Moorlocks were given Blake’s body to eat, all except the left arm which was wrapped in cloth and given directly to the Dark Rider for later.
Beadle was placed on a long table and tied to it. The Dark Rider disappeared for a time, about some other mission, and while Beadle waited for the horrors to come, the lone Moorlock left to watch him played with Beadle’s dick.
“Lif id ub, pud id down,” he said as he played. “Lif id ub, pud id down.”
“Would you stop that, for heaven’s sake?” Beadle said.
The Moorlock frowned, popped Beadle’s balls with the back of his hand, and went back to his game. “Lif id ub, pud id down …”
(8)
A View from Doom
John Feather, in pain so intense he could no longer really feel it, could see the horizon, upside down, and he could see the ground and a bunch of ants. He had been taught that the ants, like all things in nature, were one, his kin. But he didn’t like them. He knew what they wanted. Pretty soon they’d be on the cross, then the blood on his hands and feet. Then would come the flies. With kinfolks like ants and flies, who needed enemies? He could kind of get into accepting rocks and trees as his kinfolk, though he was, in fact, crucified on one of his kin, but ants and flies. Uh-uh.
He heard a squawk, lifted his head and looked up. At the top of the cross, waiting patiently, a buzzard had alighted.
John Feather remembered he had never had any use for buzzards, either. Come to think of it, he didn’t like coyotes that much, and the way his luck was running, pretty soon they’d show up.
They didn’t, but he did hear flies buzzing, and soon felt them alight on his bloody hands and feet.
*****
When the Dark Rider showed, the first thing he did was light a kerosene lamp, and the first thing he said was, “I suppose we shall remove the Moorlock head. This will give us a wound to work with.”
The Dark Rider took hold of the Moorlock’s jaws, pried them apart, tossed the head, sent it bouncing across the floor. The assisting Moorlock watched it bounce. He looked longingly at the Dark Rider.
“Do your job here,” the Dark Rider said, “and you can have it all to yourself.”
The Moorlock looked pleased.
The Dark Rider, who had brought a roll of leather, placed it just above Beadle’s head and uncoiled it. It was full of shiny instruments. The first one he pulled out was a long metal probe, sharpened on one end.
He held it up so Beadle could see it. It caught the lamplight and sparkled.
Beadle told himself he would not scream.
The Dark Rider poked the probe into the bite wound on his shoulder, and Beadle, in spite of himself, screamed. In fact, to his embarrassment, he thought he screamed like a girl, but with less restraint.
*****
Inside the great time and space cosmic rip, the metal ship hurtled by again, and inside the ship, or as they called it, the shuttle, peering out one of its portholes, was an astronaut named McCormic. He was frightened. He was confused. And he was hungry. He and his partners, a Russian cosmonaut and a French astronaut, had recently finished their last tube of food and the water didn’t look good. Another forty-eight hours they’d be out of it, another three or four days they’d be crazy and drinking their urine, maybe starting to think of each other as hot lunches.
Through a series of misfortunes they had lost most of their fuel and could not return to Earth. They were the Flying Dutchman, circling the globe. They had lost contact with home base. The radio waves were silent. It was as if the world beneath them had died. To add tension to all this, their air supply was draining. It would in fact play out at about the same time as the water supply, so maybe they would never get to drink their urine or dine on one another.
To top it off, McCormic was having trouble with his hemorrhoids, which was their way, to appear only at the least opportune time.
And then, there was the rip.
No matter where they were while
Beadle was placed on a long table and tied to it. The Dark Rider disappeared for a time, about some other mission, and while Beadle waited for the horrors to come, the lone Moorlock left to watch him played with Beadle’s dick.
“Lif id ub, pud id down,” he said as he played. “Lif id ub, pud id down.”
“Would you stop that, for heaven’s sake?” Beadle said.
The Moorlock frowned, popped Beadle’s balls with the back of his hand, and went back to his game. “Lif id ub, pud id down …”
(8)
A View from Doom
John Feather, in pain so intense he could no longer really feel it, could see the horizon, upside down, and he could see the ground and a bunch of ants. He had been taught that the ants, like all things in nature, were one, his kin. But he didn’t like them. He knew what they wanted. Pretty soon they’d be on the cross, then the blood on his hands and feet. Then would come the flies. With kinfolks like ants and flies, who needed enemies? He could kind of get into accepting rocks and trees as his kinfolk, though he was, in fact, crucified on one of his kin, but ants and flies. Uh-uh.
He heard a squawk, lifted his head and looked up. At the top of the cross, waiting patiently, a buzzard had alighted.
John Feather remembered he had never had any use for buzzards, either. Come to think of it, he didn’t like coyotes that much, and the way his luck was running, pretty soon they’d show up.
They didn’t, but he did hear flies buzzing, and soon felt them alight on his bloody hands and feet.
*****
When the Dark Rider showed, the first thing he did was light a kerosene lamp, and the first thing he said was, “I suppose we shall remove the Moorlock head. This will give us a wound to work with.”
The Dark Rider took hold of the Moorlock’s jaws, pried them apart, tossed the head, sent it bouncing across the floor. The assisting Moorlock watched it bounce. He looked longingly at the Dark Rider.
“Do your job here,” the Dark Rider said, “and you can have it all to yourself.”
The Moorlock looked pleased.
The Dark Rider, who had brought a roll of leather, placed it just above Beadle’s head and uncoiled it. It was full of shiny instruments. The first one he pulled out was a long metal probe, sharpened on one end.
He held it up so Beadle could see it. It caught the lamplight and sparkled.
Beadle told himself he would not scream.
The Dark Rider poked the probe into the bite wound on his shoulder, and Beadle, in spite of himself, screamed. In fact, to his embarrassment, he thought he screamed like a girl, but with less restraint.
*****
Inside the great time and space cosmic rip, the metal ship hurtled by again, and inside the ship, or as they called it, the shuttle, peering out one of its portholes, was an astronaut named McCormic. He was frightened. He was confused. And he was hungry. He and his partners, a Russian cosmonaut and a French astronaut, had recently finished their last tube of food and the water didn’t look good. Another forty-eight hours they’d be out of it, another three or four days they’d be crazy and drinking their urine, maybe starting to think of each other as hot lunches.
Through a series of misfortunes they had lost most of their fuel and could not return to Earth. They were the Flying Dutchman, circling the globe. They had lost contact with home base. The radio waves were silent. It was as if the world beneath them had died. To add tension to all this, their air supply was draining. It would in fact play out at about the same time as the water supply, so maybe they would never get to drink their urine or dine on one another.
To top it off, McCormic was having trouble with his hemorrhoids, which was their way, to appear only at the least opportune time.
And then, there was the rip.
No matter where they were while
Similar Books
