Gord Zajac - Major Karnage

A shuddering screech hurtled across the desert, a violent, jagged line of sound that cut through Karnage like a knife ripping through fabric. “What the fuck was that?”

“That,” Sydney said, “was The Worm.”

“Oh fuck me.” Stumpy buried his head in his hands.

Sydney looked around. “We must be a hell of a lot closer than I thought.”

Stumpy turned to Karnage, his face white. “Major, we got to get out of here. There’s got to be another way. Another old army base. Camp Casey is just another few hundred klicks away. We could make it. I know we can!”

“Listen to Stumpy, Major,” Sydney said. “If the Spragmites find you out here—”

The sound tore through them again, raking up and down Karnage’s spine like an electrified cheese grater. It was so jagged. So angry. So unlike anything he’d ever heard before. And yet, at the same time, it felt so familiar. Like something from a dream. Or a faded memory. A jagged black line etched in skin, slightly red around the edges from being pressed too hard.

And that’s when it hit him: the noise wasn’t jagged at all.

It was squiggly.

Karnage turned to Stumpy. “Camp Casey’s no good to me. I need that Godmaster Array, worm or no worm. Cult or no cult. Camp Bailey is our only option, and that is where we’re headed.”

Sydney looked at Karnage, aghast. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?”

“Every one of ’em.”

“And you’re still going in there?”

“I am.”

“You’re crazy!”

“I been told that before.”

“You’ll die!”

“I been told that, too.” Karnage looked at Stumpy. Stumpy sat there, leaning against the car, staring into the distance, rubbing the end of his stump. “You ain’t gettin’ cold feet on me, are you, Corporal?”

Stumpy looked fearfully into the distance, then down at his stump. He set his jaw, and rose to his feet. “No, sir. I’ve come this far, I’ll go the rest of the way.” He saluted.

Karnage returned the salute. “Good to hear, soldier.” He turned to Sydney. “And what about you, Captain? You gonna behave or am I gonna have to knock you out?”

Sydney gaped at Karnage. “You don’t think you’re taking me with you?”

“I am,” Karnage said. “I ain’t about to leave an officer out here to die of exposure.”

“So instead you’ll get me killed on this fool’s mission. Well, you can forget it. I won’t—”

Karnage cracked the butt of his rifle across Sydney’s head, knocking her out cold. “Suit yourself.”

Riggs lounged in the backseat of the limo. He leaned against the ravaged remains of the mini-bar as he drank his third martini. His silk shirt and matching pants were cool against his skin. He looked down at his Tommy Dabney shoes. They sparkled so brightly they practically winked at him. He leaned back into the plush leather of the seat and sighed. He was drowning in luxury and he was going to savour every second of it.

Riggs watched Patrick drive. Patrick hadn’t acknowledged Riggs’s existence since they had left the precinct. Riggs leaned forward and tapped on the glass divider. The divider sank down behind the seats, and Patrick’s goggles appeared in the rear view mirror. “Is there a problem, sir?”

“No. No problem,” Riggs said. “Just wanted to talk is all.”

“I see.”

Riggs pulled himself up and rested his head on the back of the front seat. “Let me ask you something, Patrick. Are you happy?” Patrick considered this. “Happy, sir?”

“Yeah. Happy.”

“Do you mean with life in general?”

“Huh.” Riggs thought about that. Was that what he had meant?

He snapped his fingers. “Yeah. In general. Like life. Family. Career. All that stuff.”

Patrick stayed silent a long while, watching the road. Riggs started to wonder if he had somehow offended him. Finally, Patrick replied. “All things considered, I suppose you could say that.”

Riggs slapped the back of the seat. “Exactly! That’s the way it should be! Everybody’s always bitchin’ about how everything sucks. This sucks. That sucks. Everything used to be better. Fuck that— pardon my French, Patrick—but fuck that! Things are good. Things are great! Look at the two of us! Happier than a couple of clams in shit.”

“Pigs.”

“Sorry?”

“I believe it’s ‘pigs in shit.’ Clams don’t require shit to be happy, sir. They just are.”

“Oh. Oh yeah.” Riggs looked at his half-empty martini glass. He wondered if it truly was only his third. “Well, you know what I mean.”

“I do. And may I say, it’s refreshing to meet such an optimist,” Patrick said.

“Yeah. Me, too.” Riggs leaned back in his seat, then leaned forward again. “It sounds pretty exciting though, doesn’t it?”

“What does, sir?”

“This job. This new gig.”

“I suppose.”

“Malcolm Riggs: fast, free-wheeling consultant.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

“Hot and cold running booze.”

“They may prefer you not to drink on the job.”

“And the babes, Patrick. The babes!”

Patrick smiled. “You might find it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, sir.”

“Oh, let me dream, Patrick. Let me dream.”

“Dream all you like, sir. I just wouldn’t count my chickens before they hatch if I were you.”

Riggs swished a mouthful of martini in his mouth, then swallowed. “Good point, Patrick. Good point. Wouldn’t want to end up with a basket full of rotten eggs, right?”

Patrick nodded. “Or something other than chickens.” Patrick pulled the car over to the side of the road, and shut off the engine.

“Here we are, sir.”

Riggs looked outside. Nothing but empty desert stretched out in all directions. “Where?”

“Your destination.”

“But there’s nothing here.”

“No,” Patrick said. “There isn’t.”

Riggs stared at Patrick blankly. “You’re just going to leave me here?”

Patrick nodded. “That’s what I’ve been asked to do, yes.”

“But…”

“But what, sir?”

“There’s nothing here!”

“I believe we covered that already.”

“You… you can’t just leave me out here!”

“I can.”

“I’ll die!”

“You won’t.”

“I will!”

Patrick let out an exasperated sigh. “Trust me, sir. If Mr. Dabney wanted you dead, I would have made that happen quite some time ago.”

Riggs did a double take. “What? Wait a minute. What are you saying? Did you… did you just threaten me?”

Patrick checked his watch. “I’m sorry, sir, but I just don’t have the time for this.” Patrick leaned forward. His expression hardened into an ice sculpture of cold hate. “Exit the vehicle, Captain. Now. ”

While Patrick hadn’t raised his voice, something in its tone came out so hard and sharp that Riggs practically tripped over himself as he scrambled out of the car. Before he even realized what was happening, he was standing on the side of the road, watching the car speed off down the highway, leaving a cloud of choking dust in its wake.

Riggs was alone.

He could feel the sun beating down on him. He could feel his shirt already starting to stick to his sweaty back. He wiped his forehead. This is just great, he thought. What a hell of a first impression I’m going to make. He looked down and realized he still held the remnants of his martini in his hand. Just looking at it made his mouth go dry. Should he drink it now? Or save it for later? Oh hell, what does it matter anyway? Riggs threw his drink back.

Violent winds picked up around him, blowing sand into his mouth. Riggs spat sand out of his teeth, and looked up. The sky had gone pitch black. Flickering panels of light ran up and down the sky.