The Kimota Anthology (38 page)

Carefully Phlay pulled the rags out of the way and pushed his ear into the gap. At first all he heard was the sound of drinking and occasional laughter. Then it all went quiet for a few moments before whispers started up. Phlay didn’t catch the entire conversation but from what he could work out, mainly from the long silence after a heavy bag had been placed on the table, CulluC was being offered a large sum of money to rid the town of something big with lots of teeth! Something that had been terrorising the town and which the soldiers were unable to defeat! Suddenly the voices inside stopped, Phlay thought he heard someone hiss “What’s that?” Phlay quickly replaced the rags and began to climb back down to his seat. Unfortunately it had become quite dark now, he could barely see the branches. Suddenly stepping in to thin air he flailed his arms, grabbing at a thin branch. The branch turned out to be a twig which promptly snapped sending him falling to the ground.

Against the clear sky someone was holding up a twig which seemed to glow in the pale light. It turned out to be himself.

Inside his spinning head two thoughts collided and stuck together. Despite a cracking headache Phlay smiled, a wide beaming grin that would have frightened many folk.

That night when CulluC and the visitors were asleep Phlay took out his knife and the hazel twig and began to whittle.

For the next few days Phlay saw nothing of CulluC, who stayed in his room, either snoring loudly or rattling about as if looking for something. On the first day of the next month at precisely midday CulluC emerged from his quarters, backpack in one hand, staff in the other, dressed for travel. “Phlay! Help me with this!” CulluC shouted.

The mage put his backpack on the floor and pulled out a finely decorated ivory tube. Carefully he undid the fastening and opened the top. “Please master, let me do that for you, I’ll be careful!” said Phlay, taking the tube from CulluC’s hand.

“It’s about time you made yourself useful, you can stay here and clean up this place too, I want it shining when I get back.”

“Yes master, of course I’ll clean every surface.” Phlay swept his hand around for effect. The two thin wands inside the tube dropped to the floor and rolled under the table. Phlay was immediately on the floor picking them up. CulluC roared at him and would have knocked his head off if he hadn’t been so quick.

“Look master, they are all fine, no harm done! Let me position them for you.”

CulluC stared daggers at Phlay for a few moments, then began to calm down. He held out his sleeves to allow Phlay to push the wands into the secret locations up each sleeve. Whilst doing so Phlay noticed a deep red sore under the black ring on CulluC’s finger, he had never dared ask about the ring, the wizard had caught him looking at it once and had flew into a rage. When he had finished CulluC picked up his backpack and Phlay helped him get it on. The mage walked to the door and went out, Phlay following behind. CulluC turned to look at Phlay. “My quarters are guarded by a demon I summoned last night, so you better keep out!” With those few words of farewell the mage set off due west.

It seemed to Phlay that CulluC, although walking normally, covered more ground than he should have with each step, so that he was soon out of sight.

Several days later, in a silent valley some days to the west, a figure picked its way carefully across a boulder strewn stream. CulluC, sensing he was being watched, stopped for a moment and studied the landscape. Up ahead, between two massive rocks he could just make out a large amber eye looking straight at him. He approached a little further, keeping one eye open for sudden movement, until he was at what he considered to be the right distance. Very carefully he climbed onto a large boulder, pushed his staff into his backpack, and stood with his hands on his hips.

“Well, Worm are you going to hide all day?” His powerful voice echoed off the valley walls, startling the few crows that had braved this place. The amber eye disappeared behind the rocks.

A few moments went by, then a giant clawed foot appeared over the top of the rock, followed closely by another. Suddenly a hulking shape leapt onto and over the rock in one shocking movement and tons of scaled skin drove down towards him. In a blur of movement CulluC’s hands pulled the hazel wands out of opposite sleeves and aimed them at the creature’s rapidly approaching head. CulluC tensed himself for the blast and began to speak a word of command. The word died on his lips, astonishment, anger and mortal fear flashed across his face. A single word burst from his mouth and echoed in the gullet of the monstrous beast as its mouth closed around him.

“Flea..!”

Back in the cave, the fire suddenly spluttered and went out.

Phlay had never seen the fire go out before, it had been burning constantly since he had got here. He knew what it meant. Phlay went over and sat on his bed. Pulling out two hazel twigs, he smiled that smile again. CulluC, soon after Phlay’s arrival, had told him a story about a fight he had had with a band of trolls.

CulluC had waited until the trolls were quite close, then pulled out a wand from each sleeve and blasted them to ash. Those wands were now in Phlay’s hand, he could feel the magical energies within.

The two wands so carefully positioned in CulluC’s sleeves were just plain hazel, swapped after the ‘accident’. Of course, if he had handled them he would have known, but he didn’t, not until it was too late.

Many months later a fisherman sat on his upturned boat gutting and cleaning his mornings catch. He was very surprised to find a splendid black ring in the belly of a large eel.

[Orignally published in Kimota 5, Winter 1996]

TROUBLE DOLLS

by Suzanne J. Barbieri

Every night Uncle Ray turned into a monster.

In the early hours, when her mother was sleeping, Anita would hear the creak of the top stair and the soft sigh of her door opening. The Ray Monster would stumble through the darkness towards her and pull back the covers, breathing alcohol fumes into her face.

Anita used to pretend to be asleep, in the hope that he’d leave her alone, but her slack face and limp body hadn’t deterred him, neither had tears and struggles, so now she just stared at him, still and silent, defying him to go on.

He’d close his eyes so he couldn’t see her watching his rank, heavy body crushing her; his dry stubby fingers pawing and poking, and his beery face smothering hers as the minutes ticked by; as if by not seeing, he’d somehow shift the blame.

The Ray Monster said it meant he loved her, and that their love was special and must remain secret. If she ever told anyone, she’d be taken away and locked up because no one would believe that a respectable man like Uncle Ray could love a hateful, ugly child like her. She was very lucky, he told her, to have the love of such a man.

After Uncle Ray had left her, Anita reached under her pillow for the matchbox. She pulled off the lid and took out the six tiny dolls. They were the only toys she had, and she’d saved up for weeks to buy them. She’d wanted a big teddy bear that she could cuddle, but she hadn’t had enough money; hadn’t had enough for any of the toys in the shop, except the Trouble Dolls.

“You tell them your troubles,” the lady in the shop explained, “And they make them go away.”

Talking to the dolls made her feel better. Telling them wasn’t the same as telling a person, so she wasn’t breaking her promise.

“I wish you could make him go,” she said, “he says he loves me, but if that’s love, he can keep it.”

Ray took a beer from the fridge and turned the television on, keeping the volume low so as not to wake Maureen. He couldn’t take another bout of her nagging. They were nothing but trouble, the pair of them, she and that daughter of hers. The house was a tip: clothes draped over the back of a chair waiting to be ironed, dirty dishes piled in the sink. He didn’t know why he stayed; they were lucky to have him, and they knew it. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, then drifted into sleep.

At first he thought it was a power cut. The house was in darkness, and the television was dead. Ray tried to get out of the chair, but his limbs wouldn’t move.

A dream, he reasoned, it must be a dream.

He laid there for some time before he tried to move again. Still his body was paralysed. What kind of dream was this? It felt more like death than sleep. Although he could neither see nor hear, he was aware of time passing: seconds growing into minutes, minutes ticking softly into hours.

Six empty hours passed before the first signs of day came. A strip of light appeared above his head, gradually widening to give Ray a glimpse of white ceiling. Then a hand came towards him: a huge hand; its fingers twice the length of his body. The hand gathered him up and laid him down on something soft and white.

He fell sideways and came face to face with a hideous, motionless form. Its crude features - black dots for eyes, a garish crimson slash of a mouth - were painted onto a mask of tightly wrapped pink wool. Behind the figure were five more, all dressed in bright colours, all staring blankly ahead. Ray screamed, but nothing came out.

The hand picked him up again, squashing him against the figures. Their woolly bodies pressed against his face, fibres filling his nose and mouth, and scratching his eyes which he could not close. He tried to push them away, but his arms would not move.

Once again Anita counted her dolls, touching each one and saying its name aloud.

“Elizabeth, Josie, Meg, Philip, David, John...”

There was an extra one; a little man dressed in grey.

Anita’s face loomed over Ray for a moment before she replaced the lid of the box, sealing in the darkness. He heard her walk out of the room and close the door. There was nothing now but the cloying warmth of the dolls bodies. Clubbed hands pressed intrusively against his body; dry, woollen faces smothered his as the minutes ticked into hours; hours grew into days.

[Originally published in Kimota 5, Winter 1996]

THE EARTHLY PARADISE

by Peter Tennant

Automatic cameras track the rocket down. We watch it on the big screen in the bunker control room. It lands fifty miles to the west in the crater that used to be New Chicago.

“Grell,” I say.

Julie nods. “Someone will have to go for help.”

There are three of us in the bunker, four if you count Lieutenant Ferguson, but the dead don't count, not even now when they far outnumber the living. The Lieutenant had been wounded in a clash with a mutant pack five days ago and had died soon after we found the bunker. We'd put his body in the freezer. Julie's idea. Looters had stumbled on the bunker before us and taken most of the supplies. Ever the practical one, Julie had wanted something kept in reserve for when the food ran out. I wasn't sure if I wanted to still be around when that moment came.

Someone will have to go for help. Pete Bradfield is dying of radiation sickness and Julie won't leave her husband. That means I get the chance to be a hero.

Supplies. I take a compass and two canteens of water. No food. I want to travel light, and besides, the others will need what little is left. I'll live off the land, or starve if I have to. I take my knife and pistol, and the machine gun we found hid in the bunker, plus all the ammunition I can easily carry. I leave the other pistol with Julie, and a spare clip of ammunition. If she has to fight I tell her to make sure that she keeps the last two bullets for herself and Pete. I know Julie is capable of that. I have a bad feeling about all this. Pete will be dead in a couple of days, long before I can bring any help, and then Julie will be alone. The smart thing for us to do would be to put the guy out of his misery and leave together. Two travelling together would stand a much better chance than one on his own. I suggest doing this to Julie, but she won't hear of any such thing. Staying behind is an empty gesture, but she won't see that. Either guilt or some misplaced sense of loyalty keeps her tied to the dying man. It's such a waste. She doesn't love Pete, even if she no longer wants me, I'm certain of that, but she won't leave him. I go to kiss her on the lips as I take my leave, but she deftly turns her head at the last moment, offering a cheek instead, so that what was intended as a gesture of love becomes one merely of friendship. In my heart I don't believe that I'll ever see her again.

The mutants are waiting for me when I come up out of the bunker, four of them ranged in a half-circle round the opening. They don't stand a chance. They are slow and cumbersome, not much of a threat in spite of their size. I gun them down before they can even move. I have never killed anyone before, but I feel no regret. They are not human. They are mutants, survivors of the great plague that swept our world in the days before The Conflagration, altered beyond all recognition. Killing such misshapen creatures is no more an immoral act than the slaying of a rabid dog. I step on one accidentally. My foot sinks through his rotten flesh, like treading in shit.

I've been walking for twenty minutes or more when I hear the sound of gunfire from behind. Someone is screaming. I double back at a run. Mutants are all around the bunker area, more than thirty of them. The four I killed must have been scouts for the pack. I should've known there'd be more of them. Julie is in the thick of it, naked and hog tied, covered in blood. I can't see what they are doing to her but she keeps screaming. No sign of Bradfield. He's probably dead and better off out of it. I feel so helpless. I can't take them all on, there are just too many. I should've insisted that Julie come with me, but there is no time for such recriminations now. There is only one thing I can do for her now. I fire over the mutants' heads and they scatter, momentarily giving me a clear line on the naked woman in their midst. For a long moment I study Julie's face, caught in the crosshairs of my gun, and then I pull the trigger. The explosive shell strikes her right between the eyes and detonates on impact. She dies instantly.

They give up the chase after half an hour. Mutants have no stomach for the long haul. They tire quickly and lose interest. As soon as I can afford to stop for a moment I strip off my uniform and bury it. It won't do to get caught wearing army drill. Julie might have been spared if she hadn't been in uniform. The mutants hate the military. Back before The Conflagration there were rumours that the plague bacteria responsible for their condition was developed in a military laboratory. I smear my naked body with dirt for protective coloration. Despite the tragedy of Julie's death I feel a small thrill of anticipation. It feels good to have a purpose again and to be free of that damned bunker at last, breathing air that isn't stale from recycling, with the hot sun on my back and the comforting slap of the leather holster against my side as I walk. 

I cover only five miles that first afternoon, but it seems like much more. I am out of condition and the forced march takes its toll. Blisters form on my bare feet and all the muscles in my legs ache. Before the day's end each step is jarring agony. Towards evening I stumble on the remains of a house. A miracle to find a building still standing in the midst of all this desolation. Something, an energy weapon of some kind I'd imagine, has sheared off the top of the house leaving only the ground floor. The walls will provide me with shelter for the night. There is plenty of broken furniture to serve as kindling and I have matches taken from the bunker, but I am in two minds about whether to light a fire. It will keep any wild animals at bay, but could well attract other kinds of trouble. The bitter cold decides for me. I sit down with my back to a wall, the machine gun cradled in my arms like a child, and fall asleep as soon as the fire has caught, its mellow warmth wrapping around me. When I wake the sun has risen and the fire has gone out. The traps I'd set the night before are all empty. My stomach feels like a bottomless pit.

Later that morning I am attacked by a wild dog. The beast must be mad with hunger to attack a creature so much larger than itself. It springs up out of nowhere and is on me before I can use my gun. We go down together and roll over and over in the dirt, its teeth snapping bare inches away from my face. I get my hand on a rock and pound away at its skull until the dog is dead. I am bleeding in a dozen places where its teeth and claws have left their mark, but only lightly. More serious is the loss of half my water. One of the canteens has been punctured in the struggle, and I can do nothing except stand and watch, shaking with anger, as the precious fluid drains off into the parched ground. I cannot even eat the dog. Its coat is moulting in places to reveal the ugly blue welts of radiation sickness.

In the afternoon I sight a large pack of mutants, perhaps as many as a hundred, but I am able to give them a wide berth. I find treasure trove as well, a rapid fire laser rifle that appears to be in perfect working condition. Far superior to my own machine gun and no ammunition to carry either. Built to a Grell design it has its own compact generator. The Grell had been our friends and shared the secrets of their technology with us. We could have built an earthly paradise with the Grell science, but all we'd done was use their knowledge to fashion better weapons of destruction. I find the remains of the rifle's owner a few feet away, his back set firmly against a rock outcropping. Wild animals have stripped him to the bone; only a few shreds of cloth and flesh are left. I use the laser rifle to destroy my machine gun so that no-one will be able to use it against me.

I kill a snake. It lies on a rock, basking in the afternoon sun, blissfully unaware of its peril until my laser beam slices it in two. The separate halves twitch madly, then are still. The snake is fat. I can barely get my hand round its circumference. Mouth watering in anticipation I gather up the brushwood to start a fire and roast the snake slowly on a makeshift spit. The tender white meat tastes surprisingly good and I have no trouble keeping it down. That night, for the first time since leaving the bunker, I go to sleep with a full belly.

My water is nearly gone. The canteen makes a hollow sloshing sound as I walk. There has to be clean water in this desolate land, but I have no idea where it is to be found. For the past hour someone has been following me. I can see a figure on the horizon, trying hard to stay concealed and failing laughably. It has to be either another person in search of the Grell or a mutant mad enough to hunt alone. I have no strength to run or fight. I climb the next rise then double back to lie in wait behind scattered rocks, hunched over my laser rifle. It is a woman. For a moment I believe it is Julie, risen from the dead to follow me, but then the illusion shatters. The woman is naked except for a scrap of cloth between her legs. All bone and skin, tanned brown by the sun. Large breasts that swing from side to side as she walks. Most of her hair has fallen out. She carries a knife and a sling. I take all this in with a glance. She sees me and realises that I have the drop on her, so stands still, waiting for me to decide what will happen next. I rise to my feet and clamber down the scree. The woman's eyes never leave me. There is a stone in the sling hanging by her side. A moment's hesitation on my part will be the only opportunity that she needs. I keep my rifle trained on her. I tell her that I mean her no harm and ask her name. She opens her mouth and points. Her front teeth have been knocked out, her tongue torn loose. Some of the Fundamentalist groups who were so prominent in the years before The Conflagration used to mutilate their women in such a manner.

We travel together. Companionship is welcome, even that of a mute. I decide to call her Rip. I once owned a dog that answered to that name, a King Charles spaniel. In many ways Rip is like a dog herself. Faithful and obedient. Eager to please. She sniffs the air and leads me to a water hole. We wash and drink, and I fill the canteen. That evening we huddle together for warmth. Against my will I am aroused. It has been so long without a woman. I grope for her in the dark, and she responds. My hands caress her breasts and belly, work the rag away from her crotch. Our lips press together and my tongue invades her mouth, rubbing against the stump of her own. My fingers delve between her legs and find only a hard pad of scar tissue where her clitoris should be. I feel revulsion and instinctively push her away, fighting down the urge to vomit. Wild with anger she attacks me, fingers gouging for my eyes. I knock her aside. We tumble together on the ground and when we stop rolling I am uppermost. Her legs are wrapped round me and my painfully swollen cock is buried deep in her cunt. We are like two animals, thrusting at each other in a white fury. I nip and knead her bruised flesh between my fingers. Her nails rake my back. I sink my teeth into her shoulder, taste the blood in my mouth. There is no tenderness, only need to cause pain and to feel alive. I seem to take forever to come, the sperm shooting out of me in thick strands. She bucks under me all the while, moaning and grunting like a pig. Then I am falling off of her, the world turning madly before my eyes as the stars crash and collide in the night sky overhead.

“Carol.” Her name is Carol. She traces it in the dirt for me with her finger. A Grell flier passes overhead. We signal but they do not see us. It is good to know that the Grell are still taking an interest in the human race, have not abandoned us to the consequences of our own folly. There may yet be reason to feel hope.

We go a day without food. Then another. And on the third day we find a cluster of houses, standing, untouched by the holocaust. It is like stepping back in time. There is a child playing on the lawn in front of one of the houses, a boy of twelve or thirteen. Our appearance startles him. Carol gives chase. He eludes her outstretched arms, but she manages to drive him back in my direction. I dive at the boy's feet as he runs by and bring him down. Carol is upon him and rips open his throat with one expert slash of her knife before I can do or say anything to stop her. I punch her full in the face. She sprawls on her back and I stand over her glaring with anger. One hand raised to staunch the flow of blood from her nose she looks up at me. Her eyes convey hurt, lack of understanding. She points at the boy, then at her mouth, smiles and rubs her belly. I feel sick. She disgusts me. I want to be alone. I turn and walk off, not bothering to look back to see if she is following.

I search the houses thoroughly but can find nothing. No more people and no food. There is something eerie about this place. Wandering through the rooms I have the feeling that they have just been vacated, that people have stepped out moments before my arrival and will return after my departure. The beds have all been made, the tables have all been set, there are logs piled in the fireplaces. This moment is unreal, a mere ripple in the flow of events. I go back to Carol as darkness falls. She has started a fire in one of the houses. When I go inside I find her trying to hack off the boy's arms with her knife. She has stripped him. He looks healthy and well fed. If there was food here for him then there could have been food for us too. The boy might have told us where it was hidden. Instead there is this stupid waste, of human life and knowledge both. Carol wants me to help with the laser but I ignore her importuning. I sit down in a corner and close my eyes. Soon I am asleep. When I wake the air is thick with the aroma of meat cooking. Carol has an arm on a spit over the fire. It smells delicious. She cuts off a strip of flesh and offers it to me. I hesitate for a moment. My stomach aches with hunger and her eyes are so imploring. Finally I take the meat and pop it into my mouth. It tastes like pork, but perhaps that is just my imagination. I chew and chew but I cannot swallow. I have to spit it out, then rinse my mouth with water. Carol looks at me, bewilderment in her eyes. She eats her own portion with such obvious relish that just to look at her makes me feel sick. She licks the grease from her fingers and wipes them dry on her loincloth, then nuzzles up next to me. Her hand reaches for my cock, but I push it away. I will never feel desire for her again. She disgusts me. I cannot get the image of her killing the boy out of my mind. I turn my back on her and go to sleep.