Jack Yeovil - Krokodil Tears

Dr Ottokar Proctor fell…

Throughout the world, seismic instruments exploded at the same instant. Clocks stopped, or raced towards an unimaginable future. Millions subject to epileptic fits fell frothing, and hundreds of thousands of others, hitherto unaffected, joined them. It was as if a maxiscreamer the size of Saturn had been let off next to the planet.

Globally, a number of people equal to the population of the largest megapolis on the planet, died. Heart attacks, spontaneous human combustion, asphyxiation, a new species of instantaneous cancer, cerebral haemorrhage, suicides, massive discharges of bodily electricity, and simple shut-down were the major causes of death, but there was an increase of hostile activity in all the world's war zones, and an epidemic of murder that swept around from country to country like a contagious disease for weeks afterwards.

The computer records of a major corporation, located in a site under Nevada secure against nuclear holocaust, were wiped, precipitating an international money-market collapse that even rocked the solid foundations of the GenTech corporate empire.

Firestorms raged throughout the arctic tundra, and chunks of ice the size and shape of Silbury Hill poked through the sands of the Sahara Desert.

A ring of spy satellites recently put in place by a Gottschalk Geselleschaft in conjunction with the Soviet Union as an attempt to counterbalance GenTech's orbital superiority burned out at the cost of nine hundred billion ECUs. Every nation in the no-longer-terribly-exclusive Doomsday Club opened their silo doors and chained button-pushers to their consoles in readiness for an attack from the unknown.

A stretch of the Caribbean rose to the surface, bearing with it the wrecks of numberless ships and the ruins of a pre-human civilization, while a wave of water rippled across Louisiana, carrying away what little was left there. Solar flares jetted a million miles into space.

Beyond the galaxy, stars went spectacularly nova, snuffing out tens of thousands of life-bearing planets in a fireworks display whose light would not reach the earth for a billion years.

There was no one in the entire world, in the entire universe, who did not hear, feel or experience somehow the side-effects of the moment.

"Wilma, what was that?"

"Oh, honey, don't you bother. It was just another air crash out at Edwards. Why those wingboys bother, I don't know."

"Aw, Cheeze, I thought it was the Trump of freakin' Doom or somethin'. I near crapped my pants."

"Oh, honey, don't talk crude. You know Mama don't like it."

"Shaddup, and get me a brewsky, Wilma."

"Another beer?"

"Wilma…"

"'Kay, honey."

Hawk-That-Settles thought he was travelling horizontally until the ground loomed up like a wall, and he found himself stuck to it by gravity.

His head spun, and he knew which way was down again, thank the Lord. His ankle was still crushed, and he had other broken bones. But he was not spread out on the desert like a paste.

Sand was falling around him like rain, and he had to struggle not to be buried.

It was like trying to keep on the surface of a sea. He pushed himself upwards, letting the sand flood in below him, thrashing with his good leg and his arms.

Then, the rain was over. The winds were passing. Somewhere, Krokodil and the Jibbenainosay were wrestling, but Hawk was being left behind.

He rolled over, broken, and saw someone coming across the desert. At first, he thought it was Dr Proctor ready to finish him off. He almost wasn't sorry about that. Relieved, he pulled his shirt away from his throat. Being a good Indian was better than trying to stay alive and sane after today.

But it wasn't Dr Proctor. It was someone riding a horse.

Laughing painfully, he propped himself up on his elbows, and waved.

The horseman wore a battered stetson, and had his kerchief up over his face. Like his steed, he was thickly coated with desert dust. But he was reassuringly solid. The horse had a firm footing, and trod carefully across the sands. Hawk had a funny feeling about the horseman, as if he were seeing the earthly aspect of a manitou, or the spirit of a great warrior from the days of his ancestors.

"Stranger," he shouted. "Over here."

Rider and horse heard him at the same time, and both heads turned to look.

The horseman twisted his reins, and dug in his heels, spurring his animal to a gallop.

The stranger rode across the desert to Hawk, and the Indian felt safe again.

God was in his Heaven, it snowed in Indianapolis in the wintertime, the President of the United States was a good and honest man, you could get a free lunch, a buck could buy four quarters, the white man always honoured his treaties with the red, nobody got cancer, his father was hailed as a great chief, Jennifer White Dove kissed on a first date, a good Navaho could always hold his liquor, and…

"Friend," the horseman said, his voice rich and deep, "you look as if you could use a hand."

…and there was a Lone Ranger.

"Mr President, you are cleared for the red phone. The connection is being made…now."

"Boris, talk to me…"

"Our people tell us they're on DefCon 3, too. The missiles are not in the air."

"Boris, what the freak are you guys playing at?…What do you mean, 'what are you doing?' This has nothing to do with us, either…"

"He'll be in the bunker under the Kremlin, Mr President. Soviet chain of command has been established. If we struck at the Minsk switchboard intersection, we could gain perhaps five or ten minutes on our first strike."

"Boris, I've got scientists out my ass telling me the world is ending. We're the only guys big enough to do anything about it, except maybe one or two Japcorps, and the UEC, of course, and maybe a couple of Moslems, and…Hell, you know what I mean. I have to think you know what's going down, you know. What…? 'Going down?' It's an American expression, it means, like…uh, happening, I guess…"

"Is that a no, Mr President?"

"Yes, goddammit, Alex. I mean, yes that's a no…Boris, I'm sorry. I have someone shouting at me."

"The think tank suggest you act."

"Look, Boris, I'll put it this way. You stand down, and we'll stand down and maybe we'll get to go to the New Century party at the end of next year."

"Our sleepers in GenTech Tokyo just woke up, sir. They report that the corp are taking advantage of this window to sink a couple of Russkie ships in the Sea of Japan. We could go in with them…"

"Alex, shut up. Boris, look, we have some information that may be of use to you."

"Sir, we have a secret treaty with GenTech confirming our neutrality in any corporate war with the Soviet Union. You are bound by the terms of that agreement not to share the intelligence I have just given you with Premier Yeltsin."

"I'm the President, Alex, I can do any freaking thing I want to…Boris, look behind you. Off your Asian seacoast. This has nothing to do with us. We're sharing intelligence, here. We're helping you, now could you please just stand down and we'll stand down…Boris, you know I can't speak Russian."

"Mr President, I would like to tender my resignation."

"Shut the freak up, Alex!…Boris, have you got that? We're sending you charts on the satellite hook-up. The Sea of Japan. Get it to your navy."

"Sir, they've stepped back to DefCon 2."

"Boris, thank you, I love you! Boris? Boris? He's hung up! He can't hang up on me, the commie bastard!"

"Sir, we're still at DefCon 3. We could still hit Minsk. This way, we'd have twelve full minutes."

"I'm the President! He can't hang up on the President, can he?"

"Sir…"

"Oh, freak it, Alex, stand down. Get me a press aide. I need someone to write me a speech…"