The Fall of Deadworld Omnibus

by Matthew Smith

  The skull-dog succeeded in twisting its head round, and bit down hard between my thumb and forefinger. I yelled in agony, unable to tear my hand free; its teeth were embedded in the meat of my palm, and blood was streaming down my wrist. Fire swept up my arm, but I used it to galvanise me, drawing on a reserve of strength to kick out at the creature and topple it onto its side; I put a foot on its belly and tried to lever myself up, but still it wouldn’t relinquish its hold on my hand, the limb now sheathed in crimson.

  I sensed movement beside me, and glanced round in time to see Stender step forward and bring a three-foot log down on the thing’s neck with a swift, two-handed action. It caused its head to snap back, and my hand went with it. I bellowed, swearing repeatedly, the wrench making starbursts pop before my eyes.

  “Get your foot on its skull,” Stender said.

  I moved my boot from its midriff to its cheekbone and pinned it down. Its clawed feet scrabbled furiously. Stender hit it again on the neck, and again, and I fell back as the head finally detached from the body. That immediately got up on its feet and started running in circles before Stender rammed the end of the log into the stump with a well-timed thrust. It sank forward and lay motionless, propped up like a discarded dog-shaped freezi-pop on a stick.

  He staggered over to me, peering down at the skull irremovable from my hand, the teeth impaled in the skin. I felt nauseous and light-headed.

  “The gun… Get the gun,” I hissed. “Waistband, under my jacket.”

  He nodded, and quickly retrieved it. I motioned where he should place the barrel—just to the side of the crown—and turned my face away as he pulled the trigger. The retort was deafening in the silence of the wooded glade as the bone exploded, and I felt a shard slice my earlobe as it whistled past. I shook my hand and splinters fell away, pattering onto the leafy ground; the teeth were still firmly embedded, nevertheless.

  “You’re going to need medical attention for that,” he said superfluously, frowning at the mess my right hand had become. The skin was purpling around the wound, the tips of my fingers scarily white. It was limp and unresponsive.

  “No shit,” I replied. “I was thinking of keeping them as a memento, too.” I turned my hand over, counting half a dozen teeth forming a semi-circle in the flesh like standing stones. I pulled at them but there was no way they were going to release their dead dog grip. Stender helped me tear a strip of material from my shirt—already shredded by the fucker’s claws—and wrapped that around the worst of it. He passed me back the gun, which I now held in my left, down by my side, and glanced back at the remains of the horror that he’d run through.

  “You seen anything like that before?” I asked, slightly wheezy.

  He didn’t answer for a moment. “I heard about experiments,” he replied finally, not looking back at me. “Vivisection. I thought they were looking into organ regeneration, transplants. I don’t know what that is.” He nodded towards the body. “That’s not science. That… shouldn’t exist.”

  “Somebody’s pet project. Like some kind of kid’s custom-built mutant freakshow.” I scanned the edge of the clearing. “What’s it doing running wild out here?”

  “It smellsss the guilty,” came a sibilant voice, and both Stender and I spun as another pair of rotten, grey Judges emerged from the foliage. One—female, barely out of the Academy—held a leash upon which another skull-headed monstrosity strained. It was sleeker in shape than its partner, with human-like hands—I queasily realised on closer inspection that they’d been stitched on—but the same snapping bone-face shook and snarled. “It can track thossse that have not ssubmitted to Death’ss mercy.”

  I didn’t hesitate. I took aim and fired just as the jay unhooked the leash, and the creature had barely taken a step before the bullet entered its right eye socket and exploded out the other side. With half its head missing, it didn’t know what to do; it whimpered and sat down on its haunches, exploring its exit wound with those unnerving fingers. The jays advanced, undeterred. I switched targets, and pumped the rest of the clip into their chests. They staggered, but they didn’t go down.

  “Fuck.” I tossed the gun to Stender, then fished in my back pocket for the replacement clip, which I passed over too. “Reload for me. I can’t do shit with my hand like this.”

  “We want you alive for now,” the Judge nearest Stender said to him. “We have insstructionss to bring you back to the Hall of Injusstice.” It leered, and hefted its spiked club. “That can be in piecesss, if necessary.”

  Stender worked the automatic’s slide and—ignoring my outstretched hand, asking for the gun back—shot the jay in the face, blowing it wide open like a clamshell.

  “Don’t make thisss difficult,” it said impossibly, its mouth now rent asunder. Stender fired again, and a section of its helmet flew apart.

  The other badge had a Lawgiver, which it brought to bear on Stender. I dived forward and knocked the weapon down, the round drilling into the ground inches from his foot. The jay caught me with a good backhand—powerful, considering its skeletal frame—and I ducked and rolled just as the automatic barked and the lower half of its jaw pebble-dashed a nearby tree trunk. It didn’t drop but seemed taken aback.

  “Headshots seem the most effective,” Stender said, slapping the gun butt into my hand. Eyes rolling up in the sockets, the two Judges were as dozily confused as their attack-dog as to where their missing skull fragments were. “I suggest we make a move.”

  “Not yet,” I muttered, and slammed the gun into what was left of the Judge’s face, pistol-whipping it to the ground and not stopping until nothing was left but greasy residue. Then I did the same with the other one, before putting down the dog-thing for good.

  I stood, sweating, out of breath. “Now we go.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I TOLD STENDER I had an idea of where to head for, and instructed him to follow. Running cautiously through the woods, ears and eyes open, neither of us had any idea if there were more of those zombie assholes out looking for us, but we stayed alert and ready to act should one cross our path. The silence was all-enveloping—our footsteps crunching as we jogged between the trees was the only sound to be heard—and there remained no sign of the H-Wagon. Nevertheless, I found myself scrutinising every shadow for movement, aware that at any moment some fresh atrocity could come staggering towards us. My mind needed little help in imagining these new horrors; it was cycling through the worst my head could conjure up on a permanent loop.

  But I had a destination, and for now it seemed we were going to make it there unhindered. On the fringes of the woodland sat a camping park I was familiar with, mostly used by holidaymakers as a place to set down their caravans, but also home to several residents. I was banking on there still being some vehicles, and as we emerged from the treeline, I issued a quiet word of thanks to whichever non-existent deity was watching over us, for a couple of cars had been left unattended. We edged between the mobile homes, all of which were in darkness and seemingly empty, alive to the slightest disturbance. Had the people taken off for a safer haven, or were they sheltering inside, staying as quiet and still as they possibly could, hoping no one would come looking for them? I was tempted to peer inside, but decided that wouldn’t be a good idea—better to be in and out with the minimum of interaction with anyone else. I caught a glimpse of a smear of blood on a window, what looked like words painted in grue—I’M SORRY—and shuddered.

  Morning had broken by now, and a silvery mist hung over the ground, the grass wet with dew. Stender spotted a four-by-four tucked behind an admin building, and I gave him the nod. We made a dash towards it, and I left him to the business of getting it started while I kept watch; I lent him my gun to smash the driver’s window, he leant in and unlocked it, then disappeared under the ignition. Seems like it paid to have a Tek-guy at your disposal, I thought, impressed with the speed and efficiency with which he hotwired the motor. He slid over to the passenger side as I climbed in.

  “Shouldn’t we
see if there’s anything worth salvaging?” he said, jerking a thumb towards the building. “Food supplies, batteries, that kind of thing?”

  “Not here,” I replied, a flash of that red message on the glass appearing unbidden in my head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to hang around. Let’s get going.”

  I pulled out slowly, found the main road and headed steadily north, keeping to an unassuming 50mph, one hand on the wheel, glad that it wasn’t a stick-shift. Half an eye was almost constantly glued to the mirror, watching for the H-Wagon to return, but the bright, sharp dawn was devoid of any life. It was like the world outside the car had been paused and muted.

  Stender noticed my repeated glances towards the sky. “Guess it must’ve been called back to the Grand Hall.”

  “For now, maybe. But they sure were keen to take you with them. Those two freaks with the skinned puppies were sent in to check you were still alive after my ride went up in flames. They weren’t taking any chances—you’re too important to them.”

  “Which means Red Mosquito must’ve stalled.”

  “Seems so. That buys us some time. But they’re going to keep coming after you if they can’t get it going on their own, so we can’t afford to dawdle.”

  Stender peered out at the surrounding countryside. We were leaving the highway and taking increasingly narrow roads that circuited farmland and dense forested areas. Some sheep carcasses lay piled up in a field and a huge black cloud of flies swirled into the air as we sped past, both of us putting a hand to our mouths when the stench permeated the vehicle’s interior. “Who’s this Loxley woman we’re going to see again?”

  “Old colleague. I’ve been pally with her since way back. Likes her privacy, though, and not exactly a people person so don’t go expecting much of a warm welcome.”

  “How’s she going to help?”

  “She’s the best thief I know.”

  ANY OTHER TIME, staring down the barrels of a shotgun would, to say the least, give me pause for concern; on this occasion, however, it came as something of a relief. Firstly, it showed that Loxley was most definitely still here and hadn’t tried to hightail it to a desert island somewhere (not that I seriously anticipated that she would, but I had been taking a chance on her having stuck around), and secondly it proved she hadn’t gone total nutzoid like a lot of the population. If she hadn’t emerged from her cabin wielding some kind of boomstick, then I would’ve been worried. Yet here she was, waving a pump-action under our noses and warning us to back the hell off. Stender looked perturbed, but I shot him a glance that told him to chill.

  “Hey, Loxley,” I called, holding up my hands. “It’s McGill. Been a while.”

  “There’s a reason for that, I seem to remember,” she said, not lowering the weapon. She was standing in her doorway, aiming down at us from the top of the slight incline the cabin sat on. We waited beside the car parked at the foot of a dozen wooden steps built into the rise, so she couldn’t fail to have the drop on us. I had no intention of approaching her other than on her own terms so was content to ride this out until we gained her trust. “Who’s the gimp?”

  I shook my head slightly at Stender, discouraging him from replying. “He’s all right, he’s with me. Boffin I’ve managed to acquire. You know how I’ve always wanted one.”

  “He looks Department.”

  Damn, nothing got past her, I thought. Okay, no point trying to sell her a bogie. “Yeah, he’s HoJ—”

  “What the fuck, McGill…?”

  “—but he’s a civvie. Lab spod. He got out just before it all went to shit.”

  “So what in the name of quivering Christ are you doing bringing him here?”

  “’Cause we need your help, Loxley. You must have some idea of what’s going on in the capital?”

  She shrugged. “Radio cut out twelve hours ago. Last I heard it said there’d been an uprising, that a new Chief Fucknut had got himself installed. Then there was all this talk of riots on the streets.”

  “They’re murderin’ everyone. It’s genocide.”

  “And I can do anything about it because…?”

  “C’mon, Loxley, can we talk about this inside? My arms are getting tired.”

  She motioned with the shotgun. “What happened to your hand?”

  I cast an eye over it. It felt very tight and heavy. “The new regime is what happened. They don’t come brandishing flowers and chocolates, I can tell you that much.”

  “And you do?”

  I smiled sheepishly. “Stores were closed. Sorry.”

  She dropped the gun, and beckoned for us to enter. We climbed the steps and squeezed past her into the functional open-plan dining/living area that took up the majority of the cabin’s floorspace, with a wood-burning stove at one end and a pail near the door to visit the well out back. Loxley had never been one for mod cons, despite all the years she’d been cooped up here; she seemed to like the fact that she didn’t have to rely on anyone for anything, and would quite happily trade luxury for independence. She made a mint in the two decades that I’d known her; her skills didn’t come cheap (and she didn’t hire them out to just anyone), and I was always curious as to what she planned to do with her savings, ’cause she sure as shit didn’t spend anything on herself.

  She shut and bolted the door behind her and indicated that we sit while she remained where she was. “You armed?” she asked.

  I nodded and pulled out my automatic, laying it on the table. “On my last clip.”

  “What about laughing boy here?”

  Stender shook his head nervously and wilted under her glare until she seemed satisfied he posed no threat.

  “So what do I owe the pleasure, McGill? Last time I saw you, you were part of the Bushman’s crew, trying to convince me to help rip off that heroin shipment. Got pretty heated, I seem to recall.”

  “Nothing personal, you know that, right? I’m at the B-man’s beck and call—or I was. He just asked me to make you an offer you couldn’t refuse.”

  “Which I refused.”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “And which he wasn’t happy about.”

  “He lost half a dozen guys on that job in the end. He figured if you’d engineered the raid like he asked, no one would’ve got so much as a scratch.”

  “I don’t work for that human leech, and never will. Pretty much don’t want to associate with those that do, either. I told you all this when I was throwing you out.”

  “True. But like I say, situation’s changed. The Bushman’s no longer an ongoing concern. He’s been… superseded.”

  “By these end-of-the-world limp-dicks.”

  I nodded, and winced. A throb, deep and hard, pulsed within my injured hand, and I cradled it, hissing through gritted teeth as fingers touched inflamed skin. The flesh was blackening around the knuckles, and blisters clustered on my palm. The material that had been bound around the wound was stained with fresh seepage, and while I wanted to remove it to clean and re-dress the injury I was reluctant to attempt it. Loxley noticed my visible distress and wandered across, propping the shotgun down by the door, screwing up her face when she saw the extent of the damage done.

  “What happened to you?” she asked, taking my ruined hand in hers. Her tone softened, and despite the distracting pain a little knot of yearning pulled tight in stomach at the sound of it. I’d always had a thing for Lox, though I never told her since I doubted the feeling was reciprocated; she always gave the impression she had no need of a man, or indeed anyone else. She was a fine-looking woman—strong and athletic, with bobbed blonde hair and a hearty laugh, the few times she let you hear it—and it got to the point where being around her was making me feel down, so I made a point of wallowing in self-pity on my own instead. Her skills as a burglar were second to none, and she was always in demand, so the idea of her having much time for a numbskull like me seemed unlikely in retrospect.

  “I was bitten,” I replied, watching as she peeled away the scrap of shirt, sticky patches of b
lood not giving up their claim on it easily, and exposed the crescent-shaped mark. The teeth were still fused to the meat of my hand where they wouldn’t be separated, the small nubs of bone now brown and rotten. The skin around them had turned a mottled grey.

  Loxley took a sharp intake of breath. “Holy crap,” she murmured. “You need to see a doctor. This is all infected to Sunday and back.”

  “I think the docs are going have more than enough on their hands.” I glanced at the wound and raised my eyebrows. “So to speak. Plus we need to stay out of the populated areas, the city centres. You haven’t seen what it’s like out there—there’re crazies everywhere.”

  “Well, you’re going to lose that limb to gangrene if it’s not treated. Is that…” She squinted closer. “Are those human teeth?”

  “Probably.”

  “But they’re too small to be adult—”

  “I know.”

  She stared at me, almost angrily, as if I was challenging her perception of reality. “Okay, you’re starting to freak me out now. What the fuck did this?”

  “Wish I could tell you,” I replied. “I don’t know myself.”

  “The world’s changing,” Stender said morosely, and both me and Lox turned to look at him, suddenly reminded that he was with us too. “Or it’s being changed. What we think we know, what we understand, is no longer relevant.”

  “Great,” Loxley muttered, and side-eyed me. “Does he do kids’ parties as well?” She spun and stomped off to an adjoining room, where we heard the clatter of a cabinet being rifled through, before she emerged with her arms full of disinfectant, bandages, towels and a bowl half filled with steaming water. “Regardless,” she continued, laying them on the table, “we need to do something about that. You got any medical expertise?” She addressed the question to Stender, hands on hips.