Defiled Earth and other tales Page 14

  The sound of hooves pounding in the iron-hard valley rose on the next breath of the wind.

  “Comin’ in from the north,” said Scrim. “Must be Foodstamp.”

  “Crazy man. He’s forever riding like a hellion.”

  “Faster than a greased turd out’ve an oiled arsehole. He’s driven by hunger. Probably smelt that boar-meat cooking from the other side o’ the canyon.”

  Foodstamp rode a white stallion. It wasn’t a handsome beast. Bones could see its ribs poking through the hide. The horse’s breath came in short wheezes and the emaciated legs looked like they could hardly support its own weight, never mind that of a rider. The man himself was Nubian black, but his build matched that of the horse. He was naked except for a loincloth, his fluid-swollen belly protruding over the top in the advanced stages of protein deficiency.

  “How’s it hanging dude?” said Bones.

  “Many apologies for my lateness. Engendering crop failure in Central Africa is more of a bore than it used to be. Drought-resistant maize has seen to that.”

  “Quit moaning hinney and get some of this grub down ye,” said Scrim. “Looks like ye could do with a square meal. When was the last time ye ate?”

  “More recently than Bones here.”

  Scrim and Foodstamp squawked like crows.

  “Hey. Don’t get all heavy with the sarcasm dudes,” Bones said. “Maybe I’ll feed this chop to your horse. He probably deserves it more than you anyway.” He grudgingly served up a plate of victuals, taking in the aroma as his only source of nourishment. Scrim offered the horses some hay. They chomped on the coarse roughage hungrily, snorting their pleasure.

  “Won’t be long before you’ll have to turn your attention to California,” said Bones to Foodstamp, once the Nubian had polished off his plateful.

  “You may be right there. Global warming’s accelerating, and I don’t see an end to the water shortage.” He sopped the remains of the pork marinade up with a piece of flatbread. “Things could still be moving faster though. I need to impress Hex in this next quarter. My average is dipping dramatically.”

  “Don’t over-egg it my man. It’s a finely balanced art,” said Bones.

  “True. But I’m nudging opinions to the right for the next election. There are more climate change deniers in the Republican movement.”

  Scrim rummaged in his pack. “Syph’s cutting it fine,” he said. “When did Hex say he’d be here?”

  “Twenty one hundred hours,” replied Bones “and he’s never late.”

  “Unlike the final curtain,” said Foodstamp. “Man, this must be the most overdue final reckoning in history.”

  “It’s supposed to be the only final reckoning dude.”

  “Long may it linger.”

  “Speaking of which— “ Scrim upturned a metal tray onto a flat rock and slapped down a deck of cards. “It’s time for our usual game.”

  “Oh man, I’m done with this shit, dude.” Bones stretched until his joints cracked. “We all know the cards each of us is holding anyway.”

  “That’s naw the point. We need to practice our poker faces.”

  Scrim’s statement set Foodstamp roaring with laughter again. “Ha! Bones has a permanent poker face. I’ve seen more subtle expressions on Charles Bronson.”

  “Dude—sarcasm.” Bones kicked up the sand in irritation. “Anyway, you never let us play poker, Scrim.”

  “That’s right. Far too clichéd. Now, three card brag is the game o’ warriors.”

  Foodstamp sighed. “Get on with it then, Jock. Deal them out.”

  A minor rock fall announced the arrival of the last horseman. The South exit to the valley could only be traversed over an incline littered with shattered sandstone, and the ebony horse nearly unseated its rider as it stumbled on the slabs.

  “Whoa, fuck. What’s that stench?” Scrim pulled a neckerchief up over his nose as he moaned his complaint.

  Hey dude, get downwind of us,” Bones shouted at the lump of flesh which was Syph.

  “Bugger you all with a rusty spike,” he said, sliding off his mount like a sack of sand. “Is there any of that scran left for me?” His voice sounded like the lid of a funeral crypt, grinding stonily across its base. Every word seemed to require a monumental effort, just to expel it from his mouth.

  As the last horseman stepped into the flickering light, the ravages waged on his body were plain to see. Blood oozed from every orifice while suppurating wounds poured pus in a puce torrent.

  “Och, ye’re more disgusting than the last leper in hell,” said Scrim. “What have ye given yerself this time?”

  “Hemorrhagic fever. I’ve really outdone myself. Death toll’s running at over ten thousand.” Syph smiled wearily in self-congratulation.

  “But dude, no one said you had to catch the disease yourself,” Bones said.

  “I like to immerse myself in my craft. I have to feel the pain of the suffering thousands. It makes the experience more ... exquisite.”

  “You’re one sick motherfucker,” growled Scrim.

  “You’ve just given me a far-out thought man,” Bones said. “The Head Honcho has a thing about his emissaries sharing human’s pain. Remember Jeshua?”

  Foodstamp drew a card from the discard pile. “The guy with the messianic complex?”

  “Yeah,” continued Bones. “He took the pain and sins of the world during that heavy crucifixion scene. The Head Honcho really laid into him.”

  “But he got his reward, didn’t he? Call, by the way.” Bones laid out two deuces and a queen in response to Foodstamp’s play.

  “You made that too obvious, dude. You better leave the talking to us when Hex gets here. He’ll read you like a scroll.”

  “Reward?” said Scrim, dealing out another hand. “If you call sitting at the right hand of Mr Anger Management a reward. Jeshua was a greater masochist than Syph here.

  “Oh, be assured,” said Syph, chewing on his chop. “My motives will always be sado-masochistic.”

  “I bet the Storyteller wishes he’d come up with a plot like that. Giving humanity a hope that can never be fulfilled is right up Head Honcho’s street,” Foodstamp said.

  Bones threw in another runechip. “Yeah. The Teller has some great tunes and even greater tales, but that collection of sixty six short stories is still the all-time best seller.”

  Scrim leaned forward conspiratorially. “A shame so many on our side haveny’ read the last four chapters. I don’t think they’d be as enthusiastic if they saw how the end plays out.”

  “Keep your voice down, Scrim,” said Foodstamp. “It’s nearly nine o’ clock.”

  “Dinna worry mon. We’ll hear Hex before we see him. I still can’t believe we were lucky enough to snatch a glimpse o’ the original manuscript that the hermit o’ Patmos wrote.”

  “I can’t believe that Hex hasn’t seen through our ploy yet,” Bones said. “Y’know, sometimes I wonder if our centuries of toiling have been worth the effort. It seems like aeons of torment. Hey, why are you raising me dude? Your hand’s worth shit.”

  “Poker face, me’ bonnie boy. Poker face.” Scrim waited for Foodstamp to make his move.

  The skinny Nubian flicked the cards back and forth between his hands, as if ordering them. “If you want to know torment, then give him what he wants. We can all burn together in the Lake of Fire for all eternity. Call.”

  Bones revealed his pre-determined hand of three queens and cleared the table.

  All at once, the cards and rune-chips began to vibrate on the tray top.

  “He’s coming,” said Syph. He licked his plate clean, then stood with the rest of them.

  The ground shook harder as the Storyteller’s disciple appeared on the glimmering horizon astride a scaly leviathan.

  “Like I told ye,” Scrim said. “Always has to make the grand entrance. The only thing heavier than that reptile is his ego.”

  “Quit the negative vibes dud
e. Let’s do this professionally.” Bones stepped forward to the approaching beasts and bowed low.

  “Lord of the Flaming Seas. Greetings.”

  Bones concealed his fear well. With a face like his, it wasn’t difficult. He hoped that the rest were playing their parts as rehearsed.

  At nine feet tall, Hex dwarfed Bones. Hex had lost both ears since their last meeting. Only two bloody stumps remained, scarring the mottled grey skin that stretched over his skull like parchment.

  That could be punishment from the storyteller, but I’m putting my money on self-mutilation. He’s obviously got self-esteem issues.

  Hex slid from the bone saddle on to his beast’s raised forelimb, then jumped onto the hardpan. “All four of my horsemen present in one place,” he said, “And at the same time. I applaud your punctuality.”

  Pleased to see you too. Pretentious dickhead.

  “Throw my beast some food while we sit down and discuss business.” Wires, hooked round the flesh of his mouth, extended to the back of his head and pulled his lips into a permanent grimace. Consequently, his voice slurred on the sibilant consonants, spraying spittle over Bones’ face.

  Vanity over practicality.

  Scrim hefted the rest of the swine carcass in the direction of Hex’s beast, then retired quickly. It sank its jaws into the raw flesh and dragged the hog over to the edge of the camp. Safely withdrawn, it slumped down, raising a cloud of dust and put its claws on the food protectively. The grinding of bones between cinder-block-sized carnassial teeth set Bone’s own teeth on edge.

  Hex perched himself on Bones’ seat and reached for the remaining pork chop. He bit into it with relish.

  “Nice flavour,” he said.

  “I’ll give you the recipe for the marinade if you want, my Lord.”

  Scrim kicked Bones, who promptly clamped his jaws shut.

  “Tell me, War. Did you manage to foment a full scale conflict in Palestine?”

  Scrim shuffled forwards. “It was a long and bloody struggle, My Lord. Each side escalated their reprisals, and there was a hefty toll on life.”

  Hex turned to the Scot, the triple digit tattoo fully visible across his forehead in the baleful glare of the campfire. “Then explain to me why the armies stopped short of Megiddo?”

  “International diplomacy, My Lord. It’s the scourge of any honest warmonger. I tried setting up one superpower against the other, but they managed to hammer out a peace deal.”

  “Idiot.” Hex slammed his fist down on the tray, scattering cards and rune-chips to the floor. “There was a time when you prolonged war for a century. That one in Europe for example.”

  “Technically,” said Bones “the war between France and Britain was one hundred and sixteen—”

  “Silence,” roared Hex. “Megiddo is a crucial strategic location. I was counting on you to escalate the battle and bring in the next phase of the Storyteller’s plan.”

  “Apologies, my Lord. I’ll re-double my efforts.”

  “Now, Pestilence. Tell me some good news for a change.”

  Syph winced at his proper name but reported back on the ebola outbreak with due deference.

  “Excellent,” said Hex, once Syph had finished. “The bowls of wrath will be outpoured soon and the Scarlet Whore of Babylon shall be transcendent.”

  “I thought the Babylonian whore happened after the Wormwood bit,” whispered Foodstamp to Bones.

  “I know, I know. But let him keep thinking things are going to plan.”

  “Famine,” said Hex. “What are you mumbling about?”

  “Just getting the figures right, my Lord.”

  The beast fixed his amber eyes on Foodstamp. “You claim to get results by stealth and subtlety. So—give me your report.”

  Foodstamp reeled off his accomplishments, quoting foodstock percentages, trading deficits and mean global temperature increases until Hex started to yawn.

  “Enough, enough. Your report is drier than the book of Numbers. Why can’t you send a plague of locusts? Far more appealing, and faster results.” He sprang up from his seat and picked up a rock the size of a medicine ball in his hand.

  “The final chapters in the Storyteller’s tale are being enacted as we speak. Soon, our enemies will be crushed.” He sank his fingers into the rock as he spoke, fracturing it into a hundred pieces. “Your intelligence report is very mixed. I had expected better. Sometimes I think you deliberately engineer this sluggish inertia.”

  Bones cleared his throat. “My Lord. Two steps forward and one step back is still progress. It’s better to have a steady, robust advance rather than overreach ourselves by being too ambitious.”

  “Too ambitious? Death, you need to start living up to your name. If the Storyteller had entertained such notions he would never have dared challenge the Creator’s throne.”

  “And never got thrown out of Heaven too,” muttered Scrim.

  “What?” Hex sprayed saliva over all of them.

  “Nothing,” my Lord. “I was simply scolding my wee skeletal friend here.”

  Seemingly assuaged, Hex called his beast to him. “I must depart now. But we shall meet again in six months and I expect great advances. Mobilise your hordes and get to work.”

  The horsemen bowed once more and watched as Hex and the larger beast thundered into the distance.

  “That was a close one, dudes,” said Bones.

  “I still canna get my head round how he still thinks we can turn the tide of prophecy.”

  “Power deludes,” said Syph. “And absolute power deludes absolutely.”

  Foodstamp’s stomach rumbled. “It’s like when Julius Caesar was told about the ides of March. He just kept on in his merry way and eventually paid the consequences.”

  “Hex is in denial,” said Bones. “Both him and the Storyteller. Sometimes the leaders need to be saved from themselves. Like I said, it’s all about eschatology.”

  “Shall we head out in the morning?” said Foodstamp.

  “I’m heading off now,” said Syph. “I’ve got a new microbe to incubate in China. Goes by the name of Klebsiella pneumonia. If I start an outbreak in The Xinjiang province tonight, it’ll have carriers in New York in twenty-four hours.”

  Bones picked up the scattered deck of cards one by one. “What about you Scrim?”

  “I’ve blotted my copybook wi Hex. I better get a head-start in the Ukraine. A little pressure in the right smoke-filled room, and we’ll have an insurgency by the end of the week.”

  “Looks like it’s just you and me, Foodstamp.”

  “Yeah, I’m in no rush. The Greenhouse effect is inevitable. All I need to do is create the conditions for Syph and Scrim to thrive. I’m going to get me some shut-eye.”

  “Lazy bastard,” said Scrim.

  As the two departing riders mounted their steeds, Bones held their reins for a moment. “Remember, dudes … “ he said.

  They looked at each other and declared in unison:

  “Don’t over-egg it!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Author’s note

  So, there you are, Real Frantic Ones. A light-hearted tale to end this little collection. Well they say ‘leave the world a better place.’ You know the future’s safe in our four horsemens’ hands.

  ~ ~ ~

  Thank you for reading my book. If you enjoyed it, won't you please take a moment to leave me a review? This edition is obtained exclusively at my website http://tomghadams.uk/ You can leave a comment or a review on my facebook page at: https://www.facebook.com/tomghadams Do ‘like’ the page while you're there!

  More dark fantasy from Tom G.H. Adams

  So what’s in the melting pot for the future? I hear you ask.

  Well, my full-length novel, ‘The Psychonaut’ is due out in 2016. To whet your appetite, here’s a sample. The story breaks in on Merrick Whyte (the main dude) experiencing the unique effects of a natural hallucinogen. What happens next, however, is not an ill
usion:

  The Psychonaut

  Falling off the edge of the world

  “You feel it already don’t you?” Karapetian’s voice sounded distorted, like backward-masked vocals on seventies vinyl. Merrick didn’t just feel it, he saw, smelt and tasted it too. He looked at Jason and saw luminous green bubbles rise from his head. The small man’s arms projected angular shadows that flickered as they moved. This was ten times better than any skunk he’d ever smoked.

  He could read Jason’s motivation as if it was hieroglyphed in the air. Jealousy and ambition, tinged with a ravenous love of a partner long dead. But more than this, the grayanotoxin stimulated his pineal gland to a greater level. He knew, with concrete certainty, that Jason would place the desire for greater power before anything else. The sensation shocked him with electric revulsion, and he recoiled with a shudder.

  He looked over at Karapetian, whose features had elongated like plasticised rubber. Merrick stifled an almost irrepressible giggle as the polymer strands of Karapetian’s suit repeatedly folded in on themselves and assumed a million shades of purple. Despite this, man’s mind remained closed. Merrick’s will ricocheted off him like a rubber bullet.

  “You have only imbibed the smallest of amounts,” said Karapetian’s morphed voice. “Even so, the effects will crescendo over the next hour and only subside long after that. We should make use of it’s vitality while we have time. Come—follow me.”

  Merrick’s senses told him he was floating, but logic convinced him it was a further effect of the drug. Past diabolically twisted pipes and chambers, they traversed the chromatic blur that the lab had become. Time compressed and dilated until he found himself in a cold, marrow-chilling cavern.

  “Where are we?” he said, the words coming out like a flanged version of an iron door swinging on rusty hinges.

  “This house was built on one of the portals I mentioned. It has not been opened since the great work at the end of the last century. There were unexpected consequences. Therefore, we have been cautious in the extreme before making another attempt at contact with the other side.”