by Andy Remic
“You have to get out of here!” cried Silka, crawling up onto his shoulder. Her jaws snapped left and right, pulping the wriggling worm creatures, which, Horace suspected, once inside him would make a swift burrowing towards his internal organs. And God only knew what damage they would cause when they arrived.
With Silka’s jaws chewing and biting and spitting, Horace leant into the lift doors with a growl, and feeling his fingers ready to snap under the intense pressure, he slowly, inch by inch, dragged the doors open, to a soundtrack of singing, screaming steel...
“Get out,” growled Silka, and leapt, landing in the mass of writhing white worms. Their teeth snapped at her now, trying to burrow into her flesh. Horace jumped, caught the lips of the floor and heaved himself out onto a foul-smelling carpet. He lay there for a moment, then felt wriggling inside his clothing and began to roll, hands thumping at himself, tearing at his clothes, as in at least five places he felt tiny jaws burrow into his skin, eat under his flesh and begin to worm through the muscle...
Horace grunted. It was rare for pain to bring out any sound from him, so high were his tolerances, but this was more than pain; this was an invasion. A rape of the flesh.
Horace caught a worm by the tail and pulled it out, a long quivering worm turned pink by his flesh and supped blood. It squirmed under his fingers, jaws snapping at him, and savagely he put it in his mouth and tore it in two. He grabbed another, but a sudden wave of weakness struck him. He felt like he’d been hit by a sledgehammer, but it was something different, something internal. As if he’d been...
drugged.
They’d poisoned him.
Horace tried to crawl down the corridor, but within a few short seconds his hands lost their strength and he slumped to the carpet on his face. He felt the four remaining worms burrowing inside him, eating his flesh, gnawing their way to victory and a horrible, bubbling, impending death.
Arrogance, he thought.
Arrogance has brought you to his.
And as his eyes flickered and the lights started to dim, a door opened and a pair of feet walked towards him. They wore red high-heels. Red high-heels, containing fat, hairy feet.
“Bring him this way,” said a gruff voice, and for Horace, it was a short hard blow to oblivion.
~ * ~
SEVEN
“THERE ARE SOME riders approaching,” said Lumar softly. She was stroking the green scaled skin of her arm. Her tongue flickered as her green eyes fixed on distant figures.
“Eh?” Svool looked up from where he’d been polishing the silver star sheriff’s badge. “It’s kinda pretty, don’t you think? The way it catches the green sunlight and sparkles like that. One of the prettiest baubles I ever did see. I know you will probably laugh, but I feel like it’s an inspiration for another new poem.”
Lumar said, “I think you should put it away.” She had already moved, picking up her sharpened stick from where it leant against one of the battered, bullet-holed cars.
Svool stared at her. “What?”
“These dudes look like mean dudes.”
“What dudes?”
Now, the hoofbeats from their horses rattled from the stone buildings. Svool whirled about, and his mouth dropped open. For there were seven riders, mounted atop tall metal horses. Each rider wore thick cotton and tweed, and long leather coats. Each face was a barrage of stubble and scars and mean eyes and ugliness. They all wore wide-brimmed hats, and high boots, with spurs that jangled.
“They’re...” he said.
“They’re cowboys,” said Zoot, spinning slowly, black lights glittering. The PopBot hovered to a halt before Lumar and Svoolzard. “Or they think they are. Their mounts are homebuilt metal horses, built on a ripped-out chassis subframe from a DumbMutt special robotic friend. They’ve been twisted beyond all recognition - not that that’s a bad thing if you’ve ever met a DumbMutt before.”
“What’s a cowboy?” said Svool, uneasily.
“Many, many years ago there was a place called The Wildy Wild Wicked West. It was very wild. And wicked, I presume. There were lots of horses and men who ate beans out of pans. They would dance around fires showing their bare behinds and whoop and holler and make love to their sisters. Sometimes, they would fight injuns.”
“Injuns?” said Lumar, eyes narrowing sceptically.
“Yes. Injuns.”
“What’s an injun?”
“I haven’t got a clue,” admitted Zoot.
“Hey, well, that doesn’t sound too bad,” said Svool, breaking into a grin. “Because we’re not injuns!” He pushed past Zoot, waving both his arms in the air, a wide smile on his open face, his golden curls tumbling behind him. “Hey there, friends, are we so very very glad to see you! You see, our starship - that’s a big floaty thing in the sky -” he made a shape with his hand and mimed a big floaty thing in the sky, “it crashed in the sea with a SPLOOSH! and we were stranded here, on this heap of toxic shi... on this lovely world of yours.”
The horses had slowed, their hooves stomping dry dust, and Lumar noted they had formed into a semi-circle, with the biggest rider at the centre. He had a cruel scar running from temple to jaw; it looked angry and purple, like it had only recently healed. The man rubbed it absently, his eyes fixed on Svool, his mouth narrowed into a cruel bloodless line.
The horses stopped, a couple of them pawing the dirt.
Svool was still jabbering, “...so as you can see, we’re here in this fine village, a-ha-ha-ha, and I suppose it’s your village, anyway we was wondering if you could see it in your hearts to be kind, and generous, and give us a comfy place to sleep for tonight, preferably with a double bed for me and the little green lady here, nudge-nudge, you never know your luck, and then you could maybe pack us up some generous supplies and maybe supply some transport, a groundcar or groundvan would be just perfect, and we’ll make our way to the nearest city, which I believe is called Organophosphate City, which is a very strange name if I may be so bold.”
There was a long, curious silence.
The seven mean mounted riders looked down on Svool. The biggest man, with the scar, glanced up and his eyes passed expertly over Lumar, and she would have reddened if her skin hadn’t been green, for his eyes mentally undressed her, then moved on to Zoot. With the PopBot, he showed no surprise. Lumar had reckoned him to be a heathen, brainless, backward local on an idiot metal horse; now, she revised her impression. He was dangerous. Very dangerous. They all were. And her eyes picked out the guns.
“How do, Sheriff,” said the big man, his voice a slow long drawl. “I’m General Bronson, but you can just call me General Bronson.”
There was an undercurrent of laughter from the men, and this wasn’t the laughter of a few guys having a bit of fun; these people were killers. Yes, they were dressed in outlandish clothes and were misplaced in this jungle environment; but they were killers all right. Lumar’s hands tightened on the staff.
“Hi there, General Bronson!” beamed Svoolzard, grinning like the village fool and flapping his hands around like they were chicken wings. Lumar recognised his danger immediately. Svool did not see their menace; he heard the laughter, and being the egotistical maniac he was, immediately thought they were laughing with him. It did not occur to Svool that somebody could laugh at him. “So then, what I believe I need to do at this juncture is point out that, tush, I am a little bit famous, I know, I know, my name is Svoolzard Koolimax XXIV, Third Earl of Apobos, and yes, it’s me, I’ve been on the cover of GGG Time Magazine, and my books have been best sellers across the entire Quad-Galaxy, and you may recognise me from the many vidbox recordings I’ve done, everything from my own poetry, which of course is my personal favourite, to several famous reimaginings of some of the Great Classics, as they are humorously known. It was indeed I, gentlemen, who rewrote Shakespeare’s entire collection of Sonnets, I know, I know, I don’t need thanking for that little gem; I reworked T. S. Eliot’s The Wasteland so that it, you know, made some sense, and I have also been inst
rumental in the redrafting and modifying of Tennyson’s The Lotus-Eaters.” He coughed, stepped his legs apart, and thrust one hand out before him as must any great orator, and before Lumar could stop him, Svoolzard boomed in a loud crooning voice:
“Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,
With quite a bit of flower and fruit, which they gave
To each, and whoever received those bits of flower and fruit,
Tried to eat them,
And tasted the gushing of the waves, as if drinking water,
And far, far away they did seem to dance and jiggle
On alien shores; and if a friend did speak,
His voice was thin, like voices from a very long way away,
And they looked like they were asleep, yet awake!
And lo!
Music in my ears like a beating heart, there was. Hurrah.”
So lost was he in his recital, in his brutal murdering of Tennyson, that Svoolzard failed to see General Bronson slowly draw his hefty black pistol and point it straight at him.
Awaiting his applause with rapturous expression, Svool finally opened his eyes and his mouth dropped open.
“Say another word,” drawled General Bronson from around his cigar, “and I’ll shoot yer fucking teeth out the back of yer head.” He hawked and spat on the ground, and sighted down the pistol.
“Ah...” began Svool, and Lumar hurried up and kicked him in the back of the shin. Her eyes shifted right to Zoot.
“I’ll handle this,” said the PopBot quietly, and drifted forward on a stream of ions so that he was directly between Bronson’s gun and Svoolzard’s head. The PopBot surveyed the large man on the large metal horse.
“I suggest you put down your weapon,” said Zoot.
“Get out of the way, you little bastard.”
“I’m warning you; if you continue to pursue this course of action, I assure you, you will regret it.”
“I’m warning you; if you continue to pursue this course of action, I assure you, you will regret it,” squeaked one of Bronson’s men in a high falsetto, and they all sniggered.
“Right,” said Zoot, but before he could do anything, Bronson fired. There was a WHAMP sound, but no bullet, and Zoot dropped from the air and spun a few rotations in the dirt, before lying still.
The band of cowboys burst out laughing, and Bronson levelled the gun at Svool once more. Reaching forward, he adjusted a tiny switch on its body. “Throw down the pretty sword, boy, and I won’t switch this beast to metal bullets and, as they say, fill yer full of lead.” General Bronson stared down his long nose and longer pistol at Svoolzard and Lumar. He looked extremely mean, and like he meant business, which he probably did.
“I’d better do as he says,” muttered Svool.
“Coward,” muttered Lumar.
“Hey, he has a gun!”
“Yeah, well, I have a -” she turned with awesome speed, as if to hurl the sharpened stick like a spear. There came a crack and a whip caught the top of the staff, dragging it from Lumar’s stunned hands. A second crack of the whip caught her cheek, slicing through green skin and sending blood trickling down her face. A cigar-chomping, narrow, evil face grinned at her, and the man with the whip jumped down off his horse.
“She looks like she needs a horse-whippin’ to me, Bronson,” said the man, and spat a glob of brown glob onto the dirt. “And then, yee har! We’ll have some fun with this pretty little green lady!”
“The only fun you’ll have with me is when I shove my fist down your throat!” She snarled. But the whip cracked, even as Lumar leapt with cat-like speed and grace. The whip was faster. It curled and snapped round like her like a live electric snake, humming. The whip plucked Lumar from the air and deposited her at the man’s feet, trussed up and hissing.
He knelt. Leant forward. And kissed her.
Lumar struggled, kicking in the dirt, and Bronson strode over and kicked his man in the head, so that he tumbled sideways with a grunt, lying alongside the seething figure of Lumar and staring up at the General with angry eyes.
“What you do that for?” snapped the fallen cowboy.
“Leave her be,” said General Bronson, and gestured to Svool. “We have this one to deal with first. And he’s a dangerous bastard, I can tell.” He hawked and spat, then chewed down on his cigar.
Now all seven riders had dismounted from their curious metal horses. The man in the dirt climbed back to his feet. Lumar was hissing and snarling on the ground, but Bronson kicked her in the face, and she was quiet.
All seven riders pulled out their pistols and pointed them at Svoolzard, who visibly paled, and lifted his hands, and took a step back. “Whoa,” he said, “what are you guys doing? Do you know who I am? Do you know how famous I am? Do you know the kinds of poetry I write? The wonderful novels I have created? I have film deals in the pipeline! I am going to act in my own movie! I am... I am a genius!”
“That may be so,” said Bronson, coolly, looking down his levelled pistol, “but you took up the position of Sheriff in this here town, and we don’t want no Law Makers coming and taking away our business.”
“What? Sheriff? Eh?”
“You put on the badge, son,” snorted Bronson. “Now, you represent the Law. Now, you are the Law.”
“I am the Law?” squeaked Svoolzard. “Trust me, my friend, trust me when I say this: I am not the Law. Or even the law. I have no interest in the police. Or sheriffs. I have no interest in criminals, you can go on and about and do whatever the hell you like, I won’t arrest you, I can’t arrest you, how could I arrest you? I have no gun.”
There was a thud as the gun landed at his feet.
“Pick it up,” said Bronson, drawing a second pistol.
“What?”
“Pick up the shooter, son,” said General Bronson, and his cigar chomped from one side of his mouth to the other.
“Ha-ha,” said Svool.
“If you think this is a laughing matter, Law Man, I’ll shoot your fucking nose through the middle of your face.”
The manic grin fell from Svool’s features as if dragged by a charging horse. At last, the severity of the situation kicking him in the balls, he stared at Bronson, then at the other six riders in their dust-stained ancient clothing. What madness is this? What craziness? Who are these bloody lunatics? Where did they come from? What’s going on? What do they bloody well want from me? All I want is sex and drugs and gorgeous-girlfriend-sex-honey. I didn’t want none of this shit; I still don’t want none of this shit; I’m a lover, not a fighter! I’m a genius poet, not a gun-toting wildy wicked wild west sheriff. Oh, God. Oh, hell. By the Holy Mother of Manna, how do I get out of this crap?
“Pick up the gun.”
“No.”
“Be careful, Law Maker, or you’ll make me angry.”
“Will you stop calling me ‘Law Maker,’” snapped Svool, his eyes flashing angry. “I am not a sheriff! I was captured by some little pygmy cannibal things, and they burnt all my clothes, and I came into this damn village or town or shithole or whatever the tox it is, and I was wearing fucking leaves, man. You understand that? Leaves over my nuptials. And the first damn house I went into had these clothes, right, so I put them on rather than be naked. But I’m telling you this, I didn’t want to take on no responsibility for being the sheriff of this here town, and I’m not going to take on the responsibility of this here town! So there.” He practically stomped his foot in indignation.
General Bronson sighed, and rubbed at his whiskers with a scratchy sound, and strode forward, spurs jangling. Svool went pale. Bronson pressed the barrel of his pistol against Svool’s forehead.
“You took up the badge, son. And if you wear the badge, you are a symbol. And if you’re a symbol, you have responsibility. And if you have responsibility, then you stand up for that responsibility. If not, well then, you’re nothing worse than a worm in the soil and I might as well exterminate you here and now.” He looked back at the other guys, and there came a low rumble
of gurgling laughter.
“But if I pick up the gun you’ll shoot me,” squeaked Svoolzard.
“I’ll shoot you if you don’t,” said Bronson.
“But... but... but...”
“That’s an awful lot of butts,” grinned Bronson, showing blackened teeth, and half-turning to his men, who gave another low rumble of gurgling chortling. It was like watching a particularly bad comedy routine by a low-grade university comedy club.
Taking his opportunity whilst Bronson was turned, Svool suddenly brought his knee up between Bronson’s legs with as much force as he could muster. There came a thud, and Svool felt the considerable impact, the connection, the squash of some dangling soft tackle being heartily compressed, and the sour grunt that burst like corpse-breath from Bronson’s mouth.