Drank deep. Felt the rush of revulsion. “You gave me diet ginger ale?”
The only answer an obscene laugh like a dying soul that slipped away into the darkness.
In the Spunkk everything was for sale. Cy sold it. Doing anything for the bukniks he needed. Sold his blood. Washed windows. Babysat a two-headed baby. Nothing was too repulsive, too repugnant. He had to. He would be a voodooman.
The day he graduated they came for him.
He could not escape. The windows unbreakable. The door did not stop them.
They broke it down.
“We have you,” the first one said, the streetlights through the Venetian blinds shining on his face like an obscene polar projection.
“No!”
Was that his voice? Who else's could it be?
“Take it.”
The paper was slammed into his reluctant hand, like a poisonous papyrus rattlesnake, rustling like its rattle.
There was no escape. He was drafted.
“I was drafted. I ended up here. A voodooman with no VDU. Wasting my life, my talent. Wiring up circuit boards.”
His tears of self-pity dripped unheard onto the sands of the desert. There was only silence as Cy's voice trickled away. The story was done. Not that his audience noticed this since they were all zonked with fatigue, lulled by his voice, all now sound asleep. Not that he noticed this either since he had been popping pills steadily while he talked and was stoned out of his mind. As the last words fluttered down from his lips he fell over into the sand and began snoring.
Nor was he the only one rendering arias of nocturnal harmony. Zizzing and sawing echoed in the still night air for it had been a long and hard day. Yet, hark!, there was also more than snoring here, more of a rumbling and muttering. Something black loomed over the top of the dune, its bulk blocking out the stars. It moved forward, hesitated — then pounced. A sudden cry of pain was quickly silenced. The blackness moved away, the rumbling vanished.
Something had disturbed Bill. He opened his eyes, sat up and looked around. Nothing. He lay down and pulled the blanket over his head to drown out the snoring and was asleep again in an instant.
CHAPTER 7
“On your feet!” admiral Praktis shouted, running about and kicking the sleeping forms. Goaded by boot and voice, one by one they raised reluctant heads and blinked at the orange globe of the rising sun.
“Gone. Meta is gone, missing, kidnapped, stolen.”
Which was true. They gaped down at the scooped out hollow in the sand right on the spot where she had been sleeping — then goggle-eyed at the tracks that led away from this spot out into the trackless desert.
“Eaten alive by some hideous monster!” Bill wailed, nervously tearing ruts in the sand with his sharp chicken nails. Praktis looked at him with disgust.
“If it was a monster, Third Lieutenant, it had a driving license. Because if I am not mistaken, and I am not, those are tractor tread prints. Not feet, claws, tentacles or whatever.”
“Sure are,” Wurber agreed, Adam's apple bobbing with excitement. “Tractor treads right enough. They're a lot like the old JCB I drove on the farm. Say — do you think there might be a farm near here...”
“Shut up, you moron, or I'll kill you,” Praktis hinted. “Something got Meta while she slept. We've got to go after her.”
“Why?” Captain Bly grumbled. “She's long dead by now. Not our business.”
“Third Lieutenant, draw your weapon. Shoot anyone who disobeys my commands. We will follow the tracks. Load up.” He glared at Captain Bly whose complaints muttered away into silence. “Good. Now if you will glance at the compass you will see that the tracks go roughly in the direction we are following. So take everything and let's move out. And quickly.”
They moved. Sharing out the contents of Meta's pack and loading up. Bill, his blaster still drawn, took point and led the way.
The sun rose in the sky but they did not stop. They were stumbling with fatigue before Bill called a halt and
The only answer an obscene laugh like a dying soul that slipped away into the darkness.
In the Spunkk everything was for sale. Cy sold it. Doing anything for the bukniks he needed. Sold his blood. Washed windows. Babysat a two-headed baby. Nothing was too repulsive, too repugnant. He had to. He would be a voodooman.
The day he graduated they came for him.
He could not escape. The windows unbreakable. The door did not stop them.
They broke it down.
“We have you,” the first one said, the streetlights through the Venetian blinds shining on his face like an obscene polar projection.
“No!”
Was that his voice? Who else's could it be?
“Take it.”
The paper was slammed into his reluctant hand, like a poisonous papyrus rattlesnake, rustling like its rattle.
There was no escape. He was drafted.
“I was drafted. I ended up here. A voodooman with no VDU. Wasting my life, my talent. Wiring up circuit boards.”
His tears of self-pity dripped unheard onto the sands of the desert. There was only silence as Cy's voice trickled away. The story was done. Not that his audience noticed this since they were all zonked with fatigue, lulled by his voice, all now sound asleep. Not that he noticed this either since he had been popping pills steadily while he talked and was stoned out of his mind. As the last words fluttered down from his lips he fell over into the sand and began snoring.
Nor was he the only one rendering arias of nocturnal harmony. Zizzing and sawing echoed in the still night air for it had been a long and hard day. Yet, hark!, there was also more than snoring here, more of a rumbling and muttering. Something black loomed over the top of the dune, its bulk blocking out the stars. It moved forward, hesitated — then pounced. A sudden cry of pain was quickly silenced. The blackness moved away, the rumbling vanished.
Something had disturbed Bill. He opened his eyes, sat up and looked around. Nothing. He lay down and pulled the blanket over his head to drown out the snoring and was asleep again in an instant.
CHAPTER 7
“On your feet!” admiral Praktis shouted, running about and kicking the sleeping forms. Goaded by boot and voice, one by one they raised reluctant heads and blinked at the orange globe of the rising sun.
“Gone. Meta is gone, missing, kidnapped, stolen.”
Which was true. They gaped down at the scooped out hollow in the sand right on the spot where she had been sleeping — then goggle-eyed at the tracks that led away from this spot out into the trackless desert.
“Eaten alive by some hideous monster!” Bill wailed, nervously tearing ruts in the sand with his sharp chicken nails. Praktis looked at him with disgust.
“If it was a monster, Third Lieutenant, it had a driving license. Because if I am not mistaken, and I am not, those are tractor tread prints. Not feet, claws, tentacles or whatever.”
“Sure are,” Wurber agreed, Adam's apple bobbing with excitement. “Tractor treads right enough. They're a lot like the old JCB I drove on the farm. Say — do you think there might be a farm near here...”
“Shut up, you moron, or I'll kill you,” Praktis hinted. “Something got Meta while she slept. We've got to go after her.”
“Why?” Captain Bly grumbled. “She's long dead by now. Not our business.”
“Third Lieutenant, draw your weapon. Shoot anyone who disobeys my commands. We will follow the tracks. Load up.” He glared at Captain Bly whose complaints muttered away into silence. “Good. Now if you will glance at the compass you will see that the tracks go roughly in the direction we are following. So take everything and let's move out. And quickly.”
They moved. Sharing out the contents of Meta's pack and loading up. Bill, his blaster still drawn, took point and led the way.
The sun rose in the sky but they did not stop. They were stumbling with fatigue before Bill called a halt and
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