Toxicity

by Andy Remic

  The pile of teeth were perfect, but Horace’s perfection, his dentistry, went further. He’d pulled out a microfilament titanium saw, eyes gleaming with a light of - not insanity, but something deeper, something dark; a chord in perfect tune with a demon’s soul.

  “I’ll talk, I’ll tell you every fucking thing!” screamed Michelle, her words deformed by her lack of teeth, her mouth full of blood and saliva and vomit.

  Horace held up a finger, as if conducting an orchestra. This was the soundtrack of the doomed.

  “Too late,” he said with wet lips, and the saw went to work on Michelle’s jaw. Not to silence her, but to complete the final pieces of The Dentist’s puzzle. A key opening a lock with a snick. A perfect symbiosis: of victim, and killer.

  Now, he sat back. Exhausted. Fulfilled. And his mind, his twisted, drifting mind, came back to the present with a gentle bump.

  His mission was unfulfilled. But more than that: they knew he was here.

  They were trying to kill him. He had competition. He had a fight.

  Horace smiled, and placed his tool roll in his pocket. Outside, dawn was daring to stroke the horizon.

  Sirens drifted through the haze.

  It was time to leave.

  ~ * ~

  FOUR

  WHEN THEY CUT you down, you know what you have to do. You must fight, fight for your life, fight with every tooth and claw and fang and fist and finger and boot, kick and stomp and punch and slap and bite and elbow and knee and head-butt until you’re free of these heathen peasant tribal bastards who seek to cook you over the fire! You get it? You’d better fucking get it, because if you don’t, then you’re gonna end up as pate in their bellies, as meat on their sticks, as arse slabs of gristle on their little bark plates. They’ll use your eyeballs as delicacies, your belly-fat as candle wax, your dried-out skin as clothing, and your fucking scalp as a stick totem to wave at other captured unfortunates. Understand, Svoolzard? This is it. Time to fight. Fight or die, like never before!

  Svoolzard tried hard not to cry, to whimper, to pout, or to sulk. He didn’t want to fight. Yes, he had a jewelled sword, but it wasn’t for fighting with, it was for showmanship! Fighting was what other, uncouth, uneducated, primal-tattooed stinking scabby arseholes did. Svoolzard was above that, intellectually, socially and academically. Svoolzard was a lover, not a fighter, man. But here, and now, he’d have to fight or he’d be...

  Cooked.

  He didn’t see the tribesman scale the tree behind him, so when the twine was snipped he hit the ground on his face - and, more importantly, his nose - with a thud. Stars flooded his mind like some cheap special effect in a movie, and when consciousness deigned to make a return, they’d already cut away his fine clothing, tied his wrists and feet to a long pole, and were carrying him towards the flames.

  “Hey, hey! What are you doing?” he screamed.

  “Hey, oy! Why am I naked?” he wailed.

  “Hey, that’s a fire, that is, you really don’t want to be putting me over that! No! No! Aieeeeee!”

  The “Aieeeeee!” came as they indeed lodged the pole into the two upright Y-sections of the primitively-hacked frame. And no matter how primitively-hacked the frame was, the end results were the same. It supported the pole, which in turn supported Svoolzard Koolimax XXIV.

  The flames licked his back and backside, scorching the flesh. Svool lifted himself up as high as the pole would allow, muscles bunching, his whole body writhing as it suddenly got very hot and the tribespeople, who had all gathered to watch the spectacle of The Cooking, starting chanting and giggling and running circles around him.

  “Noooooooooo!” wailed Svoolzard. “Don’t cooooooook meeeee!”

  Tears streamed down his cheeks, but tears didn’t matter to the cannibals. What mattered were Svool’s generous belly and his generous arse cheeks. Not for them the ethical dilemma of murder. Svool was food, simple as simple is.

  A cough echoed across the bizarre, night-time scene. Orange light from the flames flickered from black rubbery trees. There, at the edge of the clearing, stood a figure, tall and powerful, and sporting short green dreadlocks.

  She held a sturdy staff, sharpened at both ends. She gazed across the scene with shining green eyes.

  “Cut the poet down,” she said.

  There came cries and howls, and the tribespeople shook their weapons at Lumar L’anarr. She took this as an aggressive act, and as a refusal to her command. In response, she leapt to the attack...

  From his suspended perch over the fire, Svoolzard watched with mouth open, in total awe, as Lumar danced and leapt amongst the hairy little village people. The stick swept left and right, knocking heads, slashing bellies, then rising in great overhead sweeps ending with the dull cracks of fractured skulls. Bodies toppled all around, brains leaking through ears, and Lumar moved like lightning, a savage cat, easily avoiding the tribespeople’s sticks and arrows. She moved so fast she was a green blur, until - only a minute after the battle had begun, and with at least twenty of the tribe dead or dying - the rest suddenly turned tail and fled out into the jungle, howling.

  Suddenly, the area was still.

  The only sound was the crackling of flames.

  And then, “Ow, ow, ouch! I’m burning, Holy Mother of Manna, I’m burning! Cut me down, please please cut me down! My arse is on fire!”

  Warily, Lumar strode across the camp, stooping to grab a knife from a dead enemy. She slashed the bonds holding Svool’s legs, and his feet dropped into the fire. He stood for a moment, then started doing a crazy little dance and shuffle, wailing, until Lumar cut free his hands and he leapt from the fire, stomping on the ground, his feet and skin smoking.

  “Ow, ow, ow, oh, the indignity, oh, the agony, I will never live this down in the Court of Professors, oh, what am I going to do, how will I ever recover, how will I ever be Svool again?”

  He stopped, and watched Lumar watching him.

  “You came back,” he said, and his face broke into a broad grin.

  “Yeah, well, don’t get any fucking ideas.”

  “No, no, you came back, you saved me, you rescued me, and although I have indeed incurred terrible burn injuries to my feet and bottom, I am sure you can summon up some pain-killing narcotics and some kind of unguent to make all the pain and nastiness go away.”

  Lumar considered this, her eyes scanning the edges of the clearing. “First,” she said, “I didn’t come back for you. I was passing nearby and saw the fire. I’ve scouted the jungle, I know where we are, and I was heading back to the beach to see if anything else useful from the crashed ship was available for scavenging before the long trek ahead of me.”

  “Oh. But you did save me.”

  “Hmm. Yes. I wonder how long it’ll be before I regret it?”

  “So you have painkillers? And unguent? For my burns? Preferably something that doesn’t smell too bad?”

  Lumar looked at him with pity in her eyes. “No.”

  “But... but... but you must have!”

  “Why must I have?”

  “Because... you simply must.”

  Lumar sighed. “Svool. I’m in this shit, just the same as you. You really need to get your head switched on to this plane of reality. You need to tune in, mate. If you don’t, then you will die.”

  Svool stared at her, tears running down his cheeks.

  “Okay.” He coughed. He puffed out his chest. He manned up. “Okay. I hear what you’re saying. “There!” He ran over to some rocks, yelping and limping on his burnt feet, and grabbed his jewelled sword. He waved it triumphantly. “See? See! I can do this! I can be of help! We will adventure our way out of this place!”

  Lumar watched him, and suddenly a smile cracked her face. “Fucking hell, Svool. You really were brought up like a pampered idiot, weren’t you? I thought most of it was just for effect, for the benefit of your effete arsehole friends. But you’re real, aren’t you? Really a... dick.”

  “Harsh,” said Svool, frowning.

/>   “Not as harsh as this fucking jungle,” said Lumar. “Now grab your clothes and boots, we need to get going.”

  Svool scanned for his clothes, painfully aware of his nakedness, and the cold of the night when he strayed too far from the fire. Then, with a yelp of horror, he scrambled on hands and knees to the edge of the cooking flames and, using his jewelled sword, fished out the half-burnt remains of one of his glitter boots.

  “Oh, woe!” he wailed.

  “Oh, woe?” said Lumar.

  “Do you know how much these cost? They are Prince Gok von Gok IIIs, you can only get them in London, and by that, I mean fucking London, Earth, baby. Most Space Platoon Generals couldn’t afford a pair of these glossy high-heeled beauties!”

  “Or would want them, being that they’re combat soldiers,” growled Lumar.

  Svool stood up, ramrod straight, his small penis dangling in the firelight. He fixed Lumar with a steely look. “They burned my clothes,” he said. “Well. Melted them, at least. I always knew Gok von Gok made stuff from cheap plastic baubles, the cheap bastard! And my high-heeled boots! Those cannibal fellows, they’ve massacred them! Annihilated them! Oh, woe!” He still held the remains of one at arm’s length. It smoked, gently.

  “Oh,” said Lumar, face impassive.

  “What can I wear?” said Svool.

  “I don’t know,” said Lumar.

  “And my boots? What can I wear on my feet? I can’t traipse through the jungle, all naked, with nothing on my feet!”

  “I’m, er, sorry. I think you’re going to have to.”

  “Can’t you rustle me up some leaf clothing and footwear? You look like you’re that kind of handy sort,” he said.

  “No,” said Lumar with a tight smile. “I don’t believe that I can.”

  “And why the hell not?” A snort of annoyance.

  “Because,” said Lumar, pointing to the edges of the clearing, where a curious widespread glittering had accumulated, “I believe our little hairy tribespeople are back. And I think they’ve brought their friends.”

  There came a guttural rumbling, very much like that of a Big Cat.

  “Advice?” said Svool, eyeing the glittering luminescent eyes in the darkness of the tangled foliage.

  “I think it’s time we made ourselves scarce,” said Lumar, softly, and began to back from the camp, her eyes focused on the edges, her movements smooth and careful. Now, more rumbling sounds joined the first. She could make out three, maybe four discrete voices.

  Svool stumbled after her, and they reached the edge of the camp. There was a narrow trail leading away through the jungle, which was alive with the sounds of buzzing, gnawing, flitting insects.

  “What now?” Svool said, peering down the organic corridor as if it led straight down to Hell; which, maybe, it did.

  “We run,” said Lumar, quietly.

  “In bare burned feet?”

  “Run or die,” she said.

  “Okay,” said Svool, and ran.

  Lumar followed him, and behind them, a snarl cut across the jungle clearing like a blade.

  ~ * ~

  Svool ran like his life depended on it, which it did. His arms pumped, his legs pumped, and his poor sore feet burned and chafed and were scratched and pronged and poked. Branches and ferns and vines slapped and whipped at him, and it was all most uncomfortable and undignified. He felt naked without his vast array of glass and diamond plastic bauble clothing arrangements; in fact, he was naked without them. His bare skin was whipped and chilled by the sudden night-time jungle air. It all added up to the most uncomfortable race for his life he’d ever had. Yes, it was the only race for his life he’d ever had, but he was sure that in a more civilised society, on a more civilised world, it would have been somehow more... convenient. All the time he was muttering and whimpering, whining and dribbling. He could hear Lumar crashing after him, but it was easy for her, she was more animal than he was; more primitive. An educated man - dammit, a fucking poet! - shouldn’t have to run for his life, naked, with burnt feet and ass; oh, no, that should be solely the preserve of the comedy Japachinese Torture TV modules blasted across the Quad-Gal by those deviant gangers and orgs! It shouldn’t have anything to do with civilised society...

  There came a bang, a thud, a snarl and then a roar so loud Svool felt hackles rise in places he didn’t realise he had hackles. His arms pumped harder than they had ever pumped, and for a few short moments all discomfort ceased to exist as he pounded on, ploughed on, through the alien jungle of Tox World.

  There came a sudden scrabbling sound, then a whine, and something hit Svool in the back and he went down hard on his face, outstretched hands ploughing a furrow in rotting jungle detritus. There were more thumps, and something sailed over him. Svool opened his eyes, pushed his golden curls out of the way, and saw Lumar in a tight crouch in the middle of the trail, pointed stick held before her. There came a bowel-loosening scream from behind him, and a dark object flew over Svool’s head, snarling and with teeth gnashing. Lumar steadied herself, and the creature flew straight at her, impaling itself on the sharpened staff. A wooden point emerged from the beast’s shoulder in an explosion of blood, and Lumar scrambled back as the big, maroon, yellow-spotted cat kicked and thrashed, claws swiping, huge distended head biting and snapping at thin air... until, finally, slowly, it died.

  Lumar approached the beast, rolled it to the side, put her boot on its torso and jerked free her spear. She gazed down at the creature; it was almost like any normal jungle cat, except its maroon fur looked unnatural, as if it had been glued on in segments. Its head was too large, with eyes at different levels and long yellow fangs, crooked and bent, in a mouth that didn’t close properly. It was a truly terrifying sight.

  “What the fuck is that?” squawked Svool.

  “No idea,” said Lumar, her voice cracked. “But there’s more of them. And they’re coming.”

  Svool scrambled to his feet, and started running again.

  He realised, then, it was going to be a very long night...

  ~ * ~

  DAWN WAS BREAKING as they emerged onto a beach. This was a different beach from the one on which they were washed ashore after the crash. The surface was a huge stretch of grey sand, the sweep broken in parts by violent upthrustings of black square rocks at regular intervals. Svool was unbelievably grateful for the softness and coolness of that sand under his scorched feet.

  They padded across the sweep of grey, away from the jungle now, and Lumar guided them to a large section of rocks, rounded and squared, which sat in staggered sizes like a disjointed cluster of scattered dominoes.

  Reaching the rocks, Lumar stopped and surveyed their back-trail. The jungle was silent; unmoving, except from some huge fronds that wavered in the gentle breeze skimming in off the sea.

  Svoolzard Koolimax XXIV sank gratefully to his knees, and pressed his forearms against a great grey slab, and sighed into his arms as his head rested down and he seemed to almost deflate.

  “Thank Mother Manna,” he wept, kissing his own arms, his feet burning, his back burning, his arse burning, and all the while a cool breeze chilling the rest of him so that he felt almost like a vessel filled with fire and ice.

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” growled Lumar, crouching beside him, her eyes still on the jungle.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re still coming.”

  “What are?”

  “Those fucking spotted cats, you dickweed.”

  “But... no, surely, we lost them! In the jungle!”

  Lumar started laughing, a sound of genuine humour pealing across the grey sand. “What? On a straight trail? Don’t be a moron. They’re just playing with us. Tailing us. I killed one, and that made them wary. Now they’re being careful. They know we’re not muppets.” She stared at Svool. “Well, they know I’m not a muppet.”

  Svool didn’t care for her insults. It no longer mattered. He was so exhausted it was untrue; a feeling he had never, ever before
experienced; well, not like this! He thought, when he’d had all-night sexual relations with the Saucy Sally Sluts, all eighteen of them - that had been true exhaustion. But that held little to what he now suffered, and was still suffering. Every muscle was a cramp. Every blood-vessel was filled with horror. Pain was his mistress, agony his mother, mockery his father. His feet were stumps of severance. His fire-raw back and bottom felt as if they’d been grated by a particularly vigorous foul-mouthed chef. Surely, his life couldn’t possibly get any worse?