by Heide Goody
“Part of that car is on fire,” said Omar.
“Mmmm,” Morag nodded. “The driver doesn’t seem to mind.”
Omar gave a long and exhausted sigh. It was the sigh of a man giving in to the inevitable.
On the short taxi journey, Morag saw how much of the city centre had been destroyed. It wasn’t just fire, or explosive acts of demolition. Strange and unstable things had oozed from between the gaps in this world.
The god Kaxeos, who until tonight had been buried beneath the Balti triangle, was a being of infinite wisdom playing his own inscrutable game with the other Venislarn gods. A taxi sent by him was a nudge best not ignored. And, at that moment, it was possibly one of the safest ways to get around the city. Nonetheless it was unnerving to have only a single window between oneself and the unfolding madness.
The driver was a bearded man, although half of his beard had been burned away in some recent trauma, and the left side of his face was a shiny and tender pink. He said nothing. He didn’t ask for a destination and did not offer a comment. They got in and he simply drove away. Morag was prepared to trust Kaxeos’s judgement (as much out of general tiredness as actual faith). She soon saw where they were being taken.
Mammon-Mammonson Investments was a tall white building that had once been the Birmingham stock exchange before technology had rendered regional stock exchanges redundant. The building seemed to have been untouched by the ravages of Armageddon. This might have been pure luck. Morag suspected otherwise.
It was a three-metre hop from taxi to the lobby of Mammon-Mammonson Investments. Being out in the open had never felt so exposed. Omar, who had left his wheelchair at the Library, offered his hand to support her as she offered a hand to support him. Chad, the only one of them who was not injured (either by the passage of a bullet or a baby through the body) was hyped up by the prospect of making deals with the Venislarn, and his arms were too animated to offer support to anyone.
They passed through the marbled vestibule and into the main lobby.
Several dozen men, or things which more of less looked like men, stood in the lobby, ringing a large uneven stack of boxes. As the door swung closed behind Morag, they turned as one to look at the intruders. They had sharp suits, with sharper knives in their hands. One of them grinned, exposing sharp teeth.
04:56am
Forward Company’s van moved slowly through the city streets. Abandoned, crashed or burned-out vehicles forced the van to zig-zag along wider roads, and avoid narrower roads altogether. Captain Malcolm explained to Prudence and Yang that they were being forced to take a large detour back to the city centre through Moseley and Edgbaston to avoid what he called “the big wind monsters ripping up Sparkbrook and Sparkhill”.
Once Yang and Prudence had established their story that they both lived on the far side of Shirley, but neither had living family in the area, Captain Malcolm declared the girls would come with them back to their base. The nine other soldiers crammed into the van didn’t seem to care one way or the other. There was an unfocused faraway gaze in the eyes of more than one of them. The sour smell of sweat was strong in Prudence’s nostrils.
One of the men twitched in fear when a dragon-winged creature glided over the van. It hooted a challenge, before swinging round towards some woodland.
“This ammo works on all Venislarn,” Captain Malcolm told Prudence. He ejected a round from his pistol and showed it to them. It had a blue metallic shine to it. “It’s made from this gooey slime from one of the monsters. It’s poison to them all.”
Yang quietly pressed herself against the wall of the van to create distance between her and the bullet. Malcolm didn’t notice. He was looking out of the window in the direction the dragon creature had flown.
“We could kill any of them,” he said, “but we’ve got a list of high priority targets. Those nasty spider crab things you met. There’s eight more of them somewhere in the city. And we’ve got plans to deal with Yo-Morgantus. He’s one of the big nasty ones. And Yoth-Bilau, when it shows itself. Isn’t that right, guys?” He looked to his men and women for confirmation. Half of them seemed not to hear.
“Can’t fault you for your optimism, sir,” said a woman whose long hair was plastered to her face with sweat.
Malcolm grunted. “It’s been a long night already,” he said to Prudence. “Things will look better when we’re back at base. You’ll meet my son. He’s five years old. How old are you?”
Prudence’s brain blanked. “How old do you think I am?” she asked.
Malcolm shook his head. “Eleven?”
“Good guess,” said Prudence.
On one long high street, all the shops to one side had fallen away, as though sideways had become downwards. It looked as if the pavement was a cliff edge. The van stayed well away from that side of the road.
“Local spacetime is coming apart in places, but that’s okay,” said Malcolm. Prudence didn’t know who he was trying to reassure with that comment. He pointed out an area over to the left. Giants, only visible as needle-thin legs, moved in a circle in a field of light.
“I think that’s where Edgbaston cricket ground used to be,” he said. “Can’t imagine what damage it’s doing to the pitch. We’ll want to see test matches played again when this is over, eh?”
“What’s cricket?” said Prudence.
Malcolm made a horrified sound. “And we’ll have to do something about kids’ education, too.”
“Whatever, sir,” said the sweaty woman.
* * *
Vivian entered the conference room in the command sub-basement. Three men sat at a table which was far too big for just them. One wore a light purple tracksuit, another a business suit, the third the uniform of a British army major. If Vivian reached for the fading knowledge of Ap Shallas still within her, she would have been able to conjure their names. She had neither the time nor the desire.
“Are you using this room?” she said curtly.
The tracksuit wearer looked at her, open mouthed. He had probably had a confusing and long night, but that wasn’t reason enough to be gawping like a slack-mouthed frog.
“We were expecting to be dead,” said the major. He gestured at the big wall of monitor screens behind them. It was black and lifeless.
Vivian spared it a glance. “Yo-Morgantus, possibly in conjunction with the unholy colours of Ammi-Usub has erected a shield over the city. The nuclear explosion did not penetrate it. That was some minutes ago. Aren’t you meant to be doing something useful?”
“That dramatic fellow from marketing was doing a presentation,” said the tracksuit wearer.
“We had to imagine what kind of yoghurt we were,” said the suit.
“I was a Muller fruit corner,” said tracksuit.
“Squeezy froob,” said the suit.
“I believe I need to rejoin my men,” said the major, standing.
“I will be using this room,” said Vivian and slid the Bloody Big Book onto the table. “I have a book to finish.”
As she sat down, the door opened and a round woman reversed in with a tea trolley. “Pretend I’m not here,” she told everyone in a loud voice, and proceeded to collect mugs, cups and plates.
“We should give you some room to—” As tracksuit stood, he waved his hand to encompass whatever it was he thought Vivian was doing.
“Is there anything we can do to assist?” asked his suited companion.
“Pens,” said Vivian. She waggled the expensive-looking copper-barrelled pen. “I picked this up from the Library gift shop not half an hour ago and I can already sense it’s running out.”
The men gathered what few pens they had on the table.
“And that would be a council-run gift shop, then,” said the tea lady with dark emphasis. She glared at tracksuit and sucked her teeth angrily.
Tracksuit visibly quailed. “I can assure you, Mrs Seth, that Birmingham City Council is not responsible, directly or indirectly, for the items sold in library and museum gift shops
.”
The woman wasn’t interested, and muttered foully as she continued tidying.
Once the men were gone, the crockery collected and Vivian had a dubious pile of cheap pens by her open book, she was ready to continue writing.
“I’ll come back with a nice hot pot of tea for you,” said Mrs Seth.
“I prefer to make my own tea,” said Vivian. “I don’t wish to be disappointed.”
Mrs Seth produced an open-mouthed laugh of disdain. “Oh, let’s see, shall we?” She wheeled her trolley out noisily with a muttered, “Where does she think tea bloody comes from, eh?”
Knowing the gift shop pen was on its last dribbles of ink, Vivian found her page in the Bloody Big Book and wrote.
Carcosa
Rebounding off a foyer wall, tearing away a long patch of flaking wallpaper as he did, Rod stumbled out of the theatre and into the streets of Carcosa. He wanted to throw up, he wanted to scream. He didn’t have the energy for either.
This world, far from Earth, was a nightmare of decay and silence.
“I need to get back,” he muttered to himself, realising he had been muttering it over and over.
Realisation gave him strength of purpose. He grabbed a man in the street. “I need to get out of here. How do I leave?”
Between the man’s mask and the brim of his stovepipe hat, eyes widened in both fear and disgust.
“Please!” Rod called to the surrounding crowd, which was doing its best to ignore him. “I need to get back home. Birmingham. Birmingham? Anyone heard of it?”
There was no flicker of recognition or sympathy from any of them. Rod ran on. He paused at the end of the street, breathless from nausea, and leaned on the corner building. Motes of dried and worn stonework crumbled at his touch.
A family of four – the family from the graveyard – emerged through the fallen gate archway opposite. The father walked ahead. The mother held the daughter’s hand to stop her falling behind. A skull-slug covered the girl’s back, its ooze around her shoulders, its skull face perched next to her own, grinning. The girl wept silently.
“What’s done is done,” said the mother softly, more annoyed than worried.
Rod stared. “What is wrong with you people?” he shouted.
The parents clearly heard him, but kept their eyes ahead. The son glanced momentarily at Rod, then took a bite from a pretend apple and carried on.
“What the flamin’ heck…?” Rod whispered.
“Plague grips the city,” said the King in Crimson, next to Rod once more.
Rod was too tired to give a start of surprise but shot the bastard a furious look. “Do you have to creep up on me all the time?”
“I never leave your side,” said the King.
Rod shook his head. “This plague, then.”
“A shortness of breath, sharp pain, sudden dizziness and then bleeding at the pores.”
“And then death,” Rod nodded.
“No one is allowed to die in Carcosa anymore.” He fingered his mask. “They wear the masks as penance and try not to draw attention to themselves.”
“And they do nothing to fix things, to save themselves?”
“If the horrors are coming – if the horrors are here – and there is nothing they can do about it, best to pretend nothing’s wrong and carry on as normal.”
“Idiots,” said Rod.
“People,” said the King.
“Well, I’m getting out of here,” said Rod, pushing himself away from the wall.
“That’s the spirit!” said the King. “Across Lake Hali, away from the Hyades cluster and all the way back to home!”
If he was mocking Rod, Rod chose to ignore him. “If you got me here then you can take me back,” he said as he marched back towards the busiest streets.
“Three wishes requested. Three wishes given.”
“You’re a cheating scoundrel, I’ll tell you that for nowt.”
“Slanderous in the extreme.”
“Sue me.” Rod walked the city, looking for any signs of how he might leave. The father in the graveyard had mentioned boats or ships or somesuch, so maybe there was a way out from this place. But the King in Crimson had said they were in the Hyades cluster and the word ‘cluster’ suggested stars and distant galaxies to Rod’s mind. Whether he needed a spaceship or a wizard to get him home, Rod would seek one out.
He stepped from one side of a partially flooded alleyway to the other. “What happens at the end of the play?” he asked the King.
“The end?” the King said.
“If I’m in it then what do I do next? How do I get out of this?”
The King in Crimson coughed, a laugh perhaps. “The play is unfinished. Perhaps if I had finished it things would be different.”
Rod grunted at the unhelpful and empty comment.
They passed through a street of densely packed, empty shops and into a long, wide square. The remains of high buildings marked the sides. The arcades of shops at ground level were whole and complete, but the upper levels were nothing but empty windows and jagged brickwork. The square was crowded, far more crowded than any other portion of the city. Men, women and children stood silently.
Nearby, a child played idly with a whirling toy. He stood next to a woman who ignored him.
Rod halted when he saw the toy properly. At first he had taken it to be some sort of windmill. He recognised the three arms and the rings set into them, the almost frictionless spinning of the body.
“That’s a fidget spinner.”
The boy didn’t look up.
He took hold of the boy’s wrist and lifted it. “This a bloody fidget spinner. Don’t tell me they make fidget spinners in—” Rod plucked the toy from the boy’s fingers; he mewled pathetically for a moment. Rod turned it over and inspected it closely. The words Made in China were embossed on the plastic body.
He shook it in the woman’s face. “Where did he get this? Did you find it? Did you buy it?”
The woman shifted aside so that his hand and the fidget spinner were no longer in her eyeline. Rod turned to a man who might have been with them.
“Oi, mate. Did you buy this?”
The man didn’t respond so Rod – who had had enough of these bloody people – gave him a shove. The man’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief.
“This!” growled Rod. “Where did you get it?”
Stunned, the man pointed off to an alley leading off from the square. “The canal,” he mumbled. “The traders.”
“Thank you!” snapped Rod, who was an intrinsically polite man.
He looked to the boy, thinking to give the fidget spinner back to him but the boy’s blank-eyed attention had moved on: now fixated on the bright stars above the empty windows.
Rod ran to the alleyway the man had pointed out. He paused, standing on the protruding lip of a building foundation stone, and shouted across the square.
“You lot need to wake up! Do something! Repair your bloody houses, sort out the mess in the streets!” He saw skull-slugs here and there, leisurely grazing on the unresisting herd. “And flamin’ heck, do something about the vermin, will you? Your world needs fixing! It’s not rocket science, you know! If I have to come back here and sort you out myself, I will!”
Of the hundreds of people in the square, maybe a handful momentarily turned their faces in his direction. But it seemed a colossal effort; within seconds he was forgotten. Silence fell. There was no wind, no warmth, no movement beyond the strictly functional.
“Christ on a bike,” he muttered, and left.
The alley from the square sloped down before descending in uneven steps. The buildings leaned in close. Rot had eaten away the wooden timbers of some of the simpler buildings and, here and there, upper levels had literally collapsed against one another across the road, like drunkards leaning on each other.
Poorer people, their rags filthy and shapeless, moved wordlessly, backs hunched. Baskets and crates were carried underarm or across their shoulders. There was littl
e actual produce that Rod could see. Scraps and rubbish were in abundance, but there was no fruit, vegetables or baked goods. Perhaps they moved through habit, repeating the actions of a working day but with none of the end results to show for it.
He tried to engage them, tried to meet their gaze. “Do you know where I might buy something like this?” he asked more than once. The people offered him nothing.
He followed the intermittent steps until the alley simply stopped at a plain wall where forked cracks made a crazy pattern on the damp plasterwork. He turned and looked back up the alley and did not recognise it.
“What are you doing, dear patron?” asked the King in Crimson.
“I’m finding a way out,” he said tersely. “If fidget spinners can get here from China, then there’ll be a way that Rod Campbell can get back.”
“To China?”
“Don’t be a smart arse.” Rod climbed back up the slope and took the first right. More stairs, more crowded buildings, more people carrying meaningless cargo on pointless errands. This passageway ended at an open sewer, a narrow and deep channel that didn’t seem to be flowing anywhere. Despite the foul-looking grey and brown detritus floating its surface, it didn’t smell much at all, as though it had given up its stench.
Rod backtracked and took a different turning, this time through an archway that appeared older than the building around it. Further steps up and down and, because it made him feel more productive, a turn here and then there, taken at random.
A V-shaped chunk knocked out of a step struck him as annoyingly familiar. As he looked up, a rotund woman in a black cloak passed by. He was sure he had seen her before.
“Going in circles?” suggested the King.
“Trapped in a maze,” countered Rod. “I’ve been here before.”
“Limited budget for sets,” said the King. Rod ignored his meta nonsense.
“As long as it’s not like that one where the stairs go up and down and the whole universe is folded in on itself, up is down and left is right. You know the one?”
“The picture by Escher,” said the King.