For a minute, Roger Fox lay motionless, as if he recognised the name, and yet couldn’t remember where from.
Then it hit him like a ten-ton-hammer, and he did lots of oopsing and cursing as he stumbled about in the dark in search of candles, matches, and something to protect him from their angry daughter when she got back.
8
The horse trotted quietly and slowly into Oilhaven. Upon its back, five bandits argued and whispered at one another over which one of them had guffed.
“Everyone just pipe down,” El Oscuro said, pulling on Mordecai’s reins. “It doesn’t matter which one of us farted. There are more pressing matters afoot.”
“That means it was El Oscuro,” Red muttered from the back of the horse. She dismounted in a spectacular fashion – somersault, cartwheel, up into a pirouette – and straightened up her dress, which bore more stains than an ex-president’s trousers. “So this is Oilhaven,” she said, taking it all in. “Doesn’t look like much.”
Samuel climbed down from the horse, though not as gracefully as Red had (foot caught in stirrup, moan of despair, ass hit the floor). “They have the store,” he said, dusting himself down. “Which is more than most shitty Podunk towns have in this day and age.”
“What do you think, Thumbs?” El Oscuro said, taking Mordecai up to a canter.
The answer was, of course, not a lot. “I think we could do some real damage here. I mean, I wouldn’t suggest setting up shop, or anything, but it’ll do for a couple of days. Like you said, we’re running low on supplies. I think we’ll find what we need here.”
From within the shadows to their right, something smashed. In response, the bandits pulled out small blades and sharp sticks, except for El Oscuro, who unsheathed a samurai sword. Being the leader certainly had its perks…
“Over there,” Red said, pointing at the darkness between two ramshackle huts with her cleaver.
Surely enough, something shifted within the nebulous space; a dark pink mass, sliding along the floor like a giant filthy worm. Since there were no such things at giant worms, filthy or otherwise, the bandits wasted no time in making their approach.
“We know you’re there,” El Oscuro said, slicing the air in front of him with the sword. Mordecai nervously whinnied as the wind from the swinging blade whispered into his ears. “Don’t make any sudden movements, and I promise no harm will come to you.”
Blink, Thumbs, Samuel, and Red walked a few feet ahead of the horse, who was, in turn, quite grateful. The closer they got, the more panicked the writhing pink shape became. It was a man…a naked man…not what any of them had expected to see upon their arrival, but it was a hot night, and it wasn’t as if there were any police to arrest the starkers native.
“Is that what I think it is?” Thumbs said, squinting.
“If you’re thinking it’s a shrivelled penis,” Red said, “then yes.”
“We’re not going to hurt you,” El Oscuro said to the trembling shape. “And you clearly have nothing for us to steal, at least nothing that would feed us for very long.” He climbed down from the horse and moved to the front of his gang.
The man – if one could call such a deprived creature a man – pressed himself as tightly to the wall between the two buildings as he could. “I don’t have anything,” he said. “Please don’t hurt me.”
El Oscuro frowned. “I just told you that…never mind. Listen, naked man. Do you know somewhere around here that would put up a weary band of travellers? We’re a tidy bunch, and not averse to leaving a ridiculous tip.” He sheathed the sword; the man cowering in the shadows was clearly not a threat.
“You…you could try…try Abigail,” the man said. Despite the heat, he was shivering, as if afflicted with something incurable, something that none of the bandits wanted to catch a whiff of.
“You’ll have to be more specific,” Samuel said, flicking the poor man in his tiny junk. “We’re not from around here. Is Abigail an inn-owner?”
“Close,” the defrocked chap said. “She’s the resident whore.”
Glances were exchanged between the bandits, many of them filled with disgust. The naked man sensed he was losing them and decided that what Abigail needed was a generous sugar-coating – not to mention a de-fleaing, a good bath, and a liberal application of thrush cream.
“No, she’s okay,” Nudey Nuderson said. “She has space at her place for the likes of you, providing she hasn’t got any clients tonight.”
“Does she get a lot of clients?” Blink said, as wide-eyed as ever.
“Does a bear shit on the pope?” said the naked man. When all he got for his efforts was confused stares, he added, “No. She hasn’t been busy recently. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with her. I mean, I wouldn’t, personally, but she’s a lovely old lady, if you can see past the glass eye and the hair lip.”
“I’m sure we can pretend not to notice,” El Oscuro said. “Where can we find this delightful dolly?”
“She lives just down yonder,” said the naked man. His finger pointed in the direction of ‘down yonder’. “But I doubt she’ll be in at this time of night. She’ll be out touting her goods to anyone brave enough to touch ‘em. You’ll most likely find her at The Barrel.”
“You have a bar here?” Red said, incredulous. “An actual bar?”
The naked man tried not to laugh. “If you could call it that. The Barrel sells watered-down drinks—”
“How watered-down?” Thumbs said, suddenly excited.
“There’s probably more alcohol in the rain,” said the naked man. “But people like to think they’re getting tanked. It’s amazing how tipsy you can get by sipping at a glass of 0.2% water.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Blink said. “Let’s go and get fucked off our faces and have a chat with an old hooker.”
“Or Saturday night, as it used to be known,” Thumbs added.
“If you just tell her Mickey sent you, she’ll…” He trailed off, then added, “You know what? Don’t mention me. Just tell her you’re looking for a place to stay for the night. I’m assuming you have the means to pay for said lodgings?”
“We’ll not slaughter her in her sleep, if that’s what you mean,” Red said, though she knew very well that wasn’t what he had in mind.
“Yes, most people accept ‘not dying’ as a currency where we’re from,” El Oscuro said. “But this is Oilhaven. Who are we to come in here and start breaking the rules? Of course we will recompense Ms Abigail for the use of her floor.”
“You haven’t seen her floor yet,” the naked man said.
“And so, on that non-joke, we will bid you adieu.” El Oscuro mounted Mordecai. “Now…where might we find this lightweight bar?”
The naked man stepped, momentarily, from the shadows, his tiny thing blowing gently in the wind. “If you go to the end of this street, you’ll see a dead crow. Take a right, and you’ll notice a barrel leaning against a wall.
“Ah, so that’s why it’s called The Barrel?” Blink said, nodding.
“No, it’s because the owner’s built like a dalek.”
“Oh.”
And they all laughed.
“Okay, put your game-faces on, people,” El Oscuro said. “We’re going to The Barrel to catch us a whore.”
You’ll be lucky, thought the naked man as he slunk back into the darkness, if that’s all you catch…
9
Fields. Beautiful green fields on all sides. It was, it had to be, a dream. A wonderful dream from which he would regret waking, but for now he would enjoy it. He would revel in its glory, for dreams like this didn’t come around too often. More often than not, his dreams were filled with wretchedness; with images of his dying (was she?) mother. With visions of those terrible moments immediately following The Event. This dream, this beautiful dream, was a breath of fresh air.
Speaking of air, the air here was breathable. More than that, it tasted of syrup. A sweet, delicious syrup that one could eat forever and never grow tired of. He
inhaled, and inhaled, and ignored the saccharine lumps at the back of his throat. Anything was better than the dust and sand he’d gulped on for the last twenty years.
I never want to wake up, he thought. Please, let this be it. Let me remain here forever, with these fields, and those…
Cows.
Lots of cows. Mooing at him, but not in a threatening fashion. He wasn’t afraid of them, and why would he be? They were part of a dream – part of his marvellous dream. There was nothing to be scared of.
There are a lot of them, though, he thought, taking a few tentative steps forward. The grass felt good beneath his feet; a luxurious carpet of damp timothy.
The sun was up, but it wasn’t unbearable. He wasn’t sweating, which made a nice change. Out there, in the waking world, you couldn’t move without excreting thick, slimy sweat, but here…here, he could walk around in the daylight, with the sun at its zenith, and not have to worry about where the next towel was going to come from, or if he was going to wake up the following day peppered with zits.
Out here, everything was perfect.
Except…
Something wasn’t quite right. The cows were regarding him with something akin to circumspection, as if they knew something that he didn’t. Lou didn’t like it. No, this is a nice dream! Please don’t fuck it up for me!
But it was already fucked up; he just didn’t know it yet.
At the edge of the field to his right, a farmhouse stood. Its red roof and swinging barn door would have been considered clichés if there was anyone else there to witness them, but Lou didn’t mind. Sometimes, a cliché was the only way to go.
He moved closer to the farmhouse, wary of the cows in the surrounding fields, which appeared to be conversing with one another in the only way they knew how. Moooooooo! “Look at this twat. Who does he think he is? Coming into our field, walking around as if he owns the place.”
No, it’s a nice dream! Leave me alone.
As he reached the edge of the field, he met the fence separating him from the farmhouse. The scent of something wonderful drifted across from the open back door, something cooking on the hob, or, he thought, in one of those industrial-sized ovens. Whatever it was, it overpowered the sweet, sweet air for just a moment. It was delightful, and exactly what one might expect to sniff at the back door of some pre-apocalyptic farmhouse.
Mooooooooo! “He doesn’t get it,” one of the cows said, though Lou knew that cows didn’t speak. It was the surreal part of his dream; all dreams had them. You could be having the most logical dream ever and then, bam! In pops Elvis Presley for a little singsong and a fried banana sandwich. That was how dreams worked, and it explained the talking cow element of his perfectly.
He turned his attention back to the farmhouse, and not a moment too soon, for a man was leaving, now, via the back door.
“Excuse me,” Lou said, hoping the man could hear him as he trundled across the path. “I couldn’t help noticing the wonderful smell emanating from your back door. Would it be terribly forward of me to offer up my services? I’m extremely good at eating food, and it would be an awful shame if you didn’t get an outside opinion on your wife’s cooking.”
The man mustn’t have heard, for he headed into the barn at the side of the house without so much as a sideways glance.
Moooooooo! “Listen to him. Thinks Barry’s going to let him have some soup. Who does he think he is?”
Shut up, Lou said. If you don’t ask, you don’t get. He didn’t know why he was explaining himself to a fieldful of cows, but it seemed appropriate since they were mocking him so implacably. What was it with these cows, anyway? Were they jealous of him? They were lucky he hadn’t dreamt a barbecue into the field and started hacking them up. It had been a long time since he’d had a decent burger – one not made from squirrel or, god forbid, tofu – and here was a field filled with cows, the main component of a decent burger.
Was it too late to imagine a grill and a bag of charcoal?
Ah, here came the farmer again, carrying a pair of iron buckets. “Excuse me, Barry, is it? I’m Lou, and this is my dream, so you can stop acting for the time being and fetch me a bowl of that special soup you’ve got going on in the house.”
Barry opened the gate, stepped through onto the grass, and pulled it shut behind him, making sure it was locked.
Why am I locked in here with these…these animals? Only now did he find it odd that he was standing in a field; only now did it strike him as a little unusual that he wasn’t sat at the dinner table with a napkin around his neck and the farmer’s wife staring at him with pure lust as he filled his cheeks with pea and ham broth.
The farmer walked across the field, toward Lou, and yet persisted with his silly game of ignorance. “Erm, Barry? Bazza? Baz? Whatever, look, I know you can hear me, so you might as well knock it off and answer.”
Nothing.
Moooooooooo! “He doesn’t know,” said one of the talking cows. “He’s an idiot,” said another. “He’s about to get the shock of his fecking life,” said a third, for it was an Irish cow.
What are they talking about? Lou thought, staring around at the cows as they muttered conspiratorially at one another. “Oi! You lot! If you’ve got something to say, say it to my faaaaaaaa….”
And that was where the dream took a turn for the worse as something yanked on Lou’s cock. At least, he thought it was his cock. That was the only thing down there worth yanking on, as far as he was concerned.
“Keep still,” the farmer, Barry, said. He’d dropped to his knees; the buckets had been placed underneath Lou.
“Look, mate,” Lou said. “I don’t know what your game is, but I’m not into all that. If you could just take your hands off my…”
Udder?
Lou pushed his head as far forward as he could, and it was then that he saw his legs – all four of them – and at the end of each leg was a black hoof. And the thing that Barry was tugging on was not his cock, after all, and though he was grateful for that, he was a little disturbed by the hanging sack of mammary glands that made up his undercarriage.
Mooooooo! “By jove, I think he gets it!” said one of the cows.
“What the fuck is going on!?” Lou yelled, trying to move away from the hand frantically jerking beneath him. But he was stuck fast, for this was that part of the dream when paralysis sets in. “No, this can’t be happening! This isn’t real! It’s just a dream!”
A really, really bad dream.
Lou (moo?) closed his eyes and counted to ten, ignoring the farmer’s hand as it continued to milk him for all he was worth.
One, two, three…
Just a dream. A nightmare. An awful nightmare in which Lou was a cow…
Four, five, six…
Nothing to worry about, apart from Barry’s ring finger, which was pinching his teat…
Seven, eight, nine…
Everything was damp, now…damp and cloying, as if he’d been the centre of attention at a bukkake party.
Ten…
*
Flinging himself forward in bed, the first thing Lou realised was that he was sweating dreadfully, despite the bed not having any covers. The malodorous stench of perspiration filled the room, but it wasn’t just the smell of sweat he noticed in the air. There was something else, commingling with the sweat. Something he hadn’t smelt in a long, long time.
Milk.
But that wasn’t possible, was it? Men don’t produce milk, do they? That would be like a woman squirting semen, wouldn’t it? All good questions, none of which he knew the answer to.
He ran a tremulous hand down his front, through the sodden, coarse hairs that had graced his chest since his tenth birthday. Sure enough, there was a stickiness there, one that you wouldn’t associate with sweat.
“No,” he laughed, shaking his head. “Not possible.”
But, apparently, it was possible. It was very possible because it had happened.
His chest-hair was matted, thick with…dairy?
He ran a finger over one of his nipples (the left one, not that it mattered) and watched as a jet of still-warm milk fountained out, pattering upon his mattress with a noise like raindrops on an umbrella. He snatched his hand away, as if it was acid pouring from him and not something you could quite happily drink by the gallon.
“This can’t be happening,” he said. “This…this can’t be real.”
The dream wasn’t real. Standing in a field with a herd of acerbic cattle, that hadn’t been real. Being tugged at by Barry the farmer, that wasn’t real…
But this…
This…
He didn’t have time to agonise as his head met the saturated pillow once again, and he was pulled down into an unconsciousness that was, he considered, more than welcome.
10
Before The Event had changed the world forever, people liked nothing more than to visit huge buildings with massive screens. They would eat something called ‘popped corn’ and what they didn’t eat would be tossed at the bald man’s head ten rows in front. Now, on these big screens, the owners of the establishments would project movies, or films, to the layman. There were all sorts of films (even ones about sparkling vampires, if you can believe that) but one of the most celebrated genres was the western. Cowboys doing battle at the O.K. Corral – which was essentially a thirty second shootout, so quite how they managed to get a two-hour movie out of it was anyone’s guess – and John Wayne, a much-loved actor, walking around as if he’d shat his pantaloons, telling people to ‘get off your horse and suck my dick’ or something to that effect. These films usually had a main hub, a place for the cowboys to sit down with a drink and a deck of cards, ready to play a few hands. Now, whenever a stranger entered these places, these saloons – not to be confused with salons, which were places you could get your nails filed and your asshole waxed – the rest of the room fell silent and all eyes fell upon the outsider. The pianist in the corner would stop playing, and the bartender would cease with his counter-wiping and throw the towel over his shoulder in anticipation of the inevitable trouble that would follow.
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