1001 Monsters You Must Slay Before You Die

by Miles Hurt

  So at least I was able to save her from herself. That time.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Oh no.

  I've lost track of what I'm doing. And how I got where I am.

  I'm in the middle of a large empty block of land surrounded by high chicken wire. Nondescript warehouses are beyond the fence, distant. I'm standing on a little path that may have been made by animals. There's a black, burnt-out fireplace with a crate next to it.

  I'm carrying a weird gun of some kind. I put it down carefully, not wanting to set it off.

  I've also got a large square box with a silver latch. My arm is sore from carrying it. I set it down too.

  I sit down on the crate, my hip twinging.

  I was thinking about Rowena. But I can't remember what I'm doing.

  Sod being old.

  I check the box for any markings that might tip me off. Nothing on the lid or sides, but on the bottom is a stencil of a woman's body atop a long serpentine tail. There are words:

  'If found return to Serpent Queen.'

  Oh yes. It comes back to me. The Serpent Queen. She's in charge now.

  But I'm not sure if the words relate to what's in the box, or to me.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Rowena. Rekindling things with her that night was probably a long shot anyway. With or without the deadly ambush.

  Especially when you consider that I'm quite capable of blowing a sure thing. Like with Inez. She was smitten with me. Until the dinner party, that is.

  Inez. We weren't together for long. Our relationship was a lot like a dromedary camel, in that it only had one hump.

  She was nice, though, if somewhat credulous. She had a frizz of orange hair, wore thick glasses and chunky bakelite necklaces. Inez was a divorcee, downhill side of forty, a crystal dreamer who left all of her major financial decisions in the hands of her psychic, Zelsa. Normally attributes that wouldn't pique my interest. But she had one quality that I always find appealing in a woman.

  She was prepared to date me.

  Perhaps she liked the residual glow of my smokey jazz halo. She had a couple of Slightbulb books on her shelf that survived the book-burning of General Zirconia. I was able to hang my hat on those. And I think she'd mistaken my feeble physique as a sign that I was an intellectual.

  So Inez took me to meet her friends Babrielle and Greg at a dinner party they were having. When I asked Babrielle what she did for a living she told me that she cleansed auras; Greg was an accountant. They had a cute flat overlooking the Slowcrawl. The kind of pad where the books on the shelf are all sorted not by topic but by spine-colour. Tribal masks, flea market bric-a-brac, wine rack done in hardwood built into the wall. Easy listening on the stereo as bland as cucumber dip.

  I was a splash. The dozen or so guests at the table thought I was hilarious, urbane, deadpan ironic. Several glasses of red wine convinced me likewise, and by the time the tiramisu came out, I was holding court. My hand rested comfortably on the back of Inez's chair as I waxed lyrical. I was enjoying myself.

  Then someone mentioned the mass graves.

  Nothing kills light dinner conversation faster than the mention of a holocaust.

  'Those poor orcs,' said Inez. 'Those photographs in the paper made me feel so guilty.'

  Some burial mounds on the plains of Ha'dath north of Rambunculous were recently opened up by archaeologists. They'd found thousands of skeletons in deep piles.

  The orc army of the Dark Lord.

  Not that Dark Lord. Or that one.

  Another one. Slourung the Vile.

  'Why did you feel guilty, Inez?' said our host Greg. 'You didn't take part in the Battle of the Six-Or-Seven Armies. You weren't there.'

  'I know that,' she grimaced, straightening her glasses. 'But they were killed by our people.'

  'Don't feel bad, Inez,' I said. 'The sight of a mass grave of orcs would put anyone off their Weet-Ohs.'

  Personally I was aghast that the burial mounds were broached at all. Scientists never get tired of disturbing slumbering evils. Thank goodness all they found were skeletons. The black and white photo on the front of the Rambunculan Times was of a human-like skull, but with a thick brow and the tusked mandible of a warthog.

  'I don't know about anyone else,' said Babrielle, 'but those creatures scared me. They looked so evil.'

  'But how do you know they were evil?' asked Inez. 'There are plenty of creatures in the world that look scary but are perfectly harmless.'

  'And some that aren't,' I said. I took another sip of wine.

  'What do you mean?'

  'You read what the newspaper said,' I replied, looking around the table for support. 'Those things weren't natural. They were genetically bred with dark magic to wage war on humankind.'

  'So?' said Inez. 'They didn't ask to be bred. Did anyone think to ask them if they wanted to fight the Six-Or-Seven Armies? Sounds to me like they were slaves. And if they didn't have free will, doesn't that mean they weren't evil?'

  A few of the guests muttered agreement at this bon mot, nodding their heads. I wafted my wine glass around.

  'So are you suggesting that rather than protect our city, we should have thrown open the gates and rehabilitated them?'

  Inez gave me an annoyed look. In hindsight this was a saving moment for me. I could have dropped it. Could have patched things up on the car ride home. Let our bodies complete the rapprochement in the boudoir. Lay in bed smoking heavy cigarettes, quietly loathing myself. Like a proper date.

  'Would you have gone out there and fought them?' she asked. 'Killed these poor misshapen creatures, bred in some inhumane laboratory?'

  'No,' I said, 'I would have hidden behind a wine barrel. But I would have been quite happy for others to take up the slack.'

  'Typical human arrogance,' she said. 'Thinking that every other creature on the planet can live or die on your say-so.'

  I still could have saved it at this point. Could have changed the topic. Chosen to ignore my urge to go on a semi-drunk diatribe at the expense of my date. Chosen not to embarrass her in front of a dozen of her friends.

  But I didn't.

  'Listen, Sweetheart, I don't think those orcs needed a social worker and a pathways program. If they'd won the battle, a bunch of orc scientists would be unearthing a mass grave of humans right about now. And a group of left-wing apologist orcs would be sipping wine and eating the orc equivalent of tiramisu in a flat like this one. And even they, with their walnut-sized brains, even they wouldn't be stupid enough to suggest that perhaps it would be nicer to have kept some of us alive.'

  Inez's eyes glittered, magnified by her bottle-bottom glasses. Everyone was watching her as though she were a lizard about to snap at a rodent.

  'Are you saying that I'm dumber than an orc?'

  There was a long silence. Then the silence continued for a bit more. And a bit more after that.

  'Well,' I said, as though I was choosing my words, when in fact my mind had derailed from the safe track of polite conversation. 'If you really think that the orcs of Slourung the Vile got a raw deal, then yeah. Yeah, I am saying that. You're dumb.' I looked around at the other guests, gesturing for emphasis, to help them really get what I was saying. 'Dumber. Than an orc.'

  There were several gasps of indignation from the table. Inez's fiery gaze melted to water, and her bottom lip quivered. With a clash of cutlery she sprang from the table. Babrielle followed her, flashing me a filthy look.

  'Arsehole.'

  We all enjoyed another track from Pops Allsop's classic album Allsop Causes an Awkward Silence. This time the silence was undercut by the backing track of Inez sobbing loudly, out in the hall, Babrielle trying to soothe her. I felt as welcome at the party as cat shit on a tuxedo tail.

  I nodded sagely.

  'Okay,' I said. 'Okay. So, I've blown this one.'

  I reached out and scooped up another serving of tiramisu from the platter, then gave myself a big refill of wine.

  Greg stood up across from me, put his
hands on his hips. I shoved some more tiramisu into my mouth.

  'Shouldn't you be going?' he demanded.

  'Mnh?' I said through a mouthful. 'Oh, yes. Sorry. I get it. I'll go. I just wanted to inhale as much food as I could before you asked me to leave.'

  TWENTY-SIX

  Sod, I feel tired. I can't seem to make myself get up and keep going. I'm sure I'm exposed in this yard; if there's any friendly neighbourhood thugs about they've got me with my pants down, so to speak.

  Not to mention that if any malignant creatures were to fly overhead they'd spot me like a rabbit in a field.

  But when you're knackered, you're knackered.

  I take out my pipe and light up. I wreath myself in smoke, and relax.

  You have to enjoy the little things. If anyone takes me out now, at least I'll go happy.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I suppose one reason why Rambunculous is so easy to take over by any Thom-Dak and Ha-Ray is because the Rambunculan Military Apparatus is a publicly listed company on the stock exchange. Any kind of nutty despot or unspeakably evil critter can roll tanks down Eternity Avenue, as long as they have a controlling 51% share.

  Like when the cult of Nog Shoth B'Zoth made their move. They'd been around for a while, holding the occasional high society séance. These soirees often moved from hors-d'oeuvres and floating tables to gibbering in tongues and wild orgies in short order. Hence their popularity. I always suspected these functions with their tinkling champagne flutes and goat entrails were just an elaborate way for the hoi polloi to sample each other's crudités, so to speak. But maybe I was just jealous because I never got an invite.

  Except to wash dishes.

  Things took off for the cult when Nog Shoth B'Zoth began showing up in people's dreams. A pall of nightmares descended on the city as though somewhere a slumbering evil had rolled over in bed and couldn't get comfy again. It stirred, and decided it needed to get up. And not for a glass of water and a pee.

  The séances spilled over into street-filling revelries open to one and all. Things got pretty crazy. Citizens stripped off and got buck-naked, writhing to the polyrhythms of plastic drums around bonfires of office furniture and cars. Hyena-like screams split the night air, bizarre scuffles broke out, people acted like they had to sacrifice something but didn't know what.

  I was well into bunker mode during these shenanigans.

  The bottom fell out of the economy, and Lord Higginbotham, a molasses baron and one of the cult leaders from the séance days, snapped up a controlling share of the Rambunculan Military Apparatus. So the stars aligned, and the nightmare from beyond the void of space (but somehow also from beneath the sea) engulfed us all.

  Nog Shoth B'Zoth awoke from his timeless slumber, rose up from the black waters of the bay. He was welcomed by his priesthood, which consisted of Higginbotham's brandy and cigar buddies. They swapped their three-piece suits for scarlet robes and hoods, and got ready to take over.

  Nog's first order of business, as he slurbled through the city pulsing fear-energy and mental anguish, was to scare the living shit out of everyone, and to crush half of the buildings of downtown Rambunculous with his scaly arse. Having done that, he slid into his bespoke temple, which Higginbotham had thrown up with his molasses money. It was a concrete ziggurat that was like a wedgie for your eyeballs. Nog floated happily in his enormous tank while hordes of supplicants bowed before him once a day, twice on Sundays, their minds awash with terror and awe.

  Naturally a critter that big is going to need his tank cleaned on a regular basis. As far as shrines to unspeakable behemoths went, the Nog Shoth B'Zoth temple was state of the art. A hatch at the back of the viewing tank would open, and His Royal Tuna would slithery-goo his way out into a rear chamber, a huge backup tank. Then the maintenance crew would close the hatch, drain the viewing tank and give it a spruce.

  I got on the maintenance crew at the temple through Lady Popinjay, a friend of Higginbotham's. She'd taken a shine to me while I was doing the washing up for the séances, enough to ensure I avoided the slave pits and infernal smelts commissioned by the priesthood that were springing up around the city.

  I tell you, the muck in that tank was hard to get off the glass. And it didn't bear thinking from whence it came. But the pay rate was good, with overtime and superannuation.

  It was during one of our weekly tank cleanings that the underground cell struck. The same kind of outfit as Zero and his groovy crew, a ragtag bunch clad in black. They crashed in through the vaulted glass windows, swinging on ropes. Their strike was synchronised with the incursion of about thirty more rebels sweeping in from every door. A woman at their lead, sporting a long grey braid, fired a spray of bullets into the air from a machine gun.

  'Death to Nog Shoth B'Zoth!' she screamed. 'Nobody move!'

  Then she realised that the hall was empty of worshippers, priests, and abominations.

  The maintenance crew froze. I was halfway up a ladder inside the tank, holding a squeegee. I was just about to rub some soapy foam onto the glass in a feeble attempt to hide, when I recognised the woman.

  Rowena.

  She spoke tersely to a lieutenant, a ball of muscle whose military flat-top looked like it would satisfy a spirit level.

  'I thought you said the hall would be full this morning,' she said. 'There's nobody here.'

  'Apologies, Captain,' the lieutenant said to Rowena. 'That was our intel.'

  'Our intel was way off,' she barked. 'Get me the bunker buster.'

  'Don't you want to save it until the monster is in the tank?'

  'We can still blow the temple. He'll be in a holding tank somewhere. We'll flush the giant turd out.'

  Rowena had hardened a little since she was a waitress in a jazz bar, it must be said.

  One of the guys in the mucking out crew dropped a bucket of green slop. It spread in a pool across the bottom of the drained tank. The rebels noticed us for the first time.

  'What should we do with this lot?' asked Flat-Top.

  I knew Rowena. She had a soft heart. She cared for the little people of this world. Sure, she was a militant rebel, but I was positive she'd come down on the side of mercy.

  'Get them out of that fish tank and kill them all.'

  Maybe not.

  'Rowena!' I blurted, climbing up over the top of the tank on the ladder. 'It's me! Pops!'

  She looked up, took a slight step forward. She'd changed so much. Older, her face lined. Camo pants, tank top and muscles. The bandolier of shotgun shells swapped for a harness holding several chunky black handguns and a knife.

  But her brown eyes were still beautiful.

  'It's you,' she said.

  We looked at each other, with nothing more to say. What words can you give to the woman you love when it turns out you clean the tank of the monster she is trying to kill? It's not a scenario with much precedent.

  'I'm sorry,' I said.

  She turned to her men.

  'Spare this one,' she said curtly.

  'Yes, Captain.'

  They dragged the crew over the access ladder of the tank, and lined them up against the glass. I couldn't believe it.

  'Rowena, wait,' I said. 'They're just-'

  The guns blazed, and the work crew in their green overalls went down in plumes of blood. Bullets pinged off the reinforced glass of the tank.

  I cowered, covering my ears. The noise stopped.

  Rowena looked down at me.

  'Still afraid, Pops?'

  My hands were shaking, my mouth too dry to respond.

  Rowena turned to her lieutenant. 'Let's get on with it. The bomb, quickly.'

  There was a crack, and Rowena screamed. She fell, her body arching in pain. Temple guards swept in from the wings, rifles poised.

  'Fall back!' yelled the lieutenant, lifting Rowena by the arms. The rebels formed a loose guard around their captain, returning fire. I dove behind an enormous pot plant. The abrupt chatter of gunfire lasted only a minute. When it fell silent I p
opped my head out. The polished stone floor of the temple was pooled with blood, littered with the corpses of the rebel cadre.

  'Here's a survivor.' One of the temple guards pulled me into the light of the shattered windows. 'Are you okay?'

  I nodded, dusting off my cleaner's uniform.

  'The woman?' I asked.

  The guard shook his head.

  'I'm sorry,' he said. 'She got away.'

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I'm in Detritus Park, just a few blocks from the wharves. Not far now. The park is a small patch of green in a crumbled cinderblock of a city, some ancient oak and cypress providing a shady grove. A little gully cuts through it, a landscaped creek running with a trickle of water. The grass is overgrown, shot through with brown stalks bending in the breeze.

  The paths converge on a plinth with a brass statue on it. The statue has been erased, melted to a blob by the weapons of the Serpent Queen.

  Must have been someone she didn't like.

  Notes of music. A clarinet being played. It's beautiful; a strange melody, like a foreign folk tune.

  A guitar accompanies the clarinet, a fast chunky rhythm heavy with minor chords.

  I hear voices on the far side of the park. I sneak up behind the statue and have a peek. Beneath a line of trees, next to the road, is a cluster of wooden horse-drawn caravans. There are several dozen people down there, sitting in a communal circle.

  'Hello, friend.'

  The voice makes me jump. I spin, my gun coming up. The DNA failsafe beeps. I see a group of children, and ease my finger off the trigger.

  Six or seven boys and girls, different ages. Dark hair, dark eyes. Homespun clothes, but neat. The girls all have scarves on their heads. The boys have hoop earrings. They look at me with curious eyes. Bold, unafraid of the gun.

  They don't know how close they've come to looking like the statue.

  'What's in the box?' asks the biggest girl. She is wearing gaudy costume jewellery, a bright dress.