by Heide Goody
“I need help!” yelled a girl’s voice that was not quite Prudence’s.
“Stupid tree,” said Prudence and winced. The red line around her wrist glistened. Not blood, but a glistening of broken skin.
“You are hurt?” said Steve and bounded up onto her arm again. He inspected her wrist. “Mmmm. Is it going to fall off?”
“What?”
“Give it a shake and see if it falls off.”
Prudence did no such thing. The injury burned. She blew on it and that made it sting sharply. A moan of self-pity and pain escaped her lips, and there were tears in her eyes. She didn’t want to cry, she really didn’t want to cry, but the tears in her eyes made it almost irresistible. As though tears demanded crying, that one could not exist without the other.
“I want my mummy,” she said and the last syllable was lost in a silly sob that exploded from her lips and dribbled spit on her T-shirt dress. She absently picked up Steve and used him to mop the spit mark.
“I am not a dishcloth, youngling!” he screeched.
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
“You must be quiet!”
“I’m sorry.”
“Look!” He pointed with his chubby little fist.
Far across the cemetery, there were figures silhouetted in the not-pink light. Prudence could see their guns, the bulk of their helmets and packs.
“Are they soldiers?” she said.
“Human warriors. Nothing compared to the hordes of Suler’au Sukram.”
“But they were killing people,” she said, perplexed. “Ordinary people.”
“I dare you to touch it. It won’t harm anyone,” said a man’s voice from the tree.
“Fuck! Derek, it’s got me!” screamed another voice.
“Shut up, you’ll give us away,” Prudence told the tree. “And that’s a bad word.”
“Shut up,” said the tree. “I am not a dishcloth, Derek!”
“The soldiers were going to kill me,” she said to Steve. “They shot all those people. They said ‘It’s for your own good.’”
“The Soulgate is closing, gobbet,” said Steve. “And death is a way out, until the arrival of Yoth-Bilau.”
“I don’t want to die, yet.”
“It might be better than hell.”
“I dunno,” she said. “Depends what hell’s got to offer.”
The soldiers were getting nearer. Prudence stood. “It’s time to go.” She circled round the tree’s reach and made towards the far end of the cemetery.
She crept low to the ground. The soldiers moved purposefully, perhaps drawn by the voices from the tree. Ahead, in the shifting not-pink, there was a tall gate with stone pillars.
“Stupid tree. It won’t hurt anyone,” said the tree.
A soldier was beneath the tree, reaching up to it. Drooping branches reached slowly for him.
Prudence paused.
“Do not lally-gag, morsel,” said Steve.
“But he can’t…” said Prudence and shouted, “Don’t touch it! It’s dangerous!”
The soldiers heard that. The one beneath the tree lowered his hand. There was the flash and bang of gunfire. The turf to Prudence’s left ruptured as bullets struck the soft ground.
“Fool! Get down!” snapped Steve.
The tree lashed out to grab the nearest soldier. He was ensnared, hand, neck and thigh and pulled upwards. “There’s nothing to fear. It’s for your own good,” said the tree voices.
The soldiers’ attention was diverted by the predatory tree. Prudence ran for it.
“Next time, you do as I say!” grumbled Steve.
“I was only trying to help.”
“Fah! Look what trouble that brings!”
There were further gunshots, and there were screams. Multiple screams.
“Here!” ordered Steve and beckoned her into the shadow of a tall tombstone topped with a statue of a winged angel. He scaled the back of the tombstone and peered out around the angel’s robes. “The tree has got at least three of the human warriors. That is good.”
Prudence, squatting in the dark, nodded, not sure what she was nodding to.
Beyond the veil of the distorting light, a white dot of light winked at her in the sky above.
“Is that a star?” she said.
Steve looked up. “No, that’s a helicopter.”
A dark form dived into view and the white light was noisily swallowed by a yellow explosion. The flaming chunks of helicopter rained down beyond the cemetery perimeter. The dark form swooped in a wide circle, its wings tipped with lines of green luminescence.
“And that?” asked Prudence.
Steve studied it thoughtfully. “Eyahl-cryd flyer, I believe,” he said. “Let’s go.”
She pushed herself up and sprinted after Steve. For a tiny dolly, he moved at a pace she struggled to match. She ducked automatically at the sound of shooting, although it possibly wasn’t aimed her way.
“I didn’t think the outside world would be this violent!” she called to Steve.
“I know!” he replied joyfully.
Perhaps Prudence was too focused on escape and not the area around her, for a few seconds from the cemetery gate a man ran out from the side. He collided with her, tripping her through the gate and onto the pavement of the road beyond.
“Here … here…” he panted.
Prudence tried to get to her feet, but the soldier grabbed her by the waist and lifted her up into a painful hug.
“Marko,” called a voice further behind, running to catch up. “Where are the others?”
Prudence kicked and squealed. Steve had doubled back, leapt high and stabbed his pencil-spear down into the soldier’s boot. Above the grunts and breaths and the background noise of hell’s descent upon earth, Prudence heard the click as the pencil tip broke.
“Curse you, impenetrable boot!”
Prudence managed to bring an elbow up and connected with the soldier’s eye. He cried out and dropped her. She landed squarely on her feet and jumped away. As she looked back, the soldier was swinging his gun down from his shoulder. There was a long red wound across his face, a bloody whip mark – probably from a tree branch – which cut through one eye and across his mouth. Prudence realised her elbow was wet with the man’s blood.
He brought the rifle round, there was a stutter of gunfire. He fell backwards. Prudence turned. In the not-pink light, she saw four figures. None were much taller than her. All were carrying bulky rifles. The one who had just shot the soldier had spikey pigtails in her hair.
A soldier came through the gates, a pistol drawn but held low. It was Tescos Shirley, the commanding officer. He looked at the soldier on the floor, at Prudence, and at the four gun-toting children.
“Children shouldn’t have to live to see this,” he said faintly, and the girl shot him – three bullets, two in the shoulder and one in the throat. He fell, gurgled briefly, and was still.
Prudence stared at the four children. There were two girls and two boys. They all wore striped ties and blazer jackets with a badge on the lapel. Three of them held guns aimed at Prudence. The other boy had a phone in his hand.
“Deficient weapon,” muttered Steve, examining the broken tip of his pencil.
The phone flashed and clicked.
“Get that out of my face, worthless one!” said Steve. “Pass me a sharpening implement.”
“What is that thing?” said the short boy with the phone.
“Take another one after I’ve shot it, Elon,” said the girl with the long blonde hair.
Prudence saw when they talked there was something obviously wrong with their faces. Was it the way their lips moved? Was it the shape of their jawlines? Or was it the arrangement of their eyes which were either too close or too far apart or … something?
“What are you?” she said.
The girl with the dark pigtails tapped the badge at her lapel. “Thatcher Academy.”
“Is that a school?” Prudence hazarded.
Pig
tails snorted as though Prudence was only pretending not to know. “You?” she said. “How old are you? Eight? Nine?”
“I don’t know,” said Prudence. “What time is it?”
“Your school?” demanded pigtails.
Prudence shook her head.
“She’s human collateral, Yang,” said the taller boy.
“She lasted longer than form 8Y,” said the blonde girl.
“They were weak. So’s she. The time of testing is at hand.”
The one with pigtails, Yang, shook her head slightly. “Is she worth the cost of a bullet? It would be more fun to let her live. For a time.”
“Mammonites,” said Steve.
“What are they?” said Prudence.
“She’s ignorant,” said the tall boy.
“Thick,” said the shorter one, Elon. “Kill her and I’ll take a picture.”
Yang waved the gun at Prudence. “What are predicted in your SATs?”
“What?” said Prudence.
“I got top grades in English, Maths and Science. You?”
Prudence wasn’t sure what answer would appease this girl. “I … I just want to find my mum.”
This caused laughter among the children.
“Poor little girl wants her mummy,” said Elon.
“Pathetic,” said the blonde girl. “And where is your mummy?”
“At the Library,” said Prudence. She did not care for being mocked and, despite the guns, felt anger rise within her. “I’m Prudence Murray.”
“She’s the kaatbari, pup,” said Steve.
“Bullpoop,” said the blonde girl.
“You’re lying,” said the taller boy.
“He’s calling you out,” said Yang. “You going to refute Prester’s accusation or shall we punish you now for dishonesty?”
“I don’t know what that means,” said Prudence. “But, um, I am the kaatbari.”
“And she’s got laser eyes!” said Steve dramatically.
“I haven’t really,” said Prudence.
“Show us,” said the blonde girl.
“I don’t really know how.” She did her best stare.
“Nothing,” said Yang.
“I thought I saw a bit of a twinkle,” said Elon.
Yang gave him a piercing look. Her slightly off face could produce an unnervingly piercing glare.
“Don’t talk nonsense, Elon Mogg-Mammonson,” she said. “You’re the weakest member of this group. I’ve been keeping score. Don’t make me eject you from the team.”
Her hands curled around the grips on her rifle. Elon licked his lips nervously with a tongue that was not the right shape (if only just).
“Maybe there’s a reward for her,” he said and tapped his phone.
“You got signal on that yet?” said Yang.
“No.”
“Then who would we go to for the reward?”
“Yo-Morgantus?”
The taller boy, Prester, cuffed him round the ear. “You would go to our divine mother’s rival and—”
What Elon might do was interrupted by the blonde girl raising her rifle and firing a short burst past Prudence. A man – a soldier or not, Prudence couldn’t tell – fell at the roadside.
“You keeping the scores?” she said.
Yang nodded. “One more for Ayesha.”
“Girls beating the boys.”
“I’m not pooling my score with yours,” said Yang coldly.
Prudence did not understand these children. They were older than her – okay, everyone was older than her – but they were more mature and their ways were a mystery to her. “My mum will give you a reward if you return me to her.”
“I’m not going to the city centre,” said Yang. “This is our turf.”
“We do not know where the divine mother will rise,” said Prester.
“We could take her to a phone box,” said Elon.
“Like a ‘Doctor Who’ phone box?” said blonde Ayesha witheringly.
“There still are some,” said Elon. “I think there’s one near the Co-op. It’s not blue though. It’s just a phone box.”
“What’s she going to pay us?” said Yang.
Prudence felt in her pockets. She had the walkie-talkie in one and the tin containing Mr Angry Shell in the other. She took out the tin and considered it.
“I could give you what’s in here.”
“What is it?” said Elon, already reaching for it.
“It’s special,” said Prudence, holding it out of reach. “It bites people if they’re not careful.”
This got their interest.
“For safe passage to a phone box?” said Yang.
“We don’t need them,” said Steve. He tapped Ayesha’s leg. “That knife at your belt. Lend it to me so I might sharpen my weapon.”
“What’s in it for me?” said Ayesha.
“I promise not to stab you with it, runt.”
This seemed an agreeable deal. Ayesha passed Steve a short flick-knife that nearly crushed him to the ground.
“Safe passage to a phone box in exchange for the box and its contents,” said Yang firmly, having come to some decision. She held out her hand, palm flat.
One of the others had to tell Prudence she had to shake it to seal the deal.
02:59am
Morag re-entered the conference room. “Apologies,” she said, returning to her seat. “What have I missed?”
“On the plus side, I’ve heard a rumour that the nuclear missiles are to be launched imminently,” said Major Sanders.
“Plus side, yes,” she said. “We’re all looking forward to a quick fiery death. And there’s bad news? A negative side?”
Sanders nodded tersely. “My men have encountered some of the Venislarn and have suffered losses.”
“Their job was to target civilians.”
“The Venislarn god they encountered in Aston is apparently unaware of this.”
“Ah, well, yes.”
“The men were issued with protective wards which should have prevented this.”
“What wards?”
Major Sanders searched under his papers and pulled out a clip-on badge of the sort used as company IDs everywhere. He passed it to Morag. Inside the plastic sleeve was a rectangle of pink card printed with Venislarn writing.
“Shan-shan prui otpeh. Shi feyden pi qhurri’or,” she read.
“Is that an effective Venislarn repellent?” asked Sanders.
“It basically says, ‘Don’t mind me. Pretend I’m not here.’”
“It’s not magical?” The major sounded like the child Santa had forgot.
“Not in the least. You might want to tell your men they’ll have to watch their backs.”
The deputy council leader and his CEO were both staring at his mobile phone.
“Councillor Rahman? Are you with us?”
“This…” he whispered dumbfounded, pointing at his phone.
“Is it people panic buying at Tesco’s again?” Morag said. “What they think extra packs of toilet roll will achieve at this point—”
“No, I…”
He fiddled with his phone and was able to cast the image to the conference room screen. Insets on the big screen shuffled around. Morag’s eyes went to a rolling news broadcast.
“Another preacher blaming the apocalypse on the gays?” she said.
“No, that!” said Rahman, pointing wildly. “What the hell is that?”
On another portion of the screen, a news reporter on a stormy seafront was trying to hold his waterproof hood in place while delivering a currently silent but definitely impassioned report on what was occurring out at sea. The news channel ticker-tape identified the location as St Elijo, California. Beyond the horizon of foamy green waves, a shape had risen from the sea. It was steep, like a volcanic island, but clearly a constructed thing. Ruined temples crowded its slopes. Broken arches of twisted geometry crowned its walls. Even at a distance, it was evident no human hands had built the place – the insane lin
es and obscene angles were an anathema to the human mind.
“It’s Cary’yeh,” said Morag. “The sunken city of Zildrohar-Cqulu. Not sunken anymore, I guess. I’ve met him,” she added conversationally. “I was covered in chocolate at the time.”
Great worm creatures churned their way across the sea and up the beach. Prickles and slime covered the bloated bodies of the yon-bun dwellers. Their blind heads twitched and their mouth parts flexed.
The news reporter was screaming now. He held the seafront railing with both hands, attempting to head-butt himself to death against the top rail.
A pair of fighter jets flew out across the stormy sky. Missiles soared. Explosions peppered the terraces of the dreadful city.
“Our American colleagues deciding to meet the apocalypse head on,” said Sanders.
On the screen, a dark limb lashed upwards from the waves and swatted a plane out of the sky. The other banked away, looping up and round into low clouds. A moment later there was a flash of yellow fire in the clouds and wreckage spilled down towards the sea.
The video feed cut out a second later.
“What a rich and colourful apocalypse we are living through,” said Morag, for want of anything better to say.
03:36am
So the four children were Mammonites. Prudence pieced the details together from the children’s conversation, with extra titbits thrown in by Steve, plus the knowledge that simply fell into place as Prudence’s consciousness grew. Prudence had been born less than four hours ago and understood that her life, apart from the matter of being the kaatbari, was a quite extraordinary one. As she had grown taller (a fact only measurable by the fit of her clothes) so her thoughts had branched out. There was nothing magical in this; she was stretching like a person waking up and, as she did, her mind brushed against facts that were so obvious she did not need to pay them attention.
Facts like that thing there in the road ahead was a zebra crossing. That there was a post box. The weapons the children carried were assault rifles. The clothes they wore were their school uniform. And the children themselves were Mammonites.
The Mammonites were Venislarn, the offspring of Yoth Mammon the corruptor, the defiler of souls, the dredger in the lake of desires. Yoth Mammon was off in some other Venislarn realm at the moment, and had left her children in a corner of Birmingham that they could call their own. The Mammonites had thrown themselves into the human way of life with great gusto. The greed, avarice and competitive consumerism of modern society appealed to them deeply. They had taken great pains to adopt a human-like form and, in coming closer than any other Venislarn, had missed by a mile. Mammonites sat in the deepest part of the uncanny valley, nearly human and disturbingly unhuman.