Apocalypso (22 page)

Wonderful,’
said the pig. ‘And this Ministry runs the affairs of the whole wide world!’

‘At
present it does.’

Well,
good luck to the man with the exploding beard.’

The man with the exploding
beard was keeping his head down. Dr Harney was gambolling aimlessly about
making the sounds of a big brass band.

Dilbert
held up a fat finger. ‘This is crap,’ he said. ‘This fellow can’t dance. Let’s have
him over here and see what he tastes like.’

Several
natives leaped down from the bandstand and grabbed at the dancing doc.

‘No,
wait,’ cried Sir John.

Wait,
what?’

Wait, O
Great One, please, I beseech.’

‘Ah,’
said Dilbert. ‘Beseeching. I’ve always loved beseeching. I’m glad to hear that
beseeching still goes on in this century. What exactly are you beseeching
about?’

‘Don’t
eat the doctor,’ said Sir John.

Why
not?’

‘Because
I
have
brought you a special gift and I’d like you to have it now.’

‘Oh
goody. Bring it over then.’

Sir
John rose slowly to his feet and, stepping carefully between the worshippers,
who still knelt naked and shivering, he approached the evil thing on the
bandstand.

‘It is
the badge of highest office,’ said Sir John.

‘And I
as one who has awaited your return, along with the millions of other loyal
devotees on the British Isles, am honoured to present you with it.’

‘Millions,
did you say?’ Dilbert stroked his chins. ‘Many millions. Surely you did not
think that you would be forgotten?’

‘Naturally
not,’ said Dilbert, adjusting his backside once more.

‘I was
chosen to greet you and present you with this.’ Sir John Rimmer fingered the
abundant blue beard.

You are
offering me
a beard?’

‘As a
token of our affection and loyalty. For you to wear as you are carried in
splendour through the streets of our capital. Which is to say,
your
capital.’

‘Indeed?’
said Dilbert. ‘Bung it over here, then.’ Sir John Rimmer removed the false
beard and handed it to a native. The native bowed before Dilbert and offered it
up.

Dilbert
looked down upon the beard and then up at Sir John Rimmer.

Well,’
said he. ‘And well well well.’

Well?’
asked Sir John.

Well!’
said Dilbert.

Well
what, exactly, O Great One?’

Well,
firstly it is a pretty crap beard. It is made from a low-quality polyester
derivative and dyed with synthetic chemicals. Secondly, the wearing of such a
beard could seriously harm my precious person.’

‘The
chemicals are in no way harmful,’ said Sir John.

‘No,
but the fucking bomb in it is!’

‘Ah,’
said Sir John.

Yes,
ah, you piece of shit! Do you know why I let you on board?’

‘No, O
Great One.’

‘Don’t
O
Great One
me. I let you on board because I wanted to get a look at you
and
you!’
Dilbert pointed at the beard, and in the operations room at
the Ministry of Serendipity his big fat finger blotted out the giant
telescreen. You, the maggots at the Ministry of so-called Serendipity. I know
you’re there. I can sense your thinking. I can read all your thoughts. I did
not choose to have this ship sail to your shores upon an idle whim. It’s
because
you
are there.
You
who rule the entire planet through
your departments and your connections. I am coming to you. I am coming for you.’

Then
the screen blanked out.

‘It
rather looks as if we’ll have to rearrange our schedules,’ said Augustus
Naseby.

‘That
won’t please the chickens,’ said the pig.

15

Chickens clucked in a
Brighton back yard and a rooster crowed in a new dawn. Porrig, who had been
playing the night owl, was not to be found up with the larks.

The
sunshine came softly through his window today and Porrig could no doubt have
tripped out easy, had he wanted to. However, as he never had done so before and
knew nothing of Donovan, he didn’t.

Porrig
stretched and wriggled. It was very crowded in his bed. Wok Boy snored away
next to him and Rippington lay next to Wok Boy. And although Rippington didn’t
snore, he did make some very odd sounds in his sleep: snufflings and
mutterings, none of them too pleasing to the ear.

Porrig
put his hands behind his head and sighed towards the ceiling. Sunlight danced
through pigeon shadows. No sign of any BIG STORM.

Porrig
sighed once more and took to bewailing his lot.

It wasn’t
fair. It just wasn’t fair. An empty shop below and these two buggers in his
bed. And his plans for superherodom? Doomed to failure as he might have
guessed.

Rippington
had been all in favour. He’d offered Porrig sneak looks into the books of magic
in exchange for his safe return to ALPHA 17, and he said he’d even throw in a
rather natty outfit that had once belonged to a prince of Denmark.

Porrig
had flung open his bedroom door at the midnight hour, but nothing had happened.
The mysterious portal to ALPHA 17 had not materialized. The gateway from this
world to that remained shut.

It
could only be opened by use of the magic ritual and, since Porrig didn’t know
it, that it seemed was that.

‘Told
you,’ said Rippington. ‘If it opened by itself every night, I’d have ducked
through it last week while you were in the coma. You only got through because
you disobeyed the curator’s instructions. He won’t let that happen again.’

Porrig
climbed out of bed and took himself off to the kitchenette. Here he brewed
green tea, sat down at the table and grumbled.

He’d
have made a damn fine superhero. He was certainly screwed up enough. And if his
daft daddy really was in charge of this ministry that damn near ran the whole
world, then he did feel that it was his duty to do something about it.
Something more than just drawing a comic book.

‘It’s
as good a start as any.’

Porrig
jumped from his chair and glowered at Rippington.

‘Sorry,’
said the imp. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

‘You
lying little toad.’

‘No
need for insults.’

Porrig
sat back down. ‘I’m fed up,’ said he. ‘Me too, my rub-tuning friend. I want to
go home. But we’ll each get what fate offers us, I suppose.’

‘Fate?’
Porrig shrugged and his thoughts returned to his conversation on the train
with the old bloke.

‘I’ve
seen that feather,’ said Rippington.

‘What?’

‘The
feather from the angel’s wing that you were just thinking about. It glows in
the dark and it smells really sweet.’

‘He
sent you, didn’t he?’ said Porrig. Rippington climbed onto a chair. ‘I don’t
know what you mean.’

‘You
bloody do. The old bloke let you out of ALPHA 17. You’d never have got out if
he hadn’t let you. Why did he let you, Rippington?’

‘To
keep an eye on you, of course. He has pressing business in the city of London.
Secret business. I’m here to see that no harm comes to you.’

‘How
comforting.’

‘So I
wouldn’t drink that tea, if I were you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because
that’s Wok Boy’s cup. The one I—’

Porrig
spat green tea across the kitchenette.

Where
would you be without me?’ asked Rippington.

Porrig
made a bitter face. ‘I’m going out,’ said he.

‘In
your pyjamas?’

‘No, I’ll
get dressed first. And then I’ll go out.’

‘I
wouldn’t,’ said Rippington.

‘And
why not?’

‘Because
it might not be safe.’

Porrig
eyed the imp. What exactly are you saying?’

Well,
have you looked outside this morning?’

‘No.’

‘You
might be surprised by what you see.’

‘And
what might I see?’

‘Nothing.’

Porrig
let out a serious sigh. ‘And
nothing
will surprise me, will it?’

‘I
think that it might. But listen, what do you hear?’

Porrig
listened. ‘Nothing,’ he said.

‘And
isn’t
that
surprising?’

‘No.’
Porrig listened again. ‘I mean, yes. I should be able to hear something.
Someone.’

‘But
you can’t. Because there’s no-one about.’ Porrig walked out of the kitchenette,
across the landing and back into the bedroom. As he passed the bed he gave it a
good kick. When he reached the window he looked out.

There
was no-one about. No-one. Not a person. The street was deserted.

Where
is everyone?’ Porrig asked.

‘They’re
all indoors,’ said Rippington. With their windows closed and wet towels over
their heads.’

Wet
towels?’

‘To
avoid contamination.’

What?’

‘You’ll
get your notification any minute now. They did all the nice people’s houses and
shops first. They’ll get round to you in a minute.’

Who
will?’

‘The
man from the Ministry.’

What?
Oh hang about, someone’s coming.’

‘That’ll
be the fellow.’

‘Eh?’

The
fellow approached. He was a very odd-looking fellow, all decked out in a
head-to-toe one-piece radiation suit sort of affair. And he was wearing a gas
mask. With a gloved hand he pulled a leaflet from a big pouch he carried and
approached Porrig’s shop door.

‘Mailman,’
said Rippington.

Porrig
went downstairs to see what was what. He returned a few moments later, now
knowing what was what and saying, What? What? What?’ in a very loud voice. He
gave the bed another kick.

Wok Boy
awoke, going
‘What?’

‘This!’
shouted Porrig pointing to the leaflet. ‘This!’

What?’

‘This.’

‘Read
it out,’ said Rippington.

So
Porrig did.

DANGER

[it began in big black letters]

CONTAMINATION CONTAMINATION

CONTAMINATION CONTAMINATION

[it continued]

Warning is hereby given to the people of Brighton
and surrounding towns that a spillage of chemical toxins from
a foreign
vessel
caught up in last night’s BIG STORM is being carried by the prevailing winds
towards the southern coastline of this country. All residents of Brighton and
surrounding towns are advised to remain indoors until the danger has passed.
Please remain calm and sit quietly with a wet towel over your head.

Those residents who choose to ignore this
warning are advised that the particular chemical toxin causes willy shrinkage
in men and pronounced bottom growth in women.

Residents are further advised that martial
law has been imposed and that anyone caught on the streets will be shot as a
potential looter.

We thank you for your co-operation in this
matter. Please await the all-clear signal.

‘What?’
said Wok Boy.

‘My
thoughts entirely,’ said Porrig.

Wet
towels all round?’ asked Rippington.

Wet towels all round,’
said Porrig’s dad, lurking some way to the north. On the platform of Mornington
Crescent Station, to be precise.

Wet towels,’
said a smart-looking woman.

‘Pronounced
bottom growth and the likelihood of being shot as a potential looter. It should
do the trick for now. It was the best I could come up with at such short
notice.’

Porrig’s
dad groaned. ‘I suppose it will do. It will keep them indoors for the time
being. But when
The Leviathan
docks and the creature comes ashore, what
then?’

‘I don’t
know,’ said the woman. Why are you asking me?’

‘I wasn’t
asking you. I was asking the pig.’

‘Nuke
it,’ said the pig. ‘Nuke it now.’

‘I can’t
nuke it.’ Porrig’s dad shook his head. ‘If I were to nuke it, I’d be
responsible for wiping out half the population of southern England.’

‘Never,’
said the pig. ‘Most of them will be safely inside, with their doors locked and
wet towels over their heads.’

‘Yes,
but what about the ones who won’t?’

‘The
unemployed ones, do you mean? The homeless ones?’