Toxicity (20 page)

“How do you know that?”

Lumar pointed with her sharpened
staff. “The bubbling pan on the stove.”

“You call that a stove?”

“I call it a radiator grille, but
hey, who am I to criticise a mad car-gobbling lunatic?”

They moved into the house. “Hello?”
called Lumar. “Anybody home? We were just passing through; any help with
directions would be most helpful.”

Svool sniggered, and Lumar gave
him a sharp look. “What?” she hissed.

“Any help with directions would
be most helpful.”

“And?”

“Your lack of poetry stabs me
through the heart.”

“It’ll be my sharpened staff that
stabs you through the heart in a minute.”

“I bet you say that to all the
boys.”

Lumar stopped, and glanced
around, and then stared at Svool. “You really are a dick. The minute you get
within spitting distance of a bed, you start flirting again. There are possible
hostiles
in here, and you’re making jokes about sex.”

“Ahh, that’s because all life is
a joke...”

“And all sex is a joke?”

“That isn’t what I was going to
say.”

“Svool, shut the fuck up, will
you?”

Lumar stalked off, checking the
other rooms were clear, whilst Svool poked around the chamber containing the
stove. There was a bed in the corner, covered with thin blankets, all of them
the kind of muddy brown of once-were colours, used and washed and soiled for
decades. There were lots of holes, some of which had been carefully repaired. A
single wooden chair, one leg shorter than the other three, so it wobbled when
Svool leant against it, stood next to a table made from... Svool squinted.
Beaten-flat food tins which had been flattened and pop-riveted together. It
looked like something that had been through a crusher. Still, mused Svool, at
least I suppose it’s functional.

He moved to the stove, where the
pan bubbled, and traced rubber hosing to a gas canister. He turned the canister
off, and stared into the pan. It was full of beans and... eyeballs.

“Urgh!” Svool leapt backwards as
if shot, and he brandished his jewelled sword and looked around the room,
carefully, searching every corner, as if some hidden dwarf might leap out at
any moment.

“Lumar, I think we should go. I
don’t like it here.”

“Just wait a minute...”

“No, Lumar, whoever was here was
cooking beans and
eyeballs.”

“What?”

“I have to say, I am accustomed
to far more civility than this!”

Lumar emerged, and she was
pushing something into the inside pocket of her shirt.

“What you got there?”

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing.”

“It’s something. Feminine.
Private.”

Svool looked at her aghast. “You
found something feminine and private - in
this
shithole?”

“Just leave it!”

Lumar stalked from the building,
and Svool followed, still checking for the occupant, still shivering at the
thought of beans and eyes.

As they stepped out, Zoot spun
into view. “There’s something over here I think you should see.”

They followed the PopBot, around
another corner of weirdly-repaired houses, many containing plates and bowls,
old bottles and flapping trashbags as part of their building construction. Zoot
led them down a narrow street, then turned right onto another. Here, the
buildings were leaning at crazy angles; some had actually collapsed, leaving
nothing but piles of rubble. There was a fetid, stale aroma in the air, like
something had died under the stones.

“Down here,” said Zoot.

They followed him, noses
wrinkled, even by the standards of Toxic World. Then they came to a clearing,
and they stopped, and they stared.

“What, exactly, am I looking at?”
said Lumar.

“It’s cars, obviously,” said
Svoolzard.

“Ye-ees, I can
see
that.
But
what
am I looking at?”

There was a large clearing,
leading off into broken jungle. And arranged at the edge of the village from
which they had emerged was a horseshoe of broken, bent, smashed, damaged,
rusted, battered cars and vans. Their panels were buckled and dented, broken
and sheared. The car arc numbered perhaps sixty or seventy vehicles in total.
All the headlamps were smashed, as were all the windscreens, except for a
couple which were simply holed and webbed with cracks. They had been peppered
with gunfire. They had obviously been here for some time, because the jungle
had, to some extent, taken over in patches, vines and creepers and ferns
winding their way up through battered, crumpled bodywork.

“Is it a salvage yard?” said Svool
eventually, for many of the cars were stacked two high. Some had obviously
started out that way, but in places the top vehicle had fallen to the ground,
leaving a gap like a missing tooth.

“No,” said Lumar, slowly, looking
behind herself, then around. For some reason she’d got the creeps. “No. This is
something different.”

“It appears to be a protective
shield,” said Zoot, his digital voice soothing; the voice of reason in a world
of chaos.

“Like a wall?” said Svool.

“Yes. A barricade.”

“A barricade against what?” said
Svool, unease growing.

Lumar had moved forward, and was
fingering several of the holes. “These are bullet holes. 8mm. Whatever was
firing them, and there’s a hell of a lot of holes, was coming from the jungle.”

“So an attack, then?” said Svool
as the scene clicked neatly into place. Attackers from the jungle; a barricade
to protect the village from attackers. But who was attacking who? And more
importantly, where had they gone?

“You tell me, sheriff,” said
Lumar.

“No longer funny.”

“Was it ever?”

“I am beginning to seriously miss
my academic comrades aboard the Titan-Class Culture Cruiser,
The Literati.
I
miss their wit and comradeship. I miss the poetry, song, literature and
sculpture. But most of all, I miss the...”

“Drugs?” said Lumar.

“Actually, I was going to say
security.
Security in which to work, in which to create, in which to
be
creative.
I recognise now that I was in a bubble, and that my bubble burst during the
crash - quite literally. I had forgotten what the real world was like. A world
of hardship and pettiness and pointlessness. I have been a pampered - although
deserving and much loved - literary genius. I have so many fans I need to
please; and I can’t do that whilst I’m crashed on this shithole!”

“Come back down to Earth, Captain
Kirk, we’re talking about this place, this shit, these bullet holes. We’re
talking about what could have happened
here,
and the possible proximity
of possible bad dudes. You know, ones with guns?”

“Ach, tsch and nibble,” snapped
Svoolzard, his eyes clouded, his face hard, and Lumar clenched her jaw muscles
as she watched his arrogance return with a vengeance. He was away, in his mind,
away in another place; a place of dreams and memories, a reservoir of self-love
and narcissistic extravagance. How quickly he had forgotten being punched and
smacked and clawed at; how swiftly the cannibals and feral jungle cats had
slipped his mind, along with the bottom burns and wearing of fern flip-flops.
It was a terrible and saddening thing for Lumar to watch; for it did indeed
mean Svoolzard had a brain like runny butter dripping from his ear holes. “That’s
a lot of idiot talk. Look at the cars! Rusted to bugger and buggery. And with
the grass and weeds growing between the alloy wheels. Look. Just look. You’re
being paranoid, woman! You’re being a total flapping histrionic psychedelic
love-honey.”

“What?”

“Hey!” Svool hummed a few bars.
And sang:

“You’re
a flapping, histrionic, psychedelic love honey,

Hmtnmm,
mmm,

Flying
on her way to Mars,

Hmmmm,
mmm,

I
know you really want my money,

Ooooh,
ooh,

And
a slice of all my superstar cars,

Yeeeah,
yeah.”

He stopped. Looked at Lumar. She
was staring at him. Hard.

“What?” he said, reddening a
little.

“Fuckwit,” she said.

“Hey! Come on, stop being a prize
turkey idiot at a village gala for idiot turkeys. There
are
no
mysterious attacking gun-toting enemies bearing hot an’ blazing six-shooters!
There are no hordes of ravenous jungle attackers intent on our current demise!
Just relax! Chill! Chillax, bitch! Stop being a parsnip!”

~ * ~

THERE
CAME THE creak of leather, and boots hit the dust hard as a heavy rider
dismounted. There came a hawk, a gurgling of phlegm, then a spit.

There was a metallic screech,
then a ratcheting sound; then another curious sound, of spinning, and grating
metal, like a heavy flywheel; then a soft
clang.

There came a patting sound, like
a heavy hand in a leather glove whacking the flanks of something big; big and
made from metal. There was a snort. Steam ejected from nostrils like a kettle
boiling oil.

“Whoa boy,” came a low, gravelly
voice, a voice so low and gravelly you wouldn’t believe it was real.

There came another snort, then a
stomp of a metal hoof, then a whinny. And a tiny, tiny sound. Like a
ticka
ticka ticka.
Then a
clonk.

The sun was high in the sky, now,
casting its eerie green light across the jungle. The street was deserted,
except for the one rider and his mount, which creaked and groaned, and made
strange metal sounds. It could only be described as a horse because it occupied
the same physical wireframe. It appeared to be made from old, rusted metal
panels, hand-beaten to a tube trellis frame. The creature had a gangly look,
like most of its legs weren’t put on quite straight, or were indeed even sturdy
enough to support the bulbous bulk of the metal creature’s rotund body. Rivets
lined flanks like bullet holes. The mane was made from a mad tangle of razor
wire. The equine head was long and brutal and sharp, ending in fangs like
knives and watched over by eyes like boiling blood oil.

The metal horse snorted again,
and turned as more hoofbeats drummed down the street. There were six more
riders, all clinging to their savage metal animals and wearing a collection of
thick pants and shirts, and long leather coats. They wore wide-brimmed hats to
shield their eyes from the sun. They carried guns at their hips, and each man
had dark eyes, a hard face, narrow lips and a ten-day beard.

They reined in around the first,
who was broad shouldered and cruel, with a scar from eye to chin. He was
chewing on a fat cigar, and he watched the other six riders dismount, and spit,
and rub at stubble. They all appeared weary, but they watched their leader with
bright intelligent eyes.

“Are you right?”

“Yes,” said the man with the scar,
and spat again. “Somebody
has
been here.” His nostrils seemed to twitch,
as if scenting the air. “Somebody has entered the Sheriff’s Office. Somebody
has claimed the sheriff’s uniform and badge. So you know what that means, boys?”