Apocalypso (23 page)

‘Good
point. Let’s nuke the blighter.’

‘Stop
this at once.’ The smart-looking woman raised a smart-looking hand. ‘I will not
be party to the wiping out of innocent people, even unemployed ones.’

‘Oh, go
on,’ said Porrig’s dad.

‘Certainly
not. There has to be another way.’ We could divert
The Leviathan
to
France,’ said the pig. ‘Nuke the monster over there.’

‘Good
idea,’ said Augustus.

‘Is it?’
asked the pig.

‘It is,’
said Augustus.

‘I
certainly admire your courage.’

‘It
doesn’t take courage to nuke France. I’d have got around to it at some point
anyway.’

‘No, I
didn’t mean nuking France. I meant the courage you’ll need to go aboard
The
Leviathan
and persuade the monster to change course.’

‘Oh, I
won’t be doing that. I’ll delegate. I’ll send this smart-looking woman here.’

‘You
bloody well won’t,’ said the smart-looking woman. ‘I may just be a
two-dimensional token female, but I’m not
that
stupid.’

‘I never
suggested for one moment that you were. I see you as a Sigourney Weaver figure.
The lone woman of strong character and resolve, standing against the alien.’

‘Or
that bird in
The Terminator
with the nice tits,’ said the pig.

‘Yes,
that’s right,’ said Porrig’s dad. ‘Although Sigourney has nice tints too.’

‘Very
nice,’ agreed the pig. ‘Sigourney is the total package as far as I’m concerned.’

‘So
there you go then,’ said Augustus. ‘And actually you do look a bit like
Sigourney Weaver.’

‘Do I?’
asked the smart-looker.

‘You
do,’ said Augustus.

‘Better,’ said the pig. ‘More
“presence”.’ Why, thank you.’

‘But
you’re probably right.’ Augustus made a thoughtful face. ‘It’s not a job for a
woman. I’d do better to call in some burly macho SAS type. A Sly Stallone figure.
Huge muscles, huge ego, huge…’

‘Todger,’
said the pig.

‘Huge
weapon,’
said Augustus.

‘Same
thing.’

‘All
guns blazing.’ Augustus mimed the all-guns-blazing. He smiled at the
smart-looking woman. ‘Best leave the job to a man. Do you think you might fetch
me some more coffee in a plastic cup?’

‘No!’

‘No?’

‘No!’
The smart-looking woman shook her smart-looking head.
‘I
will go,’ she
said.

‘I
wouldn’t hear of it.’ Augustus shook his head too. ‘It was a silly idea. I’ve
been under a lot of strain lately. Not thinking clearly.’

‘I will
go,’ said the smart-looking woman. ‘There will be no all-guns-blazing. And
there will be no nuking of France or anywhere else. A. woman’s touch is
required here. This creature can read men’s minds, but I’ll bet he won’t be
able to read mine. I will find some way to stop him. You leave it to me.’

‘Are
you sure?’

‘Absolutely
sure.’

Well… if you’re absolutely sure.’

‘I am.’

‘She
is,’ said the pig.

‘All
right. Go up to the operations room. I’ll phone through to tell the controller
that you’re to be given everything you require.’

‘Thank
you, sir.’ The smart-looking woman saluted (smartly). Augustus saluted back. ‘Take
care,’ he said.

‘I
will, sir.’ And with that, the smart-looking woman turned smartly and marched
away.

Augustus
took out his mobile phone and pushed a few buttons. ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘Smudger?
Naseby here. The bimbo took the bait, she’s on her way up to you. Make sure the
bomb goes into her handbag and make sure she doesn’t know it’s there. Cheers
then. Ta-ta for now.’

The pig
looked up at Porrig’s dad. ‘You bastard,’ said the pig. ‘You treacherous,
double-dealing bastard.’

16

The other bastard, green
and gruesome, thought his terrible thoughts and sent them out with a smile upon
his
face.

The
first wave of pain hit a certain coastal town of southern England at precisely
ten-twenty-three and fourteen-seconds-almost that morning.

Lords
and ladies, lads and lasses, the great and the good and the dull and the
dreadful hollered and howled and fell fainting to their floors.

CONTAMINATION
CONTAMINATION CONTAMINATION CONTAMINATION they thought.

Men
clutched at their willies and women their behinds. But the pain was so intense
that their clutching hands rushed back to their heads and stayed there.

Porrig,
now dressed, had been preparing to take a quick shufti outside, having come to
the not altogether surprising conclusion that
something
was going on. He
was at his shop door when the pain blasted him from his feet.

Wok
Boy, halfway up the stairs, screamed loudly and tumbled down.

Rippington
stood looking puzzled.

From
The
Leviathan,
now lying half a sea mile off Brighton, the pain arced out.
Dilbert grinned and thought more horrible thoughts and his thoughts took flight
and hurt like hell.

Folk
were rising now and, driven by a compulsion they were powerless to resist,
were taking to the streets. They flooded into the thoroughfares in wave after
wave, human flotsam borne upon a tide of pain.
‘Come and greet your God,’
called
the thoughts of Dilbert,
‘Come and greet me now.’

Forward,
forward, at the double they came, tumbling and treading down the weak,
scrambling and clawing into the main roads and onward to the sea.

In
their thousands.

Onto
the promenade, that Victorian prom where elegant gentlemen and ladies in lace
had strolled arm in arm to the bandstand refrains, came the folk of this age in
a staggering horde. In a crush of confusion, in agonized terror, herded and
driven, forced ever onwards over the railings and down to the beach.

And
onwards.

Into
the sea.

Knee-deep
now, the old ones sagging, children parted from their mothers, lover torn apart
from lover, all apart but all together, thousands, thousands, fear and horror.

Then
the silence, dry mouths open, frightened eyes all staring forward…

For
He
comes.

The
God comes now.

White
ship splendour.

Wave-crest
bow-break.

Lifeboats
lowering.

And
His seven-pointed star.

And I stood upon the
sand of the sea and saw a beast rise up out of the sea…

Revelation 13.1

And so they fell, one upon
another, forced down to give homage. To worship their new God. He who was their
old God. Come once more among them.

Man bow
down before your master.

Porrig
fought to keep his face above the waves, but the pain forced him down, down.
You
will worship. You will kneel.

And
Porrig’s face went down into the waves and the pain drove into his head and his
breath was gone and the water flooded into his lungs and Porrig floated
lifeless in the sea.

‘This is bad. So very bad.’
Augustus Naseby gazed up at the big world map that had once more been
translated into a giant TV screen and now projected images received from
Brighton’s street surveillance cameras.

‘He’s
driven them into the sea.’ A man in a white coat crossed himself. ‘The entire
population of the town, they were helpless to resist him.’

‘He’s
making his point.’ Augustus Naseby turned away. ‘He’ll come to us.
For
us.
We must leave now, enter the escape pod, travel north. Stay beyond the range of
his influence.’

The man
in the white coat turned a cold eye upon Augustus. ‘No, sir,’ he said.

‘No?
What do you mean, no?’

‘Sir, I
mean: no. We cannot just run away.’

‘It is
called a strategic withdrawal.’

‘I don’t
give a fuck what it’s called. We can’t do it.’

We can
and we will. The Ministry of Serendipity must remain in control. We must co-ordinate.
This situation can be contained.’

‘It
cannot be contained, sir. The creature is too powerful. He treats people like
dirt. They are nothing to him. He’ll cut a swathe across the country, killing
thousands. We must stand and fight and we must do it now.’

Where
is the woman with the handbag?’

‘Agent
Artemis?’

‘Agent
who?’

‘Artemis,
sir. In Greek mythology she was the virgin goddess of the hunt and the moon.
The twin sister of Apollo. The Romans called her Diana and she—’

Yes,
all right. Agent
Artemis.
Where is she?’

‘I
called her a cab, sir.’

‘Called
her a cab! Why didn’t you send her off in one of the unmarked helicopters with
the big guns all over it?’

‘She
said she’d prefer to take a cab.’

‘All
right. Forget her. Get me the Ministry of Defence on the blower. Patch me
through to the Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces.’

‘So we
are going to stand and fight, sir?’

There
will be standing and there will be fighting. I shall lurk and
you
will
fetch me some coffee in a plastic cup. Agent bloody Artemis indeed!’

Agent
Bloody-Artemis-indeed sat in the back of a London black cab. The driver, who ‘recently
had that Chris Evans sitting just where you’re sitting, ginger git that he is,
but you have to like him, don’t ya, because he’s a laugh and having a laugh is
what it’s all about, ain’t it, and what line of trade are you in if you don’t
mind me asking, rag trade, is it, because I had that Versace in here once,
well, not
had him
if you know what I mean, but had him in this cab,
before he was gunned down, “shoot you, sir” eh? ha ha ha’, viewed her in the
driving mirror.

Agent
Artemis, without the bloody, ignored the driver. She studied her reflection in
her make-up mirror and, finding it pleasing to behold, smiled secretively,
recrossed her impossibly long legs and gazed through the window at London and
its life. Knowing well, as most women do, the wicked ways of maledom, she had
taken the greatest care to check through her belongings. It hadn’t taken all
that long to find the hidden bomb. She had stored it in a secret place that was
not
a euphemism, and had tooled herself up with certain pieces of restricted
hardware that she was totally unauthorized to carry.

Agent
Artemis smiled once more, said, ‘Drive me to Brighton,’ and settled back upon
the seat which had known the bums of famous folk.

The infamous one sat on
His fat bum and waved a limp green hand at His subjects. They were up from the
beach now, those who still lived; they lined the way and they cheered through
their tears and they hated and feared and they hurt.

His
Nubians carried Him on His cushions in His seven-pointed star. Others, too,
jostled to lift Him. And three men walked before, wearing nought but their
Y-fronts, strewing rose petals and singing Him praise.

Sir
John Rimmer sang through gritted teeth. He lurched along upon buckling legs,
all thousand-yard-stare and no stiff-upper-lip. Danbury dawdled and swore when
he could, the doctor just marched and recited His words as a robot.

Praise
be unto Him. Praise be unto Him.

The
crowds took up the chant, for it hurt less to do so, and followed after Him as
His obscene parade moved on towards the railway station.

And
praise be unto Him.

And
praise be unto Him.

And… ‘Aaaaaghooooohuuuuurgh… urgh urgh urgh.’

From
somewhere far away and long ago and god knows where and how, came Porrig. ‘Aaaaaaaaaaghoooooh,’
and, ‘urgh urgh urgh.’

‘Cough
it up, you rub-tugger, it might be a gold watch.’

‘Urgh,
urgh, urgh,’ and ‘Get the flick off me!’ You’re showing some definite signs of
improvement.’

‘Get off
my face, you… urgh urgh urgh.’

‘Spit
it out, it’s only water. Though not mine this time.’

Porrig
sat up. He coughed some more and then he was sick all over the place.

‘Look
out where you’re chucking up. Oh dear me.’ Rippington scuttled for cover.

Porrig
blinked seawater from his eyes. He was beneath the pier. Evidently still in the
land of the living.

And the
dead.

For the
dead lay all along the beach, tossed by the tide, broken dolls alive only in
memory.