brother Mortisss, kindly cut to the chassse,” Sidney interjected, exasperation creeping into his voice. “How would thissss aid usss in our grand ssslaughter?”

  “By broadcasssting suggessstion. Red Mosssquito wouldn’t work asss a conventional virusss, but what if we ssseeded the idea in the headsss of the living sssurvivorsss that all their food wassss infected? That everything they ate, or wanted to eat, wasss not fit for consssumption. All wasss rotten. Dissseasssed.” Mortis became more animated as he spoke; putrefaction was his favourite topic. “They would ssstarve themsselvessss, ssssucumb to madnesss assss they were driven by a hunger for food they believe they cannot touch.”

  “I like it,” Fear remarked. It was right inside his wheelhouse. “They die through their own fearsss.”

  “Quite ssso,” Mortis said. “The young, old and infirm would perisssh firssst. They would ssssimply wassste away.”

  “Interessssting,” De’Ath muttered. “How long before we’d ssstart ssseeing resultsss?”

  “A matter of daysss, I believe. Weeksss at the mossst.
Humanity issss intrinsically weak when it comes to sssusstenance. Ssssome may turn to cannibalisssm, but the Mosssquito would taint that too. Of courssse, if they ssstart eating each other, the end resssult is the sssame.”

  “And you think you can get your…”

  “Top mindsss,” Mortis said.

  “Top mindsss to influence sssso many of the wretched law-breakersss at once?”

  “I believe ssso. They have lived and breathed the project for ssso long—ssstripped of their external ssstimuli, they will radiate nothing elssse. Hooked up to the amp, they will broadcassst relentlessssly, and the Mosssquito will fly as a meme, a repeated concept that will gain sssignificance in the targetsss’ headsss, passssed from one to another ass an idea. An idea that becomesss real through their collective psyche: Don’t eat. Don’t eat. Don’t eat.”

  “An audacioussss plan,” Fire said, nodding his head approvingly.

  “Let the criminalssss face up to jussstice themssselvess,” Fear agreed. “Let the hand of God sssmite them with a divine famine of their own making.”

  De’Ath’s ego puffed up suddenly at the notion, warming to the idea. This was the sort of thing a vengeful god would do—plagues and natural disasters hadn’t shifted them, so let starvation do the trick. Lay waste to them all. Let them lie down and cease to be.

  “Pusssh the button, brother Mortis,” Sidney said, relishing the drama of the moment. “Releassse the Mossquito.”

  PHOBIA AND NAUSEA knew he was coming, of course, many moments before he appeared at their doorway. Their psychic energies were such that they could be operating at several different levels at once: conducting spells and communing with their parent entities on the other side of the veil, and simultaneously intimately aware of what was going on in the Hall of Injustice. Their minds pervaded every room, every corridor, a constant roving eye that surveilled the building and its inhabitants with an unblinking glare. No one escaped their attention. As such, they felt Sidney’s rare trips to the bowels of the building well in advance. If he was hoping to catch them unawares, then he sorely underestimated their powers; but such was his growing arrogance, the witches thought, he probably did believe he could move around within these walls at liberty, free from their sight. Perhaps he considered himself a blank spot, a null-figure, empty of emotion and conventional thought that they wouldn’t be able to get a fix on him: dead, inside and out. But on the contrary, he radiated a psychopathic zeal for butchery that indelibly marked him out in their minds.

  “Hello, brother,” Nausea greeted him the instant his silhouette filled the doorway, her eyes barely leaving the contents of their cauldron. Green wisps curled around her head. “What bringssss you to our ssssanctum?”

  “Sssisstersss,” De’Ath acknowledged. “I trusssst you are keeping bussssy.”

  “Asss ever,” Nausea replied, with a clandestine eye-roll for her sibling. “Thissss planet won’t kill itssself.” Sidney truly was an officious, humourless buffoon, she thought, micro-managing the end of the world. He sucked all the fun out of it. Once, his inventive cruelty and disregard for life as a child had made him an attractive proposition, and his blossoming into monstrousness as soon as he became a Judge marked him as a worthy candidate for being their harbinger of the apocalypse. It didn’t take much for them to encourage him to seek them out so he could take the next step and go beyond mortality. But now… now he was becoming insufferable, egotistically driven to believe that the global genocide was of his design. Admittedly, they had to take some of the blame—it was them that had gifted him the pedestal that he was now hoisting himself upon—but neither twin had perhaps fully anticipated what a colossal prick Sidney truly was, or would turn into. Hence, they were increasingly preferring to remain down here in their private chambers when they could, where they could conjure, free of his interference and, frankly, his company.

  “Isss that Cafferly?” he asked, pointing at the severed head positioned above the Sisters’ receptacle. Its jaw was moving slightly, as if grinding its teeth, while emerald smoke entered its nose and mouth.

  “Yesss, ssshe’sss helping usss with a ssspecial assssignment,” Phobia replied dismissively. She had no desire to expound further; what they were using her for was for their eyes only. “Did you want ssssomething, Sssidney?”

  For a moment, the Great Leveller looked a little lost. “I know there hasss been… disssapointment from your sssponsssorsss at the lack of progressss. I’ve ssssensssed the pressssure to deliver better resssultsss.”

  Humility from De’Ath? Phobia exchanged a psi-glance with her sister, who responded in kind. This was a new one. Could it be the task had proved more challenging than he thought?

  “We’ve become aware of a certain level of impatience,” Nausea said.

  The Judge nodded. “Let them know that the matter isss in hand. I will not fail them, you can be assssured of that.”

  “You have a new ssscheme in mind?”

  “We do. Mortisss will be sssetting it in motion in due courssse. If it goessss to plan, thisss could be the world’ssss breaking point.”

  “Hallelujah to that,” Phobia answered.

  De’Ath nodded again and looked around the witches’ lair. “I will not fail,” he repeated quietly, sounding as if he was convincing himself. “All life will be dessstroyed. This world will be a fit boneyard for your massstersss. You have my word.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “I TOLD YOU THIS WAS A DAMN FOOL DIRECTION TO TAKE!” Misha screamed, then instantly regretted it. The instant she’d pulled down the scarf and opened her mouth, she felt hard, thrumming bodies hitting her tongue and teeth. Barbed feet clawed at the inside of her cheeks and gums, and she gagged, spitting the interlopers out, curling a finger inside to fish out a few that had dug in. Doing this while still clinging on to Hawkins as she cranked the Lawrider up to eighty miles an hour was no easy task; even more so when they were engulfed in a swarm. She hitched the scarf back up into place and admonished herself for her stupidity—the Judge wouldn’t hear her anyway, over the roar of the engine and the squealing buzz of the thousands of insects swirling around their heads. Her anger had got the better of her, and now she had the oily taint of bug carapaces at the back of her throat. Just the thought made the bile rise again, and she made a concerted effort to swallow it back down; she didn’t need to be spewing at this speed, and having it wash back into her face. That really would put a cap on the day.

  Misha put her head down and screwed her eyes shut, praying it would be over soon, doing her best to tune out the bug-splat pelleting her helmet and the high-pitched whine that invaded her ears like white noise. For all the ire she reserved for herself, there was nevertheless some truth to the matter, and a certain level of self-justification: she had advised Hawkins against going this way. Once the bike they’d taken from Blake had been refuelled and recharged, the older woman had been keen to put as much distance from the capital as possible, tearing down the highways that bisected the scrub to the city’s west. Whatever had passed between the two officers—and Hawkins refused to be drawn, so Misha had to surmise she’d taken him out in self-defence and decided not to push for details—it had left the Judge even more withdrawn and uncommunicative. When she did respond to the teen’s queries, she merely muttered that looking for resistance cells in the metropolis was a waste of time, and that nothing living was to be found within its boundaries. The girl didn’t argue with that; she was only too happy to be heading in the opposite direction to the Hall of Injustice and the shadow cast by the Sisters.

  So instead they barrelled across the Badlands, and Misha felt the pressure lift from her skull, the psychic probing fade away to an irritating hum. That had brought something resembling relief. But the radio on the new wheels was no more successful in picking up chatter than its predecessor, and on the few occasions when they took breaks, parking way off from the edge of the road so as not to be visible, Hawkins would spend hours trying the full bandwidth, hoping to hear just the merest hint of a voice
. Sometimes, she’d talk into the comms unit and have a conversation with the imaginary receiver, explaining their location and predicament. Misha would be lying some distance away, trying to catch a little sleep, listening and trying not to let the hopelessness subsume her. The Judge would always come away and intimate that she’d unearthed a hint of law-enforcement traffic on the airwaves, and Misha would smile and nod and look encouraging, but she knew they were chasing ghosts at this point. The broadcasts—if indeed they existed—were surely automatic, the senders long dead.

  But it was her belief that she had the inside track on the source of a Judicial transmission that made Hawkins make one of her very rare bad calls. By and large, her decisions up to this point were usually sound, grounded either in pragmatism or a sense of duty , but Misha wondered if a certain degree of desperation was starting to colour her critical faculties. She couldn’t blame her—they’d been searching for this fabled resistance for so long now, any straw to clutch was one she was going to grab with both hands, a reason to keep going, to live. So when she heard what sounded like very faint official code originating somewhere north-east of their current location, she insisted they head towards it.

  “But that’s farm-belt territory,” the girl had protested. “You’ve heard the stories of what’s up there.”

 

  “Precisely because of the mutant fucking locusts eating anything in their path.”