Major Karnage (31 page)

“You mean that thing where I killed you and you didn’t stay
dead?”

Patrick nodded. “Quite something, isn’t it? Wouldn’t you like to
know how it works?”

“I’d rather you just stayed dead.”

Patrick languidly shook his head. “That’s not true. You’re curious.
And why wouldn’t you be? Imagine what you could do if you could
cheat death?”

“There’s some who’d say I’ve been doin’ that all my life.”

“Indeed. But time marches on, doesn’t it? You’re fighting a losing
battle on that front, aren’t you?”

“Isn’t everybody?”

“Not me.” Patrick studied Karnage a moment. “I could share my
secret with you, if you like. But you’ll have to earn it.” Patrick walked
over to the railing and leaned against it. “Would you like to play a
game with me, Major?”

“No,” Karnage said.

“I call it Wak-A-Patrick.” Patrick leaned out and grabbed a
handful of netting above the tablet. He ripped it from its frame. The
tablet slipped out of the netting and twirled end over end into the
depths below. “How many times can you kill me before I kill you?”

“What the hell kind of game is that?”

Patrick grinned broadly. “A fun one.”

“Me and my fists versus you and your gun?”

“You have a point,” Patrick said. “That’s not exactly fair, now is
it?” He tossed his gun through the hole in the netting, then turned
back to Karnage. He gave a slight bow.
“Et commence!”

As the two circled each other warily, Karnage repeated his
mantra in his head:
Cookie, Velasquez, Heckler, Stumpy, Koch. Cookie,
Velasquez, Heckler, Stumpy, Koch.

Patrick quivered with anticipation, as if overeager for this
rematch. Karnage opted to hold back to see what his opponent
would do. Patrick’s impatience got the better of him and he lunged.
Karnage sidestepped, grabbed Patrick by the back of his coat, and
threw him head first through the tear in the netting.

Patrick’s foot tangled in the net. He hung upside down. His foot
was slowly slipping from the tangles, but he made no attempt to right
himself. He looked at Karnage and winked. His foot came loose, and
he fell from the tower, quickly disappearing into the distance.

Karnage’s Sanity Patch stayed silent. He reached behind his neck
and knocked on its screen.
Like riding a bike.

The elevator binged behind him. Karnage turned around. The
doors slid open and Patrick strode out, twirling a long black cane.

“I must admit, that was rather foolish of me,” he said. “I was
a little overeager, but I think I’ve found my footing now.” Patrick
pulled the shaft off the cane, revealing a long thin blade. “Ready for
round two?” He raised the sword and ran at Karnage, bringing the
blade down in a sweeping blow.

Karnage grabbed Patrick’s sword arm, locked the elbow, and
grabbed the sword by its hilt. He jerked it upwards, ripping it out
of Patrick’s hand. He brought the blade around and ran Patrick
through. His Sanity Patch buzzed. “Warning. Sanity Level upgraded
to Citrus Blast. Please refrain from violent behaviour.”

Karnage whispered in Patrick’s ear. “Let’s see you survive that, fucker.”

Then he grabbed Patrick and threw him over the railing and
through the hole in the net. He made a point to watch Patrick fall.
The reflective glint of the sword rhythmically winked at Karnage
as Patrick tumbled out of sight. He waited until the winking had
completely disappeared, then headed for the elevator.

Karnage heard a high-pitched whine coming from outside. He
turned around.

Patrick flew up and hovered in front of the open netting. He wore
a Dabneycop-issued hoverball flightpack. “Excellent technique,
Major. Tell me, are you just as talented at dodging bullets?” Patrick
pulled a pistol from his jacket and started firing.

“Give me a fuckin’ break!” Karnage dove out of the way as bullets
whizzed past his head. He ran around the central cylinder, trying to
put anything between him and the flying gunman.

Patrick swooped and bobbed wildly, steering with one hand as he
navigated through the net. Bullets exploded across the wall behind
Karnage. He saw the discarded cane sheath appear on the deck as
he charged around the cylinder. He dove to the ground in a roll,
grabbing the empty shaft with a free hand, and leaped back to his
feet.

As Patrick passed the hole in the netting, Karnage whipped
the cane sheath through it. It smashed into one of the hoverballs,
cracking it open. Yellow smoke spewed from its side, and the
flightpack jerked out of control. Patrick frantically worked the
controls as the flightpack spiralled out of sight. Karnage watched
as the contraption fell. It struck the side of the tower, and the
hoverballs broke off in either direction. Patrick’s body continued
hurtling toward the ground, colliding with the tower as it fell.

Karnage leaned against the railing and took a moment to catch
his breath. He walked back to the elevator. The doors and the
console were riddled with bullets. He tried pressing the buttons, but
nothing happened. “Shit.” He ran to the Emergency Exit door and
placed his hand on the knob to pull it open.

He heard the faint sounds of feet running up metal stairs coming
from the other side, getting louder with each frenetic step.
Karnage snarled. “Oh you have got to be fucking kidding me!”

He pressed himself against the wall, and the door kicked open.
Patrick burst through, brandishing a rocket launcher. Karnage
kicked the rocket launcher out of his hands and punched him across
the jaw. Patrick stumbled across the deck and fell to the floor.

Karnage snatched up the rocket launcher and set it on his
shoulder. Patrick rose to his feet, brushing down his uniform. He
looked at Karnage and smiled. “Brilliant. Is there anything you can’t
defend against?”

“No,” Karnage said, and fired the rocket.

There was the slightest shout from Patrick as he was engulfed
in an explosion. Smoke billowed out and filled the deck. Charred
bits of what was probably Patrick flew out in all directions from the
cloud. When the smoke finally cleared, there was nothing left of
Patrick but a blackened, mangled hole in the floor.

“Congratulations, Major,” a voice said behind him. “You win.”

Karnage turned and saw Patrick level a machine gun at him. The
inevitable spray of bullets hit Karnage square in the chest, knocking
him backwards. Stumbling, he fell through the hole in the floor.

Karnage tumbled through the sky, the bullet wounds hot
across his chest. Suddenly, they went cold. Karnage looked down.
Tranquilizer balls dotted his shirt.
What the . . .

The tranquilizers knocked him out before he could finish the
thought.

The world spun in Karnage’s head, twirling violently, like he was
circling down into a drain without end. Then, without warning,
the spinning stopped. The world dipped, and Karnage felt himself
propelled upward. He felt like he was flying, pushing through damp
clouds, bursting out into cold blue sky, flying higher and higher
until he was floating in ice cold black.

Bright pinpricks of consciousness pierced the black. They swelled
in size. Features became visible in the soft circles of light. Black
glasses and mouths like belly slits that curved up slightly at the
corners. The faint outline of chauffeur’s caps resolved themselves
in the gloom. They were all Patrick. Every one of them. They smiled
and leered and stared down at him. The faces swirled around him as
they talked amongst themselves.

“He’s ugly.”

“Much uglier than I would have thought.”

“Are you sure it’s him?”

“It’s him.”

“Amazing.”

“Astounding.”

“How many times has he killed us?”

“A hundred?”

“A thousand.”

“Really?”

“No, nothing like that. You’re exaggerating.”

“He could, though.”

“You’re being silly.”

“I’ve seen him in combat. He’s brilliant.”

“Simply brilliant.”

Karnage tried to focus his mind, to wake him himself up from
this dream. The faces swirled tightly together, merging from
thousands into hundreds.

“He’s trying to focus.”

“Can he see us?”

“He can see us.”

“Look at his eyes.”

“So cold.”

“So calculating.”

“So brilliant.”

Karnage tried to shake the vision away, but it wouldn’t go. The hundred Patricks merged again, down to tens, then to three.
“Who caught him?”

“I did.”

“Good work.”

“Thank you.”

“Bravo.”

“Thank you both.”

Karnage’s eyes slowly came into focus, the three Patricks stubbornly staying apart. They were sharp and clear as day in front
of him. And that’s when he realized it.

There were three of them.

The three Patricks stood in a line in front of Karnage. He was
sitting in a wheelchair. Thick ropes tied him to the chair by his
wrists and ankles. A single set of fluorescent tubes hung from a
fixture overhead. The walls and ceiling were a dull metallic grey. He
was inside a cargo container.

The three Patricks looked down at Karnage. Their faces beamed.

“Congratulations, Major,” the first one said.

“You’ve won the game,” the second one said.

“You’ve earned the prize,” the third one said.

“Would you like to see it?” the second one said.

The first one moved aside. “It would like to see you.”

Behind him was an old man sitting in an electric wheelchair. He
hit the joystick on the armrest with a gnarled hand, and wheeled
forward. The other Patricks stepped back in deference to the old
man. He wore an old Uncle Stanley uniform that hung loosely from
his frame. Medals clanked and gleamed against his chest. Four stars
were affixed to each of his epaulets. A pair of plastic sunglasses
covered half his face. He reached up with shaking hands and pulled
them off, revealing thick lenses affixed to thin wire frames. They
magnified his pale eyes, showing white dots of cataract in the pupils.

“Hello, you,” he said.

“Who the fuck are you?” Karnage said.

The old man smiled. “I was rather hoping introductions wouldn’t
be necessary. That perhaps you would have recognized me without
me having to—well, that was all a long time ago, wasn’t it? We were
the greatest of enemies then. Oh, what a pair we made. But memories
fade with time. Perhaps the name Patrick Mayhew will ring a bell?”

Karnage started. It did ring a bell. It rang a bell so loud and clear
in Karnage’s skull it felt like there was an alarm klaxon blasting
from one temple to the other. Karnage looked at the three Patricks
and back at the old man. Finally, he twigged to the similarities. He
recognized the faces. All of them. All four of them. Karnage’s heart
thumped in his chest.

“General Patrick Mayhew,” he said. “Otherwise known as . . .
General Mayhem.”

The old man shook his head. “I so wish you wouldn’t call me that.
I never cared for that nickname.”

“Seemed a pretty accurate description to me,” Karnage growled.
“What with all the people you killed. The trail of destruction you
left behind.”

Mayhem smiled. “I was good at my job, wasn’t I? You were no
slouch yourself, Major. I lost count of the number of times you
laid waste to my best plans. The number of missions that had to
be scrapped because of a stubborn little
carpy
known as Major
Karnage. Oh, how you vexed me at first. I wanted nothing more
than to see your head on a pike. But after your ingenious escape
from New Baghdad, I found myself taking a shine to you. I surprised
myself with that. There you were, my most despised enemy, the very
embodiment of everything I hated most about the
carpies
, and yet, I
just couldn’t help myself. You were so . . . brilliant.

“Your escapades amused me greatly. Your constant promotions
and demotions—the demotions I loved most of all. You weren’t just
a pain in my posterior. Your own superiors despised you as well.
And yet, they couldn’t get rid of you. You were just too valuable to
them, weren’t you? By my calculations, you should have earned the
rank of Field Marshal five times over in your career. But that never
mattered to you, did it? You didn’t care about your career. You cared
only for the battle ahead, and for the men that served under you. If
the
carpies
hadn’t been in such desperate straits, I’m sure they would
have had you shot a hundred times over—and what a horrible waste
that would have been.

“Whenever I was in the field, I always secretly hoped you’d try
attacking us. How I longed to see you—to meet you face-to-face. To
see for myself the infamous Major Karnage on the battlefield. I was
sure it would be brilliant. But we never got that moment, did we? We
were never allowed to share that spotlight. They brought an end to it
all, didn’t they? Stopped the music, turned up the lights, and told us
all to go home. But they didn’t really let us go home, did they, Major?

“Once the Nagasaki Treaties were signed and World Peace fell
upon the Earth, I knew it was only a matter of time before they
turned their backs on us. I could feel it in the air. It was palpable.
So I slipped away—went into hiding before they could make me
disappear. And I was right: they did make it all disappear.”

“Every battleship,” the first Patrick said.