by Brian Hughes
“Grandma Jo?” Bobby was staring at the contraption from the coalbunker that Grandma Jo had brought with her. “What does that machine do? Could we use it to destroy the monsters?”
“What? This old thing?” Grandma Jo held it up in the light of the juddering monitor. She watched the scrolling pictograms reflected on it. “I’m not exactly sure what it does meself. I think it might be some sort of temporal destabiliser.”
“You mean a time machine, Grandma?” Bobby’s face lit up with all the enthusiasm of a Yorkshire terrier finding itself in a barrel of cushions. “If we could get it working we could go back in time and stop the end of the World.”
One by one the other children began to brighten. A couple jumped up and down, raising small clouds of dust from the cellar floor. A Cabbage Patch Doll did a quick dance round the desk beneath the Zimmer of a toddler’s arms.
“I could prevent my mother from getting killed. And Grandma Mullins.”
“Aye. Well I’m off to find your Auntie Sarah. She’s supposed to be on watch duty. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was daydreaming though.” Grandma Jo put the contraption down and gave it a prod with one crooked spur. “Don’t nobody touch this. I’ll be very cross if you do! We don’t know what the bugger does yet, and we don’t want to go makin’ matters worse!”
She snarled theatrically. The smallest tot shrank behind his sister’s legs. Then Grandma Jo stomped towards the tunnel. Her footfalls could be heard receding into the labyrinth of sewers, the occasional muffled oath drifting back as she stubbed her toe on some fallen masonry.
“Watcha doin’ Bobby Beaumont?” Judy’s stern little face appeared over the edge of the table. She wagged her finger at the bridge of his nose. “Grandma Jo said we gotta leave it alone!”
“I’m only having a look.” Bobby turned the humming machine in his hands, inspecting every last rivet. “It wouldn’t do any harm to have a go would it, Jude? Just imagine, we could save your Patch from getting eaten if we did.”
Much as Grandma Jo had predicted, Sarah Kingdom was curled up asleep, the sort of snore associated with lumberjacking ripping down her partially blocked nose. Her great white feet were hanging over the edge of the column that had once held the library up.
All around her the sounds of war raged relentlessly on. Beyond the river Grey, green lights searched the heavens. It was reminiscent of the opening credits for a Twentieth Century Fox movie, only without the giant letters. Or the music. Occasionally the spotlights would fall on some moving form. A creature so large that it almost filled the horizon. Then the sounds of gunfire would pierce the night, their cac-cac-cac seeming to hail from every direction at once. Just as rapidly the echoes would die.
Through it all Sarah slept. When it came right down to it, Sarah didn’t have much of a personality to call her own. She was easily persuaded, changing conviction with the same frequency as a chameleon changes its colour. Now, some distance removed from her road campaigners, lost and fatigued in this post-holocaustic world, she dreamed of Mel Gibson.
Up the mound of rubble the warrior sauntered, eyebrows raised in adoration of the goddess before him. The light from the stars caught his surgically-enhanced chin. A chin swathed in stubble, his injuries just horrific enough to show how bravely he’d fought without ruining the contours of his rugged face. The metal brace about his kneecap glinted softly in the moonlight as he offered her his oh-so-large palm.
Just look at that! All those battles and Mel Gibson still found time to buff his teeth every morning.
“Oy? Your Royal ’Ighness.” Grandma Jo’s screech tore Sarah’s comfortable dreams apart. She felt the cold stabs of night and tugged her cardigan closed. “I know ’ow important this watch duty is to you, but you’d better take a look at this.”
“It’s all right, Grandma Jo. I haven’t fallen asleep. I’m just admiring the night.”
“Aye. Well there’s sommet ’ere worth admiring.”
Halfway through a yawn Sarah realised she wasn’t alone. She knew that Grandma Jo was there, but she hadn’t expected the other creatures. The post-slumber stretch immediately halted.
“What the…?”
“Josephine Lowry?” said the SPOD that was moving towards her with all the menace of a roll-on deodorant. An arc of electricity fizzled briefly between its bent antennae.
“No…I’m Sarah Kingdom.” Honesty is always the best policy.
Moments later Sarah found herself tumbling backwards over the edge of the column. Colonel 84F turned his attention to the old woman instead, his lenses buzzing in and out.
“Josephine Lowry?”
“’Oo wants to know?”
This is the world from a SPOD’s point of view. It is a confused landscape of thermal images. Compass bearings roll across the view-screen, contrasting with the green and yellow blobs of the old woman’s features. You can tell that it’s Grandma Jo though, because of the purple bulb of her nose. A dotted outline contracts about her. The sort of outline that usually has a pair of scissors drawn somewhere along it. A three dimensional image of Grandma Jo appears alongside the real version. The phrase‘ MATCH FOUND! ARREST IMMEDIATELY’ flashed in huge, epilepsy inducing letters across the screen.
With a buzz the sergeant’s pincer-like grip clamped itself about Grandma Jo’s wrist.
“Would you mind tellin’ me exactly what it is I’ve done?”
A droning insect that was obviously some sort of camera, murmured angrily next to her ear. With a swat that yanked the droid off its trolley, Grandma Jo smacked the mosquito into the darkness.
“Mrs Lowry! I have to take you to the Dark Lord! I would prefer not t’ use violence!” That last remark was meant to sound threatening. The SPOD strained its axle, trying to reach the ground with its tyres.
“The bloody Dark Lord? What sort of name’s that? Sounds like sommet out o’ Wrestlin’” Grandma Jo loved her wrestling. Saturday afternoons hadn’t been the same since the BBC had decided that this most noble of institutions wasn’t fit to be classified as sport. She’d argued with Dennis when he’d told her it wasn’t real. Grandma Jo was one of those old biddies who’d sit on the front row with their knitting pretending to be Mick McManus’ grandmother. As soon as Giant Haystacks started she would grab the ringside bucket, hurdle the ropes and smash him round the back of the skull.
“If you do not comply with the Dark Lord’s wishes…” Now that he came to mention it again, it did sound slightly precocious. “I shall be forced to use whatever means necessary!”
‘Whatever means necessary’ apparently referred to the crescent of cowled subordinates behind him. Glowing red eyes shimmered in the shadows of their hoods. They took a step forward, rifles cracking.
“What the ’Ell are you lot s’pose to be?”
“Mrs Lowry. This sort of attitude will not be tolerated.” Still hanging gracelessly from the old woman’s arm, one of the sergeant’s wheels made contact with a raised slab of granite. It squeaked and then lost contact again as Grandma Jo scratched her head.
“Let’s ’ave a look at what we’ve got in ’ere.” Her crooked old fingers were remarkably nimble considering her arthritis. The closest cowl was yanked backwards, revealing the head of a young serving girl. It flickered briefly out of focus as though suffering from a transmitter fault.
“’Ere, I know you…” Grandma Jo scoured the alleyways of her failing memory. “You used to deliver papers to Allotment Street. ’Bout seventeen years ago. ’Ow come you ’aven’t got any older?”
The hologram pulled its cover back over its head.
“I remember. You got me interested in inventing.” Grandma Jo bit her bottom lip. Then she prodded her abductor’s shoulder. “You’d better take me t’ this Dark Lord bloke then, so I can work out what’s goin’ on. ’Adn’t you, eh, Miss Nancy Bloomin’ Skunk?”
Chapter Fifteen: The End of the World as We Know It
October 3rd, 1999. For everyone reading this book as a cure for insomnia, this is the date we le
ft our story at two chapters ago. Hopefully, before much longer, this book’ll become more chronological. Now, where were we? Ah, yes…the Barley farm. In fact, the pasture where Wilberforce’s Fairground has been erected. Eveyone is currently staring terrified at the crate uncovered before them by the unwitting Pablo.
Even Councillor Ordenshaw is looking worried.
So what exactly is Goliath, then? Let’s take a good look, shall we? The only thing stopping Goliath’s massive iron head from touching the storm clouds was the cage lid. His eyes strobed emotionlessly above his enormous upper lip. Angular teeth...great iron stalagmites...filled his bottom jaw.
Sixty feet high the robot stood, a cross between a bulldog and a metal chimpanzee. Its mammoth arms hung by its sides, the gigantic fists clenched in anticipation of things to come. All that was missing was the corrugated iron turd with the bits of straw poking out of it that such primates often have for lunch.
“It was all a con, see? The BBC never ’ad any complaints…”
“Gypsy! I couldn’t ’onestly give a toss!”
“The executives must ’ave made up that letter of complaint!” Despite the hush that had descended across the crowd Spike’s voice was making the closest heads turn. “I mean, honestly! When’s the six o’clock news ever been interested in a letter of complaint? Then a week later up pops this psychologist’s report about how children respond to gibberish.”
Nancy grabbed his collar. “I’ve told you, Gypsy! I’m not interested in your Teletubbies conspiracy theory!”
“It’s true! The BBC news kept showin’ films about how the shops were sold out of ’em for Christmas. Let’s be honest, if Nicholas Witchell ’adn’t kept on publicising ’em, nobody would ’ave wanted one!”
“Are you completely crap, Mister?”
Spike simply blinked.
“I don’t even know ’oo Chamber Pot is!”
“Po…” The correction was made with a shrug of the shoulders.
“The World’s about to end, you’re face to face with it’s nemesis and all you’re concerned about are a group of arse’oles with phallic symbols attached to their ’eads!” Nancy lessened her grip and turned worriedly towards Goliath. “You’re so insignificant, Gypsy. In the great scheme of things you’re Clive Anderson’s neck!”
“How come there’s two of me?”
“What?”
It has to be said that even by Spike’s standards of continuity, this comment was out of context.
“Over there.” He pointed to the bottom corner of the straining crate. “What do y’ reckon I could be up to then?”
Nancy followed the direction of his unsteady finger. She focused on the punk rocker several hundred feet away. Arching his back, the doppleganger Spike untied knot holding the cage closed. Somewhere behind him, pushing through the crowd, struggled the alternative Nancy.
“’Ow come I’m lettin’ it go?” Spike watched the sabotage. “I must be mad!”
A bony hand gripped his shoulder as he tried to step forward
“Don’t interfere, Mr Gypsy.” Nancy’s face drew up alongside his own. “W’atever you’re up to, I seem to be lettin’ you get on with it. So it must be right.”
“But I’m goin’ to let it out! Just imagine the damage it could do!”
There was a twang. A bassy twang. The sort of twang that stone masons working with antiquated pulley systems have nightmares about. The rope came undone, uncoiling across the muddy grass. With a grind the colossal gate toppled forwards.
“I think…” Nancy released her grip. “We’re about to find out!”
Damien Roach, as mentioned earlier, was an irritating flea of a man. Before the end of civilisation he’d worked for the Greyminster Chronicle. Amongst his jobs there, which included doughnut delivering and sweeping the floor, he occasionally wrote the book reviews. The idea of guiding readers through the books had obviously never occured to Damien. Instead he would just release his many years of resentment without ratification. If the truth be known, Damien Roach was extremely ugly and suffered from a personal-hygiene problem. He was also worried about his inadequate and tufted penis. Perhaps now would be a good time meet him.
There he is, look, hunched over his poisonous writing bureau. This is the inner chamber of the Dark Lord. The point where reality stops and propaganda is born.
“Have you prepared the posters, Roach?”
Damien felt the Dark Lord’s shadow fall across him with an icy chill. He stopped scribbling and looked up at the monitor screen.
“I have, Your Mightiness. And might I say they’re the most cutting and incisive I’ve ever written.” A slimy tongue oozed about his dry lips. For some reason, which no doubt will become clearer later on, his fingers fumbled for the bicycle lamp in his pocket.
“No, you might not, you cowering worm.” For the purpose of dramatic presentation we won’t be seeing the Dark Lord yet. All that was visible on the monitor at this point, was a pair of bloodshot eyes. “I did not choose you Roach for your wit and intelligence.”
“No, Lord.” Damien hung his head in sycophancy.
“Why on Earth the Chronicle ever considered you had the ability to write a witty review column is beyond me. I’ve come across maggot-filled cadavers in abandoned abattoirs with better judgements than you!” There was a pause whilst the Dark Lord swallowed his bile. “No! I chose you Roach because you are a slimy, underhand hypocrite. A worthless traitor with no more value than a worm-encrusted turd.”
The Dark Lord’s pixelated eyes narrowed further until only a white slot was visible. “What makes you do it, Roach?”
“Do what, my Lord?” A brown toothed smile parted Damien’s sallow cheeks.
“What makes you turn upon your own kind?” The Dark Lord’s computer-generated eyebrows rose questioningly. “What happened in your childhood to fill you with such rancorous venom?”
“I’ve no idea, Lord.” Damien turned the question over in his head as though he’d never considered it before. “I’m just more intelligent than the others, I suppose.”
“Pah!” The Dark Lord’s monitor jerked away from the cluttered writing desk, sweeping upwards towards the conduit-riddled rafters. “You’re not intelligent, Roach. You’re just a mound of worthless canker! A quaffering, maladjusted rat with no redeeming features whatsoever! And that’s coming from me, Roach! The nastiest bastard to ever gain such a position of unadulterated power!”
Damien nodded as though the accusation had been a compliment. He was about to speak when the Dark Lord interrupted.
“Down to business! Get those worthless posters you’ve been working on to all the SPODs. I want them delivered throughout the length and breadth of modern history. Starting with the moment the old civilisation ended. I will not have anarchistic holograms running riot across my domain.”
With a grind the monitor swung into the rafters. Several pieces of an ancient pipe broke loose and landed on Damien’s head.
“Don’t disturb me further! I have an important meeting with Grandma Josephine! A woman whose fur-lined boots you are not worthy to lick with your obnoxious tongue!”
“Of course, My Lord.”
There was a squeak as Damien’s forehead deferentially polished the desk. Moments later the Dark Lord’s monitor had been engulfed by the darkness, leaving Damien all alone with only his wretched thoughts for company.
Number four, Allotment Street. Home of Councillor Barker. The SPOD emerged from the coalbunker that had reappeared by the outside lavatory. It was holding a bucket of paste in one hand. Beneath its other arm a roll of parchment had been stuffed. Moments later the bill had been pasted to Mrs Barker’s shattered window. There followed the squeak of wheels across the cucumber frame. Then the splutter of an engine so dilapidated that it ought to have been put down. And finally the bunker fizzled out of existence with all the charisma of a zit being squeezed.
Jack Partridge scratched his head. He hadn’t noticed the SPOD. Across the rooftops something far more worry
ing was taking place.
Allotment Street overlooked Greyminster from the slopes of South Ringing Fell. Beyond the terraces stood Nine Acres Farm. That is, it had previously stood there. Now, no matter how hard Dennis tried, he couldn’t make out a single building. Just a trail of pits resembling the sort of prints that the Tower Of London might have left had it got up and walked.
The town itself was undergoing an attack. Something was ripping through the slate roofs. Tiles flew in all directions. Screams rose and fell. Occasionally an old woman, who’d taken on more than she’d bargained for, hurtled up towards the storm. From the wreckage a mammoth iron head reared up. An angry skull with pulsating eyes. Across its crown the sunset painted lines of war paint. Its lower teeth gnashed gruesomely. One had a Vauxhall Viva speared to it.
With a blink as slow as a mountain, Goliath turned to Allotment Street.
“What the ’Ell is it?” Jack snorted. Typical! Of all the times he could have chosen to give up smoking!
“’Ere? Who’s bin sticking advertisements on my window?” Mrs Barker’s hearing was somewhat diminished. Either that or the persistent whine of her deaf-aid was drowning out the carnage. Goliath’s shadow swallowed up the street with a glacial chill.
“I think I know what it is!” Dennis grinned as the titan hoved into view. “I’ve sin a picture of it somewhere. Now if I could just…”
But, unfortunately, that was that. Whatever Dennis’ plan was it was academic now. Moments later he’d disappeared beneath Goliath’s right foot. Not a terribly heroic end. But quick. And Grandma Jo would have probably said, ‘It was ’ow ’ee wanted to go…” whether it was or it wasn't.
As the massive foot was raised once more, chunks of wall hurling off in all directions, it became clear what had happened. Surrounded by some extremely flat hedgehogs, Dennis’ eyes stared at the ground swinging away in a curve below him. Not that he could comprehend much, being reduced as he was to a flapjack of intestines. Whatever had previously been going through his mind, it had just been ousted, as the old saying goes, by his arse.