by Gord Zajac
Inside, the diner was bright and gleaming. All chrome and glass shining off a polished floor of black and white checkerboard linoleum. A blue-haired waitress—whose name tag proclaimed her to be Darla—was sitting at a booth, stuffing napkins into dispensers. A grime-covered short order cook mopped behind the counter. The bell above the door tinkled as Karnage walked in. They looked up and stared. Feeling conspicuous, Karnage gave his straitjacket one last smoothing down before mustering enough saliva to speak.
“Evening,” Karnage said.
“Evening,” Darla said.
“Mind if I sit down?” Karnage asked.
The short order cook loudly cleared his throat. Darla looked at him. He shook his head madly. Darla shook her head back, as if to ask if she wanted him to say no. The cook nodded. Darla nodded back, as if to ask if she should say yes. The cook shook his head. While they shook and nodded their heads, Karnage fished the crumpled wad of Dabneybills from his waistband and held them out. “I can pay,” he said.
Darla looked at the money, then back at the short order cook. He shook his head again.
Darla broke the silence. “We can’t afford to be picky, Charlie.”
The cook thrust a dirty hand towards Karnage. “For gawdsake, look what he’s wearing!”
“The sign says no shirt, no shoes, no service,” Darla said. “Doesn’t say nothing about no straitjackets.”
Charlie scowled. Darla scowled back. They traded facial expressions back and forth, a silent argument raging through the air. Finally, Darla launched a particularly vicious raised eyebrow, and Charlie crumpled.
“He pays up front.” The cook scowled and retreated to the kitchen.
Karnage slid into the nearest booth. Darla gave him a menu. “You want something to drink, sweetheart?”
“Pitcher of water,” Karnage pulled a couple bills free of his wad and placed them on the table. “Orange juice. Salt. Sugar. Baking powder.”
Darla looked up from her notepad. “Baking powder?”
Karnage nodded.
“Okay.” Darla picked up the bills and disappeared into the kitchen. Karnage looked over the menu. Everything on it was branded with Dabby Tabby. Dabby Burgers. Dabby Fries. Dabby Pizza. Dabby Ice Cream. Karnage shut his eyes. This cat was making his head throb.
Darla returned with his drinks and a small saucer full of baking powder. She nodded to the condiments on the table. “Salt and sugar are right there, sweetheart.”
Karnage dumped the orange juice and baking powder into the pitcher. He poured in a handful of sugar and a sprinkling of salt after it. He mixed it up and drank straight from the pitcher. He fought the urge to gulp and took slow sips. He didn’t want to puke it back up again.
“That drink got a name?” Darla asked.
Karnage wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “No.”
“You decide what you want yet?”
“You got anything on this menu that don’t got a cat on it?”
Darla pointed to a peeling sticker at the base of the menu. “Well, there’s the zardburger. I don’t recommend it, though. It’s what puts the upchuck in Upchuck Charlie’s.”
“Gimme two of ’em.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Darla took the menu and disappeared into the back.
Karnage took another swig from his pitcher and closed his eyes. He’d done it. The desert had tried to kill him, and he’d given it the finger. He’d made it this far, he could make it the rest of the way. He’d find out what kind of supplies they had here before he headed out again. Get himself a proper canteen and some desert survival gear. Even a plastic knife was better than none at all. He had money. He could resupply this time and do it right. Now all he had to do was find Camp Bailey, and he was—
An eerie static burst into Karnage’s ears. There was something about it that caused the hairs on his neck to stand on end. Something not quite right about it. Something downright . . .
. . . squiggly.
“INCOMING!” Karnage dove under the table, covering his head with his hands, waiting for the first wave of the alien attack.
It didn’t come.
“Are . . . are you all right, sweetheart?”
Karnage looked out from under the table. Darla stood beside the radio, her finger on the knob. She turned it off. The static went with it.
Karnage picked himself up from under the table. “Did that sound . . . squiggly to you?”
“Squiggly how?”
“Never mind.” Karnage sat back down. Darla gave a half smile and quickly disappeared back into the kitchen. She came out just long enough to serve Karnage his food, made a great display of looking very busy, then disappeared back into the kitchen.
Karnage tore off a chunk of zardburger and did his best to chew. She thinks you’re crazy, you damn fool. And maybe she’s got a point. Jumpin’ at the damn static from the radio. What the hell kinda soldier are you?
But the static had sounded squiggly. At least to Karnage’s ears. But had it been the right kind of squiggle? And what angle had it come in on?
Cookie would have known. But Cookie couldn’t help him now. Nor could Koch. Or Heckler. Or Velasquez. He was all that was left of his once mighty platoon.
Karnage worried a gristly bit of zardburger between his teeth. A one-man army, huh? Sounds like a goddamn hero. You don’t fancy yourself a hero, do you, soldier? We both know that heroes don’t do nothing but get folks killed.
Karnage’s ears picked up a new bit of white noise. There was nothing squiggly about it. It was the high-pitched buzz of an engine. He looked out the window. A pair of lights crested the horizon. They floated down the long strip of highway, weaving back and forth. There was something in the way they moved that put the hairs on the back of his neck on end. They weaved across the road like they owned it, and were hoping like hell somebody would try and challenge them on it. A pair of smaller red lights flashed to life below the larger white ones.
Karnage scowled. “Cops.” He pulled the golf club up against his thigh.
The flashing lights pulled into the parking lot. They were attached to bikes hovering inches above the ground on spheres like those on Flaherty’s car. The cops floated to a stop right outside Karnage’s window, their beams shining in his face. Two helmeted silhouettes were just visible beyond the glare of the lights. The lights flicked off, and the silhouettes dismounted. They stood at the window, looking in at Karnage. Karnage ignored them. He took a bite of his zardburger and pretended to enjoy it. The figures moved from the window and headed for the door.
The bell above the double doors chimed.
Karnage kept a discreet eye on the cops through the reflection in the window. They had kept their helmets on. The mirrored visors masked their faces. The helmets were stylized Dabby Tabby heads. Stubby ears jutted from the top. A nose and a pair of eyes were sculpted into the helmet just above the mirrored visor. Their boots made a sharp clack-stomp against the linoleum. The badges on their chests were sculpted out of Dabby’s silhouette, and embroidered in gold thread. The DC logo in its centre bore a striking resemblance to the “DRINK DC COLA” sign hanging above the counter. They stopped in front of Karnage’s booth. Karnage saw a gloved thumb rubbing the end of his night stick.
“Hi there,” the taller of the two cops said.
Karnage tore off another chunk of zardburger, chewed slowly, and swallowed.
The fatter cop put a hand on his night stick. “Hey. My partner’s talkin’ to you.”
Karnage picked up the pitcher and drank. He took large exaggerated swallows. He tilted his head back and drained the pitcher while he wrapped his fingers around the golf club nestled by his thigh. He placed the empty pitcher back on the table and wiped his mouth.
“Hey!” Bad cop smashed the pitcher off the table. “I’m talkin’ to you!”
Good cop placed a hand on bad cop’s shoulder. “Take it easy there, Harvey.”
Karnage looked straight at bad cop’s mirrored visor. “You best listen to Princes
s there, Harvey.”
Bad cop shrugged good cop’s hand off his shoulder. “You hear what he just called you?!”
“I did,” Princess’s tone remained neutral.
Harvey’s face went red. “You gonna just stand there and take it?!”
“We’re going to do this like the captain said.”
“He’s not my captain.”
“He’s our captain until brass says otherwise.”
“Oh yeah? Well fuck brass!”
Karnage grinned to himself. Maybe their good cop/bad cop routine is more than just an act.
“Jesus, Harvey! Not now.”
“Yeah, Harvey. Learn your place,” Karnage said.
Harvey’s face went purple. He pointed a gloved finger at Karnage. “You need to learn a thing or two about respect, old man.”
“Care to give me a demonstration?” Karnage said.
Harvey grinned. “If you insist.” He went for his night stick.
Karnage was quicker. His fist came up with the golf club and smashed Harvey across the face. The visor crumpled inward. The golf club shouted “Fat Shot” while the Sanity Patch crooned “Peachy Keen.” Harvey grunted and staggered backwards, blood oozing from the crumpled visor. He dropped to the floor.
“Harvey!” Princess grabbed his taser and fired. Karnage slid under the table. The taser barbs slammed into the bench leather inches above his head. Karnage shoved himself out from under the table, slamming Princess in the shins. Princess fell. Karnage leaped atop him and smashed his helmet against the floor. The Sanity Patch crooned “Tangy Orange” as Karnage bodily hefted Princess up and launched him through the plate glass window. Princess’s scream was drowned out by the sound of shattering glass.
The Sanity Patch buzzed again. “Warning. Sanity Level upgraded to Sharp Cheddar. Please refrain—”
“Shut up. I’m trying to hear something.” Karnage strained his ears. There, just beyond the soothing tones of the Sanity Patch, Karnage could make out more high-pitched buzzing. This time mixed with sirens.
Karnage pulled Harvey’s gun from its holster and vaulted through the shattered window. In the distance, he could see a flood of flickering red and white lights barrelling towards him on the highway.
“Shit!” Karnage jumped on the nearest hoverbike. It bobbed and swayed, nearly tipping over. Karnage struggled to keep his balance. A screen on the centre console flashed to life.
“Please place your palm on the scanner for biometric—”
“Shit-shit-shit!” Karnage punched the screen.
“Warning. Sanity level upgraded to—”
“Shut up!”
Karnage jumped off the bike and ran back into the diner. He grabbed Harvey’s moaning body and threw it through the broken window. He upturned tables and chairs, propping them in the windows, bracing them against the doors.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Karnage turned around. Charlie stood in the kitchen doorway, thrusting the mop forward like a spear.
“Defensive perimeter.” Karnage ripped a booth table from the floor. Tiles and sheared bolts flew in all directions. “Dunno how much good this formica shit will be against bullets, but at least it’ll give me some cover. You keep any ordnance around here? Artillery? Heavy weapons?”
Upchuck looked at his mop, then back at Karnage. He shook his head.
“How about emergency rations? No? Guess it don’t matter much. It’s a restaurant, right? Gotta have at least some food supplies. Don’t look so worried, bub. I been in tougher scrapes ’n this. I’ll get us outta here alive.”
“Alive?!”
“Now here’s what we’ll do. You go round the back—”
The mop made a loud clatter on the floor. Karnage turned to look. The doors to the kitchen were swinging violently on their hinges. Charlie was gone. Karnage shook his head. “Civilians.”
He grabbed the mop and a chrome napkin dispenser from under the counter. He jammed the dispenser onto the mop handle and lifted it above the counter. He rotated the finely polished surface until he had a clear view of the front window.
The cops had parked their hoverbikes and cruisers in a line across the lot. Cat ears peeked over the vehicles, angry black gun barrels held before them. A pair of cops had run forward and were dragging the limp bodies of Harvey and Princess behind the cruisers.
Karnage swivelled the dispenser, trying to gauge the number of cops. He stopped counting after ten. He couldn’t handle more than that. Not alone. He pulled out Harvey’s pistol. He didn’t recognize the make. It was a revolver of some kind. He popped open the cylinder. The rounds looked like pill-shaped pink bubble gumballs. What the hell kinda ammo is this?
A shout came from outside: “Officers clear!”
A megaphone squawked: “Break out the Sudsy!”
Karnage heard the beep-beep-beep of a vehicle reversing. He raised the napkin dispenser to get a look. A giant gun turret rose into view. Something slick and oily dripped from the barrel.
“Chemical warfare! You bastards!” Karnage dove behind the counter and swept stacks of napkins out from the bottom shelf.
There was a shout from outside: “Sudsy in position!”
Karnage rolled into the bottom shelf and pressed his body into the corner.
The megaphone squawked: “Fire!”
There was a torrential whoosh, followed by an explosion of glass and tables. The liquid blast slammed into the counter. Karnage felt the cheap particleboard shudder under the impact. He prayed it would hold. Sudsy gurgled and rioted over everything, like white water rapids on steroids. Tables tumbled. Dishes shattered. Electrical circuits shorted out. Dollops of Sudsy splattered Karnage’s back.
The torrent stopped. A steady drip-drip-drip filled the gaping silence. Karnage felt bits of Sudsy run down his straitjacket. Karnage rolled away from the corner to survey the damage. Sudsy flowed across the floor in great foamy blobs. He could hear the floor drains struggling to suck it all down.
Wet footsteps—like galoshes wading through mud—approached the diner. They stopped. A voice barked out, “Clear!” The footsteps started forward again. They’re comin’ for me, Karnage thought. They think I’m done for and they’re comin’ for me! Well I ain’t goin’ down without a fight!
Karnage slid out from under the counter and crouched on the—
—his feet slipped out from under him. Karnage fell hard on his ass. Sudsy soaked through his pants.
“Sonofabitch!” Karnage wiped his Sudsy covered hands on his straitjacket. His hands shot straight down his jacket, near frictionless. What the hell kind of chemical shit did these bastards dump on me?!
Karnage grabbed the counter and pulled—
His hands slipped off. Karnage flopped down on his back.
“What the GODDAMN HELL!”
The footsteps squished closer.
Karnage grabbed and yanked and pulled at anything within reach. He slipped off everything. The footsteps grew closer. Karnage braced his hands and feet against the walls. He slipped off, and spun into the middle of the room, like a turtle on its back.
“If I gotta make my last stand from here, then so be it.” Karnage pulled the gun from his pants and—
—the gun popped out of his fingers. It shot across the Sudsydrenched floor, ricocheted off a table leg, and disappeared from sight.
The doors burst open. A pair of Dabneycops marched in. The soles of their boots were covered in a pink goo that sucked and pulled at the floor with loud, wet, sloshing noises. The cops wore large tanks strapped to their backs. Hoses ran from the tanks to large, oversized nozzles in the cops’s hands. The nozzles were caked in pink goo.
“Subject has been incapacitated,” the first one said.
“Goober him.”
Pink stringy goop slammed Karnage in the chest, propelled him across the room, and slammed him into the wall. The goober solidified instantly.
“You may think you got me,” Karnage struggled against the goober, “But I ain’t that e
asy to—”
They fired again. Long strings of goober licked up and down Karnage’s body, enveloping him in a pink cocoon of darkness.
They got him.
CHAPTER THREE
“You know what’s wrong with this world?” Charlie asked.
“What, Charlie?” Darla was on her knees, scrubbing Sudsy off the floor. Charlie was supposed to be scrubbing the walls. Instead he stood in the middle of the diner, gesturing wildly with his brush.
“A lack of respect for the working man, that’s what! We were just getting by as it was, and now—well, just look at this place!” Charlie threw his arm out in a sweeping arc.
Soap splattered across Darla’s clean floor. Darla moved to wipe it up. “I can see it just fine, Charlie.”
They had cleared up as well as they could manage. What furniture and stock that remained was stacked neatly on the counter. The rest lay in a jumbled pile of broken wood and glass in the middle of the parking lot.
“I don’t know what’s worse,” Charlie shook his head, “that lunatic throwing around my tables, or those damn pigs sprayin’ chemical gunk all over the place trying to arrest him. I mean, he was just one man!”
“They did what they had to do.”
“They could have done it a little more carefully! Hell, even I could have done better than that!”
“Really? I seem to recall somebody marching out there with a mop mumbling something about putting an end to this, then running back with his tail between his legs.”
“And what exactly was I supposed to have done? He was armed then. He could have killed me, you know.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Did you hear what I said? I said he could have killed me!”
“You want to maybe put a little more effort into those walls?”
“Well, how do you like that. I stare death full in the face, live to tell the tale, and all you can think about is your damn—”
A noisy shriek came from the radio resting on the counter. Charlie jumped and stepped in a pool of Sudsy, nearly falling on his ass in the process. “Sonofabitch!” He half-slipped, half-stormed across the room and grabbed the radio. “Would you look at that? It ain’t even on!” Charlie yanked the plug out of the wall. The radio squawked in protest, then went silent. “Guess we’re gonna have to add this to the . . . well, what the hell’s gotten in to you?”