The Secret Files of the Diogenes Club - [Diogenes Club 02]

by By Kim Newman

  From behind, yelps of pain came frequently.

  Leech knew where to step, when to breathe, which rocks were solid enough to provide handholds and which would crumble or come away at a touch. Instinct told him how to hold his body so that gravity didn’t tug him off the mountain. His inertia actually helped propel him upwards.

  Charlie gave him a sideways look.

  Though the man was thick-skinned and jail-tough, physical activity wasn’t his favoured pursuit. He needed to make it seem as if he found the mountain path easy, but breathing the air up here was difficult for him. He had occasional coughing jags. Squeaky and Ouisch shouldered their sweet lord’s weight and helped him, their own thin legs bending as he relaxed on their support, allowing himself to be lifted as if by angels.

  Constant was careful, methodical, and made his way on his own.

  But Junior was out ahead, following his bottle, scrambling between rocks and up nearly sheer inclines. He stopped, stood on a rocky outcrop, and looked down at them, then bellowed for the sheer joy of being alive and in the wilderness.

  The sound carried out over the mountains and echoed.

  “Charlie,” he shouted, “how about one of them songs of yours?”

  “Yes, that is an idea good,” said Constant, every word barbed. “An inspiration is needed for our mission.”

  Charlie could barely speak, much less sing “The Happy Wanderer” in German.

  Grimly, Squeaky and Ouisch harmonised a difficult version of “The Mickey Mouse Marching Song.” Struggling with Charlie’s dead weight, they found the will to carry on and even put some spit and vigour into the anthem.

  Leech realised at once what Charlie had done.

  The con had simply stolen the whole idea outright from Uncle Walt. He’d picked up these dreaming girls, children of postwar privilege raised in homes with buzzing refrigerators in the kitchen and finned automobiles in the garage, recruiting them a few years on from their first Mouseketeer phase, and electing himself Mickey.

  Hey there ho there hi there...

  When they chanted “Mickey Mouse... Mickey Mouse,” Constant even croaked “Donald Duck” on the offbeat.

  Like Junior, Leech was overwhelmed with the sheer joy of the century.

  He loved these children, dangerous as they were, destructive as they would be. They had such open, yearning hearts. They would find many things to fill their voids and Leech saw that he could be there for them in the future, up to 2001 and beyond, on the generation’s ultimate trip.

  Unless the rains came first.

  “Hey, George,” yelled Junior. “I dropped my bottle down a hole.”

  Everyone stopped and shut up.

  Leech listened.

  “Aww, what a shame,” said Junior. “I lost my bottle.”

  Leech held up a hand for silence.

  Charlie was puzzled, and the girls sat him down.

  Long seconds later, deep inside the mountain, Leech heard a splash. No one else caught the noise.

  “It’s found,” he announced.

  * * * *

  Only Ouisch was small enough to pass through the hole. Constant rigged up a rope cradle and lowered her. She waved bye-bye as she scraped into the mountain’s throat. Constant measured off the rope in cubits, unrolling loops from his forearm.

  Junior sat on the rock, swigging from his flask.

  Squeaky glared pantomime evil at him and he offered the flask to Charlie.

  “That’s your poison, man,” he said.

  “You should drop acid,” said Squeaky. “So you can learn from the wisdom of the mountain.”

  Junior laughed, big belly-shaking chuckles.

  “You’re funnin’ me, girl. Ain’t nothing dumber than a mountain.”

  Leech didn’t add to the debate.

  Constant came to end of the rope. Ouisch dangled fifty feet inside the rock.

  “It’s dark,” she shouted up. “And wet. There’s water all around. Water with things in it. Icky.”

  “Have you ever considered the etymology of the term ‘icky’?” asked Leech. “Do you suppose this primal, playroom expression of disgust could be related to the Latin prefix ‘ichthy,’ which translates literally as ‘fishy’?”

  “I was in a picture once, calledManfish,” said Junior. “I got to be out on boats. I like boats.”

  “Manfish? Interesting name.”

  “It was the name of the boat in the movie. Not a monster, like that Black Lagoon thing. Universal wouldn’t have me in that. I did The Alligator People, though. Swamp stuff. Big stiff suitcase-skinned gator-man.”

  “Man-fish,” said Charlie, trying to hop on the conversation train. “I get it. I see where you’re coming from, where you’re going. The Old Lady. What’s she, a mermaid? An old mermaid?”

  “You mean she really looks like that?” yelped Squeaky. “The one time I saw her I was tripping. Man, that’s messed up! Charlie, I think I’m scared.”

  Charlie cuffed Squeaky around the head.

  “Ow, that hurt.”

  “Learn from the pain, child. It’s the only way.”

  “You shouldn’t ought to hit ladies, Mr. Man,” said Junior. “It’s not like with guys. Brawlin’ is part of being a guy. But with ladies, it’s, you know, not polite. Wrong. Even when you’ve got a snoutful, you don’t whop on a woman.”

  “It’s for my own good,” said Squeaky, defending her master.

  “Gosh, little lady, are you sure?”

  “It’s the only way I’ll learn.” Squeaky picked up a rock and hit herself in the head with it, raising a bruise. “I love you, Charlie,” she said, handing him the bloody rock.

  He kissed the stain, and Squeaky smiled as if she’d won a gold star for her homework and been made head cheerleader on the same morning.

  Ouisch popped her head up out of the hole like a pantomime chimneysweep. She had adorable dirt on her cheeks.

  “There’s a way down,” she said. “It’s narrow here, but opens out. I think it’s a, whatchumacailit, passage. The rocks feel smooth. We’ll have to enbiggen the hole if you’re all to get through.”

  Constant looked at the problem. “This stone, that stone, that stone,” he said, pointing out loose outcrops around the lip of the hole. “They will come away.”

  Charlie was about to make fun of the German boy, but held back. Like Leech, he sensed that the kid knew what he was talking about.

  “I study engineering,” Constant said. “I thought I might build houses.”

  “Have to tear down before you can build up,” said Charlie.

  Constant and Squeaky wrestled with rocks, wrenching them loose, working faults into cracks. Ouisch slipped into the hole, to be out of the way.

  Charlie didn’t turn a hand to the work. He was here in a supervisory capacity.

  Eventually the stones were rolled away.

  “Strange, that is,” said Constant as sun shone into the hole. “Those could be steps.”

  There were indeed stairs in the hole.

  Constant, of course, had brought a battery flashlight. He shone it into the hole. Ouisch sat on a wet step.

  The stairs were old, prehuman.

  Charlie tapped Squeaky, pushed her a little. She eased herself into the hole, plopping down next to Ouisch.

  “You light the way,” he told Constant. “The girls will scout ahead. Reconnaissance.”

  “Nothing down there but water,” said Junior. “Been there a long time.”

  “Maybe no people. But big blind fish.”

  The Family crowd descended the stairs, their light swallowed by the hole.

  Leech and Junior lingered topside.

  Charlie looked up. “You comin’ along, Mr. Fish?”

  Leech nodded. “It’s all right,” he told Junior. “We’ll be safe in the dark.”

  * * * *

  Inside the mountain, everything was cold and wet. Natural tunnels had been shaped by intelligent (if webbed) hands at some point. The roofs were too low even for the girls to walk c
omfortably, but scarred patches of rock showed where paths had been cut, and the floor was smoothed by use. Sewer-like runnel-gutters trickled with fresh water. Somehow, no one liked to drink the stuff—though the others must all have a desert thirst.

  They started to find carved designs on the rocks. At first, childish wavy lines with stylised fish swimming.

  Charlie was excited by the nearness of the sea.

  They could hear it, roaring below. Junior felt the pull of the water.

  Leech heard the voices in the roar.

  Like a bloodhound, Junior led them through triune junctions, down forking stairways, past stalactite-speared cave-dwellings, deeper into the three-dimensional maze inside the mountain.

  “We’re going to free the waters,” said Charlie. “Let the deluge wash down onto the city. This mountain is like a big dam. It can be blown.”

  The mountain was more like a stopper jammed onto a bottle. Charlie was right about pressure building up. Leech felt it in his inner ears, his eyes, his teeth. Squeaky had a nosebleed. The air was thick, wet with vapour. Marble-like balls of water gathered on the rock roof and fell on them, splattering on clothes like liquid bullets. In a sense, they were already underwater.

  It would take more than dynamite to loose the flood; indeed, it would take more than physics. However, Charlie was not too far off the mark in imagining what could be done by loosening a few key rocks. There was the San Andreas fault to play with. Constant would know which rocks to take out of the puzzle. A little directed spiritual energy, some sacrifices, and the Coast of California could shear away like a slice of pie. Then the stopper would be off, and the seas would rise, waking up the gill-people, the mer-folk, the squidface fellows. A decisive turn and a world war would be lost, by the straights, the over-thirties, the cops and docs and pols, the Man. Charlie and Chocko could stage their last war games, and the sea-birds would cheer tekeli-li tekeli-li...

  Leech saw it all, like a coming attraction. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to pay to see that movie.

  Maybe on a rerun triple feature with drastically reduced admission, slipped in between Night of the Living Dead and Planet of the Apes.

  Seriously, Hello Dolly! spoke to him more on his level.

  “The Earth is hollow,” said Charlie. “The Nazis knew that.”

  Constant winced at mention of Nazis. Too many Gestapo jokes had made him sensitive.

  “Inside, there are the big primal forces, water and fire. They’re here for us, space kiddettes. For the Family. This is where the Helter Skelter comes down.”

  The tunnel opened up into a cathedral.

  They were on an upper level of a tiered array of galleries and balconies. Natural rock and blocky construction all seemed to have melted like wax, encrusted with salty matter. Stalactites hung in spiky curtains, stalagmites raised like obscene columns.

  Below, black waters glistened.

  Constant played feeble torchlight over the interior of the vast space.

  “Far out, man,” said Ouisch.

  “Beautiful,” said Junior.

  There was an echo, like the wind in a pipe organ.

  Greens and browns mingled in curtains of icy rock, colours unseen for centuries.

  “Here’s your story,” said Constant.

  He pointed the torch at a wall covered in an intricate carving. A sequence of images—an underground comic!—showed the mountain opening up, the desert fractured by a jagged crack, a populated flood gushing forth, a city swept into the sea. There was a face on the mountain, grinning in triumph—Charlie, with a swastika on his forehead, his beard and hair tangled like seaweed.

  “So, is that your happy ending?” Leech asked.

  For once, Charlie was struck dumb. Until now he had been riffing, a yarning jailbird puffing up his crimes and exploits, spinning sci-fi stories and channelling nonsense from the void. To keep himself amused as he marked off the days of his sentence.

  “Man,” he said, “it’s all true.”

  This face proved it.

  “This is the future. Helter Skelter.”

  Looking closer at the mural, the city wasn’t exactly Los Angeles, but an Aztec-Atlantean analogue. Among the drowning humans were fishier bipeds. There were step-pyramids and Studebaker dealerships, temples of sacrifice and motion picture studios.

  “It’s one future,” said Leech. “A possible, maybe probable future.”

  “And you’ve brought me to it, man. I knew you were the real deal!”

  The phrase came back in an echo, “real deal... real deal.”

  “The real deal? Very perceptive. This is where we make the real deal, Charles. This is where we take the money or open the box, this is make-your-mind-up-time.”

  Charlie’s elation was cut with puzzlement.

  “I’ve dropped that tab,” announced Ouisch.

  Junior looked around. “Where? Let’s see if we can pick it up.”

  Charlie took Constant’s torch and shone it at Leech.

  “You don’t blink.”

  “No.”

  Charlie stuck the torch under his chin, demon-masking his features. He tried to snarl like his million-year-old carved portrait.

  “But I’m the Man, now. The Man of the Mountain.”

  “I don’t dispute that.”

  “The Old Lady has told me how it works,” said Charlie, pointing to his head. “You think I don’t get it, but I do. We’ve been stashing ordinance. The kraut’s a demolition expert. He’ll see where to place the charges. Bring this place down and let the waters out. I know that’s not enough. This is an imaginary mountain as much as it is a physical one. That’s why they’ve been filming crappy Westerns all over it for so long. This is a place of stories. And it has to be opened in the mind, has to be cracked on another plane. I’ve been working on the rituals. My album, that’s one. And the blood sacrifices, the offerings of the pigs.”

  “I can’t wait to off my first pig,” said Ouisch, cutely wrinkling her nose.

  “I’m going to be so freakin’ famous.”

  “Famous ain’t all that,” put in Junior. “You think bein’ famous will make things work out right, but it doesn’t at all. Screws you up more, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t, Mummy Man,” spat Charlie. “You had your shot, dragged your leg through the tombs...”

  Squeaky began to sing, softly.

  “We shall over-whelm, we shall over-whe-e-elm, we shall overwhelm some day-ay-ay...”

  Charlie laughed.

  “It’s the end of their world. No more goddamn movies. You know how much I hate the movies? The lies in the movies. Now, I get to wipe Hollywood off the map. Hell, I get to wipe themap off the map. I’ll burn those old Spanish charts when we get back to the Ranch. No more call for them.”

  Constant was the only one paying attention to Leech. Smart boy.

  “It’ll be so simpler said Charlie. “So pure. All the pigs get offed. Me and Chocko do the last dance. I defeat the clowns, lay them down forever. Then we start all over. Get it right this time.”

  “Simple,” said Leech. “Yes, that’s the word.”

  “This happened before, right? With the Old Lady’s people. The menfish. Then we came along, the menmen, and fouled it up again, played exactly the same tune. Not this time. This time, there’s the Gospel According to Charlie.”

  “Hooray and Hallelujah,” sang Ouisch, “you got it comin’ to ya...”

  The drip of water echoed enormously, like the ticking of a great clock.

  “I do believe our interests part the ways here,” said Leech. “You yearn for simplicity, like these children. You hate the movies, the storybooks, but you want cartoons, you want a big finish and a new episode next week. Wipe it all away and get back to the garden. It’s easy because you don’t have to think about it.”

  He hadn’t lost Charlie, but he was scaring the man. Good.

  “I like complexity,” said Leech, relishing the echo. “I love it. There are so many more opportunities, so many more ar
rangements to be made. What I want is a rolling apocalypse, a transformation, a thousand victories a day, a spreading of interests, a permanent revolution. My natural habitat is civilisation. Your ultimate deluge might be amusing for a moment, but it’d pass. Even you’d get bored with children sitting around adoring you.”

  “You think?”