Major Karnage (3 page)

A pair of taser barbs lodged into Karnage’s neck, and 40,000 volts
of electricity coursed through his body. He spasmed and gritted his
teeth. His fist refused to let go of Johnson’s neck. Johnson’s body
quivered and flailed from the charge. A second set of barbs lodged
into Karnage’s thigh. Another 40,000 volts joined the chorus of
the first. Karnage let out a yell as he fell to one knee. His grip on
Johnson’s throat loosened, and the other man fell to the ground,
gasping. Something wet and broken rattled in the back of his throat.

Karnage looked up. Four nurses stood over him, each armed with
a taser. His mouth was full of the taste of blood. He grinned. “Is that
the best you got?”

Two more sets of barbs shot out and caught Karnage in the chest
and bicep. Karnage laughed like the madman he was as 160,000
volts of electricity plunged his body into the peaceful depths of
unconsciousness.

Karnage lay in a pit of darkness. A single shaft of pale light shone on
his head. He felt the familiar pull of the straitjacket on his arms and
crotch. He was back in the Hole.
Home sweet home.

The Hole had been specially constructed just for Karnage. The
walls were soft and yielding, yet slick and smooth enough to prevent
any kind of solid grip. The room was just wide enough to prevent
him from bracing himself against opposing walls and climbing up.
The height of the walls was somewhere around two or three stories.
They’d done their best to make it escape-proof.

But Karnage knew better. Nothing was escape-proof. It was all a
matter of time. He’d escaped from worse places than this during—

The War!

Sand and heat and bullets and flames. Crumbling bombed out
buildings givin’ Uncle Stanley the perfect cover. Snipers snipin’ your
platoon, one wide-eyed recruit at a time. Blood flowin’ like cheap whiskey
at Happy Hour. Privates screamin’ for mothers and fathers, wives and
sisters and lovers and brothers. None of ’em listenin’. None of ’em there.
Nobody but your dying buddies and the bloodthirsty enemy hidin’ around
every corner. Death from above, below, and everywhere in between.
Tanks versus pistols. Choppers versus bayonets. Machine guns versus
fists. Everybody’s dying around you, but you keep your head down and you
do the job. Kill or be killed. Kill or be killed. Faster, soldier! Kill-kill-kill!

Karnage slammed his head against his knee. The soft tones of his
Sanity Patch pinged their gentle warning in his ear.

He couldn’t think about . . .
it.
No point in thinking about . . .
that.
Nothing but pain and hurt lay that way. His troopers were counting
on him. He had to be strong. Uncle Stanley wouldn’t get anything
out of—

No. Uncle Stanley was done. Ancient history. It was over. They
had won . . . hadn’t they? They’d been given medals. He remembered
that. Somewhere in some lockbox in the asylum lay seventeen
medals, seven citations for bravery, and a set of major’s stripes.

Karnage lay his head against the wall. He thought about his
squad up in Ward Three. Velasquez. Heckler. Cookie. Koch. The
finest troopers he’d ever served with. Who cared if they were sane?
No one alive could outsoldier ’em.
Karnage smiled.
No dead ones, either.

Karnage heard a door open in the distance. Echoing footsteps
moved towards him. He looked up. A man’s silhouette appeared in
the shaft of light above. It was Flaherty.

“Ah, I see you’re finally awake,” Flaherty said. “How are you
feeling? Would you like any painkillers?”

“I’m gonna kill you when I get outta here.” A sharp jolt shot down
Karnage’s spine.

“Warning. Sanity Level upgraded to Citrus Blast. Please refrain
from violent behaviour. Thank you.”

Flaherty tsked. “Temper, John. We wouldn’t want you to lose
your head.”

“Where’s Cookie?” Karnage said.

“Cookie’s showing signs of relapse. I was hoping those implants
would improve his condition. I’ve scheduled him for exploratory
surgery in the morning.”

“Quit carving up his brain, you eggheaded bastard!” Karnage
threw his body into the wall. He bounced off harmlessly. Another
jolt of electricity ran through his spine. Karnage shrugged it off. He
glared menacingly at Flaherty as the Sanity Patch crooned “Tangy
Orange.”

“It seems these mild warnings aren’t working. You’re obviously
not taking your Sanity Levels seriously enough. I think I’m going to
have to turn up the voltage,” Flaherty said.

“Sure,” Karnage said. “If you can’t get me to blow my own head
off, you’ll just fry my brain right inside my own skull.”

“That’s not true.”

“Sure it is! Jackin’ up my Sanity Patch. Carvin’ up Cookie’s brain.
Don’t think I don’t see what’s goin’ on here. Me and Cookie stumbled
onto your little invasion plan, and now you want us out of the way.”

Flaherty blinked. “My invasion plan?”

“I don’t know how you factor into all this yet, but I’ll figure it out.
I ain’t gonna stop until I get to the bottom of the whole thing.”

Flaherty shook his head. “I’ve clearly underestimated the depth
of your psychosis. You are, quite possibly, far more insane than I
had originally imagined. I’m starting to think the Sanity Patch is
nowhere near enough. If you continue to believe in this delusion, I
may have to resort to more drastic treatments.”

“Sure. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Carve my brain right outta
my skull and stick it in a mason jar! Turn me into a walkin’ vegetable.
Don’t think for one second you and your alien pals can intimidate
me. I seen more shit in one day than you could see in a hundred
lifetimes!”

Flaherty removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“John, I sincerely hope this turns out to be a temporary delusion.
Otherwise . . . well, I won’t speculate. Nevertheless, I will state this:
there is no conspiracy. There is no alien invasion. No one is out to
get you or your comrades. We really are doing everything we can to
help you. Please believe that.”

“That’s just what I’d expect you to say.”

“Good night, John.” Flaherty stepped away from the light.
Karnage heard his footsteps echo back towards the door.

“You can’t hide the truth, Flaherty!
You can’t hide the truth!”

The only reply was the slammed door echoing in the darkness.

Flaherty descended the steps of the Veteran’s Home. He fished his
car keys out of his pocket and let out a long breath. What a trying
day. Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered. He knew his
methods were a bit . . . well, unorthodox, but that’s why he’d accepted
this position. If he could cure these soldiers, he might finally win
some acclaim from his colleagues.

The sun was just disappearing over the horizon. It cast violent
purple and orange hues across the night sky. The mountains were
a dark silhouette in the distance. Flaherty stopped a few feet from
his car and soaked in the view. The desert could be harsh, but the
heat was already cooling and the sky was clear. It was going to be a
beautiful night. He took a long deep breath.

Swirling winds kicked up around him. Flaherty coughed and
choked. He covered his face from the fierce attack of the sandladen winds. Darkness enveloped him, descending like fabric
dropped from the sky. Flaherty looked up. Something round and
oblong had blocked out the sun. It floated high above him; its span
was impossibly huge. Flashes of light danced across its surface,
illuminating panels and hatches.

Unidentified Flying Objects of Death!

“No,” Flaherty whispered.

A panel slowly opened directly above him. Something long, phallic, and menacing lowered towards him. Deep greenish hues
curled and swirled around its bulbous end. Flaherty’s hairs stood on
end as the air charged with static electricity.

Flaherty ran towards his car just as his world filled with an
intense painful green. Every atom in his body was ripped apart in a
single nanosecond.

He didn’t even get a chance to scream.

Karnage woke with the fierce rays of the desert sun beating down on
him. The smell of burning plastic hung heavy in the air. He looked
around.

He was lying in the middle of a giant smoking crater. The walls of
the Hole were about two feet high, their ends melted and blackened.

The asylum was gone.

Karnage leaped to his feet.
Where’s my platoon?!

“Cookie! Velasquez! Heckler! Koch!” Karnage’s voice echoed
across the desert. Somewhere in the distance, a vulture screeched.
Dead. They’re all dead. Just like in—

The War!

Karnage’s mind filled with violent images. The Sanity Patch
throbbed. Warning interrupted warning as the sanity levels shot by:
Daffodil, Citrus Blast, Peachy Keen, Tangy Orange, Sharp Cheddar,
Coral Essence, Frosty Pink—

Karnage slammed his head into the glassy surface of the crater.
The visions shattered. The Sanity Patch crooned “Strawberry
Shortcake,” then went silent.

“Pull yourself together, soldier!” Karnage barked in his best drill
sergeant voice. “You’re made of sterner stuff than this. On your feet,
mister!”

Karnage jumped to his feet. He struggled up the walls of the
crater, hindered by the straitjacket, yelling at himself all the while:

“Come on, mister! Double time! Move it! Hustle-hustle-hustle!”

Karnage struggled over the edge of the crater onto a melted
chunk of asphalt.

“All right, you maggot,” Karnage panted. “I don’t wanna hear no
more talk about anybody bein’ dead. I got no bodies and I got no dog
tags! Now nobody’s declarin’ anybody dead until we got dog tags or
bodies to prove it! Do you hear me, soldier?!”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Karnage moved to salute himself, but the
straitjacket kept his arms tight to his body.

“Oh, right.” Karnage dislocated both shoulders and pulled his
arms over his head. He lowered his tied sleeves until they rested
on the ground. He stomped on them, stood upright, and pulled
hard. There was a satisfying rip, and the strap holding the sleeves
together gave way. The ends were still sewn shut. Karnage looked
around for something to cut them with.

There was nothing left of the asylum. It looked as if it had been
scooped out of the ground, leaving a perfectly spherical hole. All
that was left was a single car in the parking lot, shimmering and
floating in the desert heat, and three quarters of a sign welcoming
people to
Steve Dabney Veteran’s Home: Support Our Troo—.

Karnage took a closer look at the edge of the crater. Its edge was
sharp and clean. There were no blast marks. No signs of thrown
debris anywhere. He’d never seen anything like it.
Nothing leaves a
blast radius that clean.
A tingle ran down Karnage’s spine.
Nothing
human, anyway.

The aliens! It must have been. It was the only explanation that
made sense. Karnage looked up to the sky. A pair of vultures circled
over a backdrop of wispy clouds. There had to be a way to find those
aliens. Had to be a way to stop them. If only there was some way to
detect them—

Of course! Camp Bailey!
Camp Bailey was home to the Godmaster
Array, the world’s largest radio communications array. If anything
could help him find those aliens, it would be that array.

Karnage’s foot kicked something solid in the sand. It was an arm.
The shoulder had been charred to blackness. The hand still held a
set of keys in its soft, manicured fingers. Karnage grinned. He knew
that hand.
Flaherty.

“Looks like you got yours, didn’t you, you bastard?” Karnage bent
down and pulled the car keys out of the fingers with his teeth.

As he approached the car, he realized that it wasn’t just
shimmering and floating in the heat. The car was actually hovering
a few inches above the ground. Giant silver spheres glimmered in
the wheel wells. Karnage gave the car a gentle poke with his boot. It
pushed to one side for a second before drifting lazily back into place.
The miracles of modern science.

Karnage suddenly felt old. The world had changed a lot in the
years he’d been in the asylum. How much had he missed out on?
What else had changed?

There was only one way to find out.

He bit down on the key fob in his mouth. The trunk popped
open. Inside, Karnage found a first aid kit and a bag of golf clubs.
He fumbled open the first aid kit with his teeth and found a small
pair of scissors. He kicked off his slippers and sat on the edge of the
trunk. He looped his baby toes into the scissors handle, and with
much fumbling and cursing, he was finally able to snip open the
ends of the straitjacket’s sleeves. His fingers free, Karnage trimmed
the sleeves of the straitjacket down to wrist length and cut off the
excess restraining straps. He put the straitjacket on backwards, so
the straps ran up the front of his chest.

Next, he fished through Flaherty’s golf bag for a weapon. He
settled for a wedge with a head the size of a medicine ball. DBSANDSTORM 5000 had been engraved into its face. Karnage gave
it a practice swing. The golf club beeped, and a cheery voice said,
“Slice! Relax those wrists.” He swung it back the other way. “Hook!
Check your stance.” The club may not have been happy with how
Karnage was handling it, but it felt good and heavy, and the shaft
was short enough to be effective in close quarters. He slung the club
over his shoulder like a rifle and looked at himself in the side-view
mirror.