Major Karnage

by Gord Zajac

  Karnage’s foot kicked something solid in the sand. It was an arm. The shoulder had been charred to blackness. The hand still held a set of keys in its soft, manicured fingers. Karnage grinned. He knew that hand. Flaherty.

  “Looks like you got yours, didn’t you, you bastard?” Karnage bent down and pulled the car keys out of the fingers with his teeth.

  As he approached the car, he realized that it wasn’t just shimmering and floating in the heat. The car was actually hovering a few inches above the ground. Giant silver spheres glimmered in the wheel wells. Karnage gave the car a gentle poke with his boot. It pushed to one side for a second before drifting lazily back into place. The miracles of modern science.

  Karnage suddenly felt old. The world had changed a lot in the years he’d been in the asylum. How much had he missed out on? What else had changed?

  There was only one way to find out.

  He bit down on the key fob in his mouth. The trunk popped open. Inside, Karnage found a first aid kit and a bag of golf clubs. He fumbled open the first aid kit with his teeth and found a small pair of scissors. He kicked off his slippers and sat on the edge of the trunk. He looped his baby toes into the scissors handle, and with much fumbling and cursing, he was finally able to snip open the ends of the straitjacket’s sleeves. His fingers free, Karnage trimmed the sleeves of the straitjacket down to wrist length and cut off the excess restraining straps. He put the straitjacket on backwards, so the straps ran up the front of his chest.

  Next, he fished through Flaherty’s golf bag for a weapon. He settled for a wedge with a head the size of a medicine ball. DBSANDSTORM 5000 had been engraved into its face. Karnage gave it a practice swing. The golf club beeped, and a cheery voice said, “Slice! Relax those wrists.” He swung it back the other way. “Hook! Check your stance.” The club may not have been happy with how Karnage was handling it, but it felt good and heavy, and the shaft was short enough to be effective in close quarters. He slung the club over his shoulder like a rifle and looked at himself in the side-view mirror.

  The buckles up the front of his straitjacket and the high-necked collar had the look of a uniform. He saluted his reflection, tossed the golf club onto the rear seat, and hopped into Flaherty’s car.

  The dashboard was a smooth contour of white. There was no steering wheel. No pedals. No instrument panel. Just a single blank screen in the middle of the dashboard. A tinkly melody oozed from the car’s surround sound speakers, and a series of hieroglyphs appeared on the screen. They depicted a cartoon cat showing various emotions: Happy, Sad, Angry, Embarrassed, and Petulant. A female voice wafted from the speakers: “Please enter your password now.”

  Karnage scowled. “Shit.”

  A question mark appeared on the screen. “Have you forgotten your password?”

  “Yes,” Karnage said.

  A hand print appeared on the screen. “Please place your palm on the scanner for biometric identification.”

  “One sec.” Karnage got out of the car, and scooped up Flaherty’s severed arm. He hopped back into the car and mashed the palm of the severed arm against the screen. The car sang a happy chime. “Thank you, Dr. Flaherty. Please enter your new password now.”

  Karnage punched in a new password—Angry-Angry-HappyHappy—and the engine whined to life. There was another chime, and the screen showed a cartoon cat in a bright red convertible driving off into the sunset. “Password reset. Thank you, Dr. Flaherty. Welcome to the Dabney Motors X-500. Where would you like to go today?”

  “Can’t I drive this thing myself?”

  “Please re-state your destination.”

  “Take me to Camp Bailey.”

  “Checking . . . your search for Camp Bailey did not match any locations. Did you mean Campbell Dabney Hospital? Dabby Tabby Summer Camp?”

  “How can you not know where Camp Bailey is? It’s the largest military base on the continent!”

  “Your search for Camp Bailey did not match—”

  “Is there some kinda manual override on this thing?”

  “Please restate your destination.”

  “Goddammit!” Karnage punched the dashboard. His neck buzzed.

  “Warning. Sanity Level upgraded to—”

  “Shut up!” Karnage banged on the screen. “You know Globesat coordinates?”

  “Please enter Globesat coordinates now.”

  “3-2-5-3-8-2-7. You think you can find that you lousy piece of . . .”

  “Destination set. Globesat coordinates 3-2-5-3-8-2-7. Current charge level is adequate for this trip. Would you like to relieve yourself before—”

  “No!”

  “Please fasten your seat belt, and thank you for choosing Dabney Motors.”

  The car wound its way along bends and twists in the road, slowly descending from the asylum’s rocky plateau to the main highway. Flaherty’s car rode like a dream. Karnage hated it. He liked to feel the terrain he travelled over. Every bump. Every pothole. Every bend and dip in the road. But Flaherty’s car would have none of that. It sailed across the pock-marked road like it was a sea of freshly churned butter. The smooth ride made Karnage want to puke. As if to urge his churning stomach onward, the centre console assaulted Karnage’s eyes and ears with an endless stream of commercials.

  “Nothing beats the smooth cool taste of a Dabney Cola. . . .”

  “. . . tonight on DABNEYCOPS, law enforcement officers crack a dangerous piracy ring. . . .”

  “Hey.” Karnage knocked on the console. “Do you do anything else in there besides play commercials?”

  A question mark appeared on the screen. “Would you like to watch a film?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like to hear some music?”

  “No!”

  “Would you like to play a game?”

  “How ’bout I start askin’ the questions around here?”

  A giant DiN logo filled the screen.

  “The Dabney Information Network provides access to all the latest sports and entertainment news, celebrity gossip—”

  “You can start by tellin’ me why everything’s called Dabney.”

  The monitor cleared itself, and a giant DC logo appeared on the screen. “The Dabney Corporation, an advanced technology company, was started in the basement of its founder, Galt Dabney, where he created the first Dabby Tabby video game, Dabby Stays Home. We’ve come a long way since Dabby first bopped across Galt’s computer screen. Hard work, imagination, and a commitment to bringing happiness and cheer to the world have helped us grow into a company that touches more than ten billion people across the globe. Headquartered in Dabneyville, the Dabney Corporation employs 1.3 billion employees in its various sectors and—”

  “All right, I get it. You’re big. What do you use for cash around here? Never know when you can use some local currency.”

  The screen changed, showing Dabby Tabby leaning against a money bag and giving a thumbs up gesture. “Welcome to Dabney Financial Services. Please place your palm on the scanner for biometric identification.”

  Karnage placed Flaherty’s hand on the screen.

  “Thank you, Dr. Flaherty. Would you like to pay debt, refinance debt, borrow funds, or check balances?”

  “Borrow funds?”

  “Please enter the amount you wish to withdraw.”

  “I can do that in here?”

  “Please enter the amount you wish to withdraw.”

  “Well, if you insist.” Karnage punched in what he considered a reasonable yet significant sum. The console whirred. A number of thin purple bills emerged from the base of the screen. Karnage grabbed them. The bills felt hot, like they’d been freshly printed. They featured Dabby Tabby prominently on their faces. His arm was wrapped around the shoulder of a man with a long face and pencilthin moustache. The words “In Galt We Trust” ran in a semi-circle underneath them. Karnage rubbed the bills between his fingers. “Is this legal tender?”

  “Each Dabneybill is one hundred per cent backed by the Dabn
ey Corporation’s guarantee of—”

  The console beeped. A surprised Dabby Tabby appeared on the flashing screen. “I’m sorry. Apparently this vehicle has been reported stolen. Please remain seated until an authorized representative can verify your ownership. Thank you.” The car pulled over to the side of the road and the engine turned off.

  “Guess I’m hoofin’ it the rest of the way.” Karnage pulled on the door handle. It wouldn’t budge. The console beeped again. “Please remain seated until an authorized representative can verify your ownership. Thank you.”

  “Like hell.” Karnage reached into the backseat for the golf club. The seatbelt tightened against his chest, pulling him out of reach.

  “Please remain seated until an authorized representative can verify your ownership. Thank you.”

  Karnage sucked in his chest and stretched his arm into the backseat. The belt tightened further, digging into his neck. Karnage fought to suck air into his lungs. His fingers touched the cold metal of the golf club’s head. He dragged it forward, then wrapped his fist around the handle.

  “Please remain seated—”

  Karnage smashed the club through the driver’s side window. The club shouted “Hook!” as the Sanity Patch crooned “Peachy Keen.” An alarm blared over the car’s speakers, drowning out both the Sanity Patch and the club. The monitor filled with a picture of Dabby Tabby covering his mouth in an oops-like action.

  “I’m sorry. Apparently the anti-theft device on this vehicle has been activated.” The car hummed. Karnage felt the hair on his head stand on end. “The chassis has been electrified with 200,000 volts of electricity. Please stay clear of the vehicle until an authorized representative can—”

  “I dunno which of you is pissin’ me off more.” Karnage snagged a shard of broken glass from the window and started sawing through the seatbelt’s shoulder strap. “The one who wants to fry me alive or the one who wants to blow my goddamn head off!” The shoulder strap gave way. It whipped up into the harness. Karnage pulled the limp waist belt off his lap.

  “Please remain seated—”

  “Fuck you!”

  Karnage tossed the golf club through the window.

  “Slice!”

  He pulled himself into a squat on the car seat, and launched himself through the broken window. He landed in a tuck-and-roll on the pavement.

  Flaherty’s car spasmed and rocked. Sparks flew across its hood. Karnage watched from the shoulder on the far side of the road. He rubbed his stubble-covered chin as the vehicle pleaded with its nonexistent passengers to please remain seated. He imagined Flaherty’s arm flopping around on the passenger seat.

  “This is where we part company, Doc.” Karnage saluted. “See you in hell.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Karnage stuck to the road. The slippers he wore were fine for shuffling through hospital wards, but they’d be torn to shreds on the desert terrain.

  The pyjamas were fairly well suited for the desert, though. The thin, loose-fitting fabric would promote air circulation and keep him cool. The golf club made a fine walking stick.

  The straitjacket was draped over his head to provide him some protection from the desert sun. The heavy fabric would be a burden, but it would help keep him warm during the cool nights.

  The sun was still low on the horizon, but pretty soon the temperature would go up and he’d start sweating. Sweat was the enemy. He currently had no water nor means of getting any. He’d have to do everything he could to keep his body temperature below thirty two degrees. He couldn’t travel for long by day. The heat would kill him. He needed to put a couple of klicks between himself and Flaherty’s car, then find a well-camouflaged spot away from the road to dig a shelter and rest until dusk. After that, he’d get back on the highway and follow it until dawn, keeping an eye out for water and any sign of Camp Bailey. He wished he had a compass or knew what his current Globesat coordinates were. For now he’d follow the highway and navigate by the stars.

  His first night in the desert was easy.

  The moon was full and bright, lighting up the desert landscape in cool shades of grey and blue. If anyone drove by, he’d spot them from miles away. But no one did. Karnage’s only company was his Sanity Patch, cheerfully singing out notifications as his Sanity Level dropped from Peachy Keen down to Frothy Cream. Occasionally he’d swing the golf club over his head, just to hear its friendly voice yell “Slice” or “Hook.” Once in a while he managed to get it to cry out a triumphant “Bunker Busting Backswing!” But not often. Apparently his sand trap skills still needed a lot of work.

  Towards the end of the first night, Karnage found an empty plastic water bottle lying in the gravel beside a half-eaten sandwich still clinging to its plastic wrap. Karnage chucked the sandwich (digestion wasted too much water) and added the bottle and plastic wrap to his inventory.

  He found a lush patch of desert brush near a dry creek bed. He dug down with the golf club until he hit damp soil. Water filled the base of the hole. He filled the plastic bottle with his hands, filtering the water through the thin fabric of his pyjama top stretched over the opening. What I wouldn’t give for some potassium permanganate. He chugged it down. The grit in the water caught in his teeth. He hoped it wouldn’t give him the shits.

  The shits never came, but by the end of the second night, he hadn’t found another source of water. So he drank his own piss. Just as dawn was about to break, he dug a hole in the ground and used the plastic wrap and water bottle to create a makeshift solar still.

  The still worked about as well as he expected, which was not well at all. By the beginning of the third night, the water bottle was barely a quarter full. He gulped it down, then filled the bottle with his piss, and chugged it again. His piss was thick and orange, more like a syrup than a liquid. He imagined the blood in his veins going the same way, slowly turning to mud as the water drained from his body. Muddying up his body. Muddying up his brain.

  He couldn’t let that happen. He had to keep his faculties. If he lost his mind, he’d lose everything. Focus, soldier. Stay the course.

  The cold desert wind whipped at Karnage’s face. His lips were chapped. His eyelids felt like sandpaper against his eyes. His joints were stiff. Every movement was sluggish. He felt as if he was slowly drying up, like a ball of clay left out in the sun. He wanted to lie down and curl up and sleep. Let the winds pull the last of the moisture from his body, and let the rest of him crumble and blow away.

  No. He had to keep going. He couldn’t give up. He forced his screaming feet onward. Willed his stiffening joints to creak forward. He squinted his eyes shut, relishing the discomfort. He would make it out of here alive. He would find those squiggly alien bastards that kidnapped his troops, and he would rescue them.

  Failure is not an option!

  Karnage hugged the straitjacket to his chest, trying to warm his shivering hands. Heckler. Velasquez. Cookie. Koch. Karnage repeated his comrades’s names as he marched on. Heckler. Velasquez. Cookie. Koch. It became his mantra, his reason for being. Heckler. Velasquez. Cookie. Koch. He could hear their voices cheering him on with each agonizing step.

  “You can do it, Major!”

  “Damn right, Cookie.”

  “You got the cojones, sir!”

  “You got that right, Velasquez.”

  “You’ve got it in you, sir!”

  “Amen to that, Koch.”

  “I’ve got faith in you, Major.”

  “Is that you, Heckler?”

  “You bet your ass it is, John.”

  Karnage grinned. Now he knew he was hearing things. Old Heckler hadn’t spoken a word in years. Not since that day in Kandahar, the worst day of—

  The War!

  Battle and bullets and flames! Bombers buzzing as they fly overhead. Their payloads whining as they hurtle towards the scorched earth. The night sky strobin’ and flashin’ and pulsin’ like a goddamn disco inferno. Debris and dirt and mud and pain and screams flyin’ in all directions. Forward march
, soldiers! Forward! Take ’em all! Shoot and fire and kill and die-die-die—

  Karnage slapped himself. The Sanity Patch crooned “Citrus Blast” as the visions of battle faded, returning to the black expanse of starry night.

  A single flickering light refused to clear from the sky. Karnage stared at it, trying to will it out of existence. It disappeared. Then, a second later, it flashed back. It didn’t look anything like an explosion or muzzle flash. In fact, it looked more like—

  Letters! Pink and green neon letters winking in and out of existence. Were they real? Or was he finally losing his mind? Karnage squinted, trying to see them better. The flickering letters coalesced into words. “Upchuck Charlie’s. Good Eats!”

  Slowly, ever so slowly, the road curved towards the sign. If he’d had the energy, Karnage would have cheered. Step after agonizing step, the sign grew larger before him. His body ached more than ever. On some primal level it believed it was already there. That the mere sight of this sign was salvation enough. He could stop fighting now. Lie down, close his eyes, and—

  Karnage let out a short grunt as he jerked himself forward. Keep moving, mister! You ain’t saved yet! You got a ways to go! Don’t give up on me now! Lift those knees!

  Karnage’s feet stepped off the road and onto the smooth pavement of the parking lot. The diner was a dark shadow of chrome and mirrored glass beneath the flickering sign. A smaller neon sign hung in the double glass doors of the entrance: OPEN.

  A feeling of relief washed over Karnage. Just a few more steps, and he’d be back in the welcoming glow of civilization. His eyes caught a second sign hung beneath the OPEN sign. “No shirt, no shoes, no service!”

  Karnage checked his reflection in the glass. His eyes were sunken. His cheeks hollow. The stubble on his face was thick. Karnage buckled up the straitjacket and tucked it into his pyjama pants. He ran his fingers through his hair a couple of times, trying to work out the knots. There wasn’t much he could do about the slippers. He hoped there was enough of them left to constitute shoes. He braced the golf club against his shoulder, thrust out his chest, mustered what he could of his military brace, and marched into the diner.