Major Karnage (5 page)

“You got the cojones, sir!”

“You got that right, Velasquez.”

“You’ve got it in you, sir!”

“Amen to that, Koch.”

“I’ve got faith in you, Major.”

“Is that you, Heckler?”

“You bet your ass it is, John.”

Karnage grinned. Now he knew he was hearing things. Old
Heckler hadn’t spoken a word in years. Not since that day in
Kandahar, the worst day of—

The War!

Battle and bullets and flames! Bombers buzzing as they fly overhead.
Their payloads whining as they hurtle towards the scorched earth. The
night sky strobin’ and flashin’ and pulsin’ like a goddamn disco inferno.
Debris and dirt and mud and pain and screams flyin’ in all directions.
Forward march, soldiers! Forward! Take ’em all! Shoot and fire and kill
and die-die-die—

Karnage slapped himself. The Sanity Patch crooned “Citrus
Blast” as the visions of battle faded, returning to the black expanse
of starry night.

A single flickering light refused to clear from the sky. Karnage
stared at it, trying to will it out of existence. It disappeared. Then, a
second later, it flashed back. It didn’t look anything like an explosion
or muzzle flash. In fact, it looked more like—

Letters! Pink and green neon letters winking in and out of
existence. Were they real? Or was he finally losing his mind?
Karnage squinted, trying to see them better. The flickering letters
coalesced into words. “Upchuck Charlie’s. Good Eats!”

Slowly, ever so slowly, the road curved towards the sign. If he’d
had the energy, Karnage would have cheered. Step after agonizing
step, the sign grew larger before him. His body ached more than
ever. On some primal level it believed it was already there. That the
mere sight of this sign was salvation enough. He could stop fighting
now. Lie down, close his eyes, and—

Karnage let out a short grunt as he jerked himself forward.
Keep
moving, mister! You ain’t saved yet! You got a ways to go! Don’t give up on
me now! Lift those knees!

Karnage’s feet stepped off the road and onto the smooth
pavement of the parking lot. The diner was a dark shadow of chrome
and mirrored glass beneath the flickering sign. A smaller neon sign
hung in the double glass doors of the entrance: OPEN.

A feeling of relief washed over Karnage. Just a few more steps,
and he’d be back in the welcoming glow of civilization. His eyes
caught a second sign hung beneath the OPEN sign. “No shirt, no
shoes, no service!”

Karnage checked his reflection in the glass. His eyes were sunken.
His cheeks hollow. The stubble on his face was thick. Karnage
buckled up the straitjacket and tucked it into his pyjama pants. He
ran his fingers through his hair a couple of times, trying to work
out the knots. There wasn’t much he could do about the slippers. He
hoped there was enough of them left to constitute shoes. He braced
the golf club against his shoulder, thrust out his chest, mustered
what he could of his military brace, and marched into the diner.

Inside, the diner was bright and gleaming. All chrome and
glass shining off a polished floor of black and white checkerboard
linoleum. A blue-haired waitress—whose name tag proclaimed her
to be Darla—was sitting at a booth, stuffing napkins into dispensers.
A grime-covered short order cook mopped behind the counter. The
bell above the door tinkled as Karnage walked in. They looked up
and stared. Feeling conspicuous, Karnage gave his straitjacket one
last smoothing down before mustering enough saliva to speak.

“Evening,” Karnage said.

“Evening,” Darla said.

“Mind if I sit down?” Karnage asked.

The short order cook loudly cleared his throat. Darla looked at
him. He shook his head madly. Darla shook her head back, as if to ask
if she wanted him to say no. The cook nodded. Darla nodded back, as
if to ask if she should say yes. The cook shook his head. While they
shook and nodded their heads, Karnage fished the crumpled wad of
Dabneybills from his waistband and held them out. “I can pay,” he
said.

Darla looked at the money, then back at the short order cook. He
shook his head again.

Darla broke the silence. “We can’t afford to be picky, Charlie.”

The cook thrust a dirty hand towards Karnage. “For gawdsake,
look what he’s wearing!”

“The sign says no shirt, no shoes, no service,” Darla said. “Doesn’t
say nothing about no straitjackets.”

Charlie
scowled.
Darla
scowled
back.
They
traded
facial
expressions back and forth, a silent argument raging through the
air. Finally, Darla launched a particularly vicious raised eyebrow,
and Charlie crumpled.

“He pays up front.” The cook scowled and retreated to the kitchen.

Karnage slid into the nearest booth. Darla gave him a menu. “You
want something to drink, sweetheart?”

“Pitcher of water,” Karnage pulled a couple bills free of his wad
and placed them on the table. “Orange juice. Salt. Sugar. Baking
powder.”

Darla looked up from her notepad. “Baking powder?”

Karnage nodded.

“Okay.” Darla picked up the bills and disappeared into the kitchen.
Karnage looked over the menu. Everything on it was branded with
Dabby Tabby. Dabby Burgers. Dabby Fries. Dabby Pizza. Dabby Ice
Cream. Karnage shut his eyes. This cat was making his head throb.

Darla returned with his drinks and a small saucer full of baking
powder. She nodded to the condiments on the table. “Salt and sugar
are right there, sweetheart.”

Karnage dumped the orange juice and baking powder into the
pitcher. He poured in a handful of sugar and a sprinkling of salt
after it. He mixed it up and drank straight from the pitcher. He
fought the urge to gulp and took slow sips. He didn’t want to puke
it back up again.

“That drink got a name?” Darla asked.

Karnage wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “No.”

“You decide what you want yet?”

“You got anything on this menu that don’t got a cat on it?”

Darla pointed to a peeling sticker at the base of the menu. “Well,
there’s the zardburger. I don’t recommend it, though. It’s what puts
the upchuck in Upchuck Charlie’s.”

“Gimme two of ’em.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Darla took the menu and
disappeared into the back.

Karnage took another swig from his pitcher and closed his eyes.
He’d done it. The desert had tried to kill him, and he’d given it the
finger. He’d made it this far, he could make it the rest of the way.
He’d find out what kind of supplies they had here before he headed
out again. Get himself a proper canteen and some desert survival
gear. Even a plastic knife was better than none at all. He had money.
He could resupply this time and do it right. Now all he had to do was
find Camp Bailey, and he was—

An eerie static burst into Karnage’s ears. There was something
about it that caused the hairs on his neck to stand on end. Something
not quite right about it. Something downright . . .

. . .
squiggly.

“INCOMING!” Karnage dove under the table, covering his head
with his hands, waiting for the first wave of the alien attack.

It didn’t come.

“Are . . . are you all right, sweetheart?”

Karnage looked out from under the table. Darla stood beside the
radio, her finger on the knob. She turned it off. The static went
with it.

Karnage picked himself up from under the table. “Did that sound
. . . squiggly to you?”

“Squiggly how?”

“Never mind.” Karnage sat back down. Darla gave a half smile
and quickly disappeared back into the kitchen. She came out just
long enough to serve Karnage his food, made a great display of
looking very busy, then disappeared back into the kitchen.

Karnage tore off a chunk of zardburger and did his best to chew.
She thinks you’re crazy, you damn fool. And maybe she’s got a point.
Jumpin’ at the damn static from the radio. What the hell kinda soldier
are you?

But the static
had
sounded squiggly. At least to Karnage’s ears.
But had it been the right kind of squiggle? And what angle had it
come in on?

Cookie would have known. But Cookie couldn’t help him now.
Nor could Koch. Or Heckler. Or Velasquez. He was all that was left
of his once mighty platoon.

Karnage worried a gristly bit of zardburger between his teeth.
A
one-man army, huh? Sounds like a goddamn hero. You don’t fancy yourself
a hero, do you, soldier? We both know that heroes don’t do nothing but get
folks killed.

Karnage’s ears picked up a new bit of white noise. There was
nothing squiggly about it. It was the high-pitched buzz of an engine.
He looked out the window. A pair of lights crested the horizon.
They floated down the long strip of highway, weaving back and
forth. There was something in the way they moved that put the
hairs on the back of his neck on end. They weaved across the road
like they owned it, and were hoping like hell somebody would try
and challenge them on it. A pair of smaller red lights flashed to life
below the larger white ones.

Karnage scowled. “Cops.” He pulled the golf club up against his
thigh.

The flashing lights pulled into the parking lot. They were
attached to bikes hovering inches above the ground on spheres
like those on Flaherty’s car. The cops floated to a stop right outside
Karnage’s window, their beams shining in his face. Two helmeted
silhouettes were just visible beyond the glare of the lights. The
lights flicked off, and the silhouettes dismounted. They stood at the
window, looking in at Karnage. Karnage ignored them. He took a
bite of his zardburger and pretended to enjoy it. The figures moved
from the window and headed for the door.

The bell above the double doors chimed.

Karnage kept a discreet eye on the cops through the reflection
in the window. They had kept their helmets on. The mirrored visors
masked their faces. The helmets were stylized Dabby Tabby heads.
Stubby ears jutted from the top. A nose and a pair of eyes were
sculpted into the helmet just above the mirrored visor. Their boots
made a sharp
clack-stomp
against the linoleum. The badges on their
chests were sculpted out of Dabby’s silhouette, and embroidered in
gold thread. The
DC
logo in its centre bore a striking resemblance
to the “DRINK DC COLA” sign hanging above the counter. They
stopped in front of Karnage’s booth. Karnage saw a gloved thumb
rubbing the end of his night stick.

“Hi there,” the taller of the two cops said.

Karnage tore off another chunk of zardburger, chewed slowly,
and swallowed.

The fatter cop put a hand on his night stick. “Hey. My partner’s
talkin’ to you.”

Karnage picked up the pitcher and drank. He took large
exaggerated swallows. He tilted his head back and drained the
pitcher while he wrapped his fingers around the golf club nestled by
his thigh. He placed the empty pitcher back on the table and wiped
his mouth.

“Hey!” Bad cop smashed the pitcher off the table. “I’m talkin’ to
you!”

Good cop placed a hand on bad cop’s shoulder. “Take it easy
there, Harvey.”

Karnage looked straight at bad cop’s mirrored visor. “You best
listen to Princess there, Harvey.”

Bad cop shrugged good cop’s hand off his shoulder. “You hear
what he just called you?!”

“I did,” Princess’s tone remained neutral.

Harvey’s face went red. “You gonna just stand there and take it?!”

“We’re going to do this like the captain said.”

“He’s not
my
captain.”

“He’s
our
captain until brass says otherwise.”

“Oh yeah? Well
fuck
brass!”

Karnage grinned to himself.
Maybe their good cop/bad cop routine
is more than just an act.

“Jesus, Harvey! Not now.”

“Yeah, Harvey. Learn your place,” Karnage said.

Harvey’s face went purple. He pointed a gloved finger at Karnage.
“You need to learn a thing or two about respect, old man.”

“Care to give me a demonstration?” Karnage said.

Harvey grinned. “If you insist.” He went for his night stick.

Karnage was quicker. His fist came up with the golf club and
smashed Harvey across the face. The visor crumpled inward. The
golf club shouted “Fat Shot” while the Sanity Patch crooned “Peachy
Keen.” Harvey grunted and staggered backwards, blood oozing from
the crumpled visor. He dropped to the floor.

“Harvey!” Princess grabbed his taser and fired. Karnage slid
under the table. The taser barbs slammed into the bench leather
inches above his head. Karnage shoved himself out from under the
table, slamming Princess in the shins. Princess fell. Karnage leaped
atop him and smashed his helmet against the floor. The Sanity
Patch crooned “Tangy Orange” as Karnage bodily hefted Princess up
and launched him through the plate glass window. Princess’s scream
was drowned out by the sound of shattering glass.

The Sanity Patch buzzed again. “Warning. Sanity Level upgraded
to Sharp Cheddar. Please refrain—”

“Shut up. I’m trying to hear something.” Karnage strained his
ears. There, just beyond the soothing tones of the Sanity Patch,
Karnage could make out more high-pitched buzzing. This time
mixed with sirens.

Karnage pulled Harvey’s gun from its holster and vaulted
through the shattered window. In the distance, he could see a flood
of flickering red and white lights barrelling towards him on the
highway.