Terry Pratchett - Reaper Man

"Oh, all right."

There was a momentary vision of Arthur Winkings clinging desperately to the ceiling, and then he dropped on Windle and Reg, the disc clasped to his chest.

The music stopped abruptly. Pink tubing poured out of the ravaged hole above them and coiled upon Arthur, making him look like a very cheap plate of spaghetti and meatballs. The fountains seemed to operate in reverse for a moment, and then dried up.

The trolleys halted. The ones at the back ran into the ones at the front, and there was a chorus of pathetic clanking noises.

Tubing still poured out of the hole. Windle picked up a bit. It was an unpleasant pink, and sticky.

"What do you think it is?" said Ludmilla.

"I think," said Windle, "that we'd better get out of here now."

The floor trembled. Steam gushed from the fountain.

"If not sooner," Windle added.

There was a gasp from the Archchancellor. The Dean slumped forward. The other wizards remained upright, but only just.

"They're coming out of it," said Ludmilla. ‘But I don't think they'll manage the stairs."

"I don't think anyone should even think about trying to manage the stairs," said Windle. "Look at them."

The moving stairs weren't. The black steps glistened in the shadowless light.

"I see what you mean," said Ludmilla. "I'd rather try and walk on quicksand."

"It'd probably be safer," said Windle.

"Maybe there's a ramp? There must be some way for the trolleys to get around."

"Good idea."

Ludmilla eyed the trolleys. They were milling around aimlessly. "I think I might have an even better one... " she said, and grabbed a passing handle.

The trolley fought for a moment and then, lacking any contrary instructions, settled down docilely.

"The ones that can walk'll walk, and the ones that can't walk'll get pushed. Come on, grandad. " This was to the Bursar, who was persuaded to flop across the trolley. He said ‘yo', faintly, and shut his eyes again.

The Dean was manhandled on top of him.

"And now where?" said Doreen.

A couple of floor tiles buckled upwards. A heavy grey vapour started to pour out.

"It must be somewhere at the end of a passage," said Ludmilla. "Come on."

Arthur looked down at the mists coiling around his feet.

"I wonder how you can do that?" he said. "It's amazingly difficult to get stuff that does that. We tried it, you know, to make our crypt more... more cryptic, but it just smokes up the place and sets fire to the curtains -"

"Come on, Artor. We are going."

"You don't think we've done too much damage, do you? Perhaps we should leave a note -"

"Yeah, I could write something on the wall if you like," said Reg.

He picked up a struggling worker trolley by its handle and, with some satisfaction, smashed it against a pillar until its wheels dropped off.

Windle watched the Fresh Start Club head up the nearest passage, pushing a bargain assortment of wizardry.

"Well, well, well," he said. "As simple as that. That's all we had to do. Hardly any drama at all."

He went to move forward, and stopped.

Pink tubes were forcing their way through the floor and were already coiled tightly around his legs. More floor tiles leapt into the air. The stairways shattered, revealing the dark, serrated and above all living tissue that had powered them. The walls pulsed and caved inwards, the marble cracking to reveal purple and pinkness underneath.

Of course, thought a tiny calm part of Windle's mind, none of this is really real. Buildings aren't really alive. It's all just a metaphor, only at the moment metaphors are like candles in a firework factory.

That being said, what sort of creature is the Queen? Like a queen bee, except she's also the hive. Like a caddis fly, which builds, if I'm not mistaken, a shell out of bits of stone and things, to camouflage itself. Or like a nautilus, which adds on to its shell as it gets bigger. And very much, to judge by the way the floors are ripping up, like a very angry starfish.

I wonder how cities would defend themselves against this sort of thing? Creatures generally evolve some sort of defence against predators. Poisons and stings and spikes and things.

Here and now, that's probably me. Spiky old Windle Poons.

At least I can try to see to it that the others get out all right. Let's make my presence felt...

He reached down, grabbed a double handful of pulsating tubes, and heaved.

The Queen's screech of rage was heard all the way to the University.

The storm clouds sped towards the hill. They piled up in a towering mass, very fast. Lightning flashed, somewhere in the core.

THERE'S TOO MUCH LIFE AROUND, said Death. NOT THAT I'M ONE TO COMPLAIN. WHERE'S THE CHILD?

"I put her to bed. She's sleeping now. Just ordinary sleep."

Lightning struck on the hill, like a thunderbolt. It was followed by a clanking, grinding noise, somewhere in the middle distance.

Death sighed.

AH. MORE DRAMA?

He walked around the barn, so that he could command a good view of the dark fields. Miss Flitworth followed very closely on his heels, using him as a shield against whatever terrors were out there.

A blue glow crackled behind a distant hedge. It was moving.

"What is it?"

IT WAS THE COMBINATION HARVESTER.

"Was? What is it now?"

Death glanced at the clustering watchers.

A POOR LOSER.

The Harvester tore across the soaking fields, cloth arms whirring, levers moving inside an electric blue nimbus. The shafts for the horse waved uselessly in the air.

"How can it go without a horse? It had a horse yesterday!"

IT DOESN'T NEED ONE.

He looked around at the grey watchers. There were ranks of them now.

"Binky's still in the yard. Come on!"

No.

The Combination Harvester accelerated towards them. The schip-schip of its blades became a whine.

"Is it angry because you stole its tarpaulin?"

THAT'S NOT ALL I STOLE.

Death grinned at the watchers. He picked up his scythe, turned it over in his hands and then, when he was sure their gaze was fixed upon it, let it fall to the ground.

Then he folded his arms.

Miss Flitworth dragged at him.

"What do you think you're doing?"

DRAMA.

The Harvester reached the gate into the yard and came through in a cloud of sawdust.

"Are you sure we'll be all right?"

Death nodded.

"Well. That's all right then."

The Harvester's wheels were a blur.

PROBABLY.

And then...

... something in the machinery went clonk.

Then the Harvester was still travelling, but in pieces. Sparks fountained up from its axles. A few spindles and arms managed to hold together, jerking madly as they spun away from the whirling, slowing confusion. The circle of blades tore free, smashed up through the machine, and skimmed away across the fields.

There was a jangle, a clatter, and then the last isolated boing, which is the audible equivalent of the famous pair of smoking boots.

And then there was silence.

Death reached down calmly and picked up a complicated-looking spindle as it pinwheeled towards his feet. It had been bent into a right-angle.

Miss Flitworth peered around him.

"What happened?"

I THINK THE ELLIPTICAL CAM HAS GRADUALLY SLID UP THE BEAM SHAFT AND CAUGHT ON THE FLANGE REBATE. WITH DISASTROUS RESULTS.

Death stared defiantly at the grey watchers. One by one, they began to disappear.

He picked up the scythe.

AND NOW I MUST GO, he said.

Miss FIitworth looked horrified. "What? Just like that?"

YES. EXACTLY LIKE THAT. I HAVE A LOT OF WORK TO DO.

"And I won't see you again? I mean -"

OH. YES. SOON. He sought for the right words, and gave up. THAT'S A PROMISE.

Death pulled up his robe and reached into the pocket of his Bill Door overall, which he was still wearing underneath.