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Prelude Viper sat for a while thinking before lighting a new joint and rummaging through some old papers. He examined them for a long time. Somewhere in here was a very good idea. If only he could find a way forwards with it. It would mean going back to the start, and re-writing the whole thing from scratch, piecing together the old story fragments in a new way. He sat back in his swivel chair, the keyboard and the blank page stretching out before him. Viper rolled another joint and sparked up. Somewhere in a slightly different parallel universe ………… ________________________________ Farmchurch, El-Dan Province, Chapter : One 1 Dawn was just beginning to break as the scent of cooking bacon, sausage, and special chilli fried 'tatters began to rise up from the little outcrop of rocks just off the main highway. A man in a leather jacket was cooking over an open fire and grill contraption with a combination of two frying pans and a pot. He was reaching one of these off the grill and pouring hot water into a battered tea pot when the phone mounted on the bike's dashboard began to ring. Setting down both the teapot and the pan of water on the grill, he rose to answer his phone setting the lid a-top the tea pot first. Reaching the bike he picked up the receiver and listened for a few moments, "O.K. Fred. Call the others in; we're going to make a stand in Farmchurch." He took an Ital from his pocket and reached a stick from the fire to light it with still holding the receiver in one hand, "Spoken to Green yet?" The rider smiled, seemingly pleased by the reply and stood up. "O.K... Sunrise, two days from now." He stood to replace the handset and his spine popped as he did so. Turning towards the South East his eyes glinted mischievously in the still not yet dawn. He sat there a while gazing out at the gathering dawn, exhaling a thick cloud of sweet smelling Ital smoke which hung lazily in the air. It was going to be a hot one today. He took another hit from the Ital wondering what lay in store. Farmchurch was well placed. It sat on a peninsula. There were just three roads that accessed the mainland. Once they had them under control they could begin to set up home. Times since the invasion and the bombings had not been kind. The world everyone once knew was gone. Rioting had followed the social breakdown as food began to get scarce. The gangs had taken over then and a constant gun fight with the Army, Police, Holy Warriors and Invasion forces continued daily. Some had formed nomadic tribes that simply plundered each town they came upon. Bodies went unburied. Fractured gas mains and burst water pipes went unattended. Fires simply burnt themselves out sometimes engulfing whole city blocks. What had been left of the architects of this ruin and their defenders had sealed the cities that were still under their control and had continued to impose their will upon the people from the depths of their bunkers. Civilians were little more than slaves now there was no real economy. They were organised into work parties to restore the cities to order for, 'the war effort'. The cities were under sporadic attack from just about everyone and what was left of the Invasion forces as resources got scarce. Television and radio were still broadcasting. Official News only though, and only to those who still had electricity to operate televisions and radios. Now that communication lines had been broken news was erratic and nobody really knew what the state of affairs was nationally never mind internationally. Half the country was a blasted smoking ruin, an overblown battle field strewn with the corpses of factions, gangs, and civillians. The only law out there was the law of the gun. The rest had split neatly between cities and country. The cities were acting mini kingdoms by any other name, new capitals of the Shires and Provinces they sat in. Some were stronger than others. The idea seemed to be to rebuild and retake the country from the invaders by first repairing the cities and the communication between them and then spread out from the cities taking town by town into their provincial control eventually controlling larger and larger parts of the country. They hadn't considered the civillians left behind to fend for themselves. Nor how they might react, and react they had. There had been many uprisings. The civillians considered their own army as much their enemy as the gangs, Holy Warriors, and the Can's. Out in the country life had slipped back a couple of centuries technically speaking. Some towns and villages now had their own militia who were armed with the weapons they had salvaged, or taken from those they had killed, lynched, or made slaves. Some places had simply slipped back into the Dark Ages of 'The Inquisition' with all its associative barbarity. End Timers and crazy cult leaders were having a field day. Some of them had brought back the metaphysical theologies of ignorant times long ago past. Farming folk were doing the best. Some farm spreads had become defended strongholds with several local families joining their combined skills and resources to survive. Skanks thought back to the last time he'd passed through Farmchurch just after the bombs but before the invasion …………. _____________________________________ Just over the crest of the hill Harry Stampton stopped pedalling and let the bike pick up its own speed while he caught his breath, free wheeling his way down the East Road. Bringing the bike to a stand still outside the paint splattered, bullet scarred and scorched former community corner stone, Harry was open mouthed. Could this really be the same place? Harry wheeled his bike in through the open doors. The place was in darkness with the exception of the few remaining bar spots, one of which flickered irritatingly. There were new bullet holes in the bar in a long jagged line. The remaining furniture was mostly broken and it looked like someone had taken a shit in the former hot tub and thrown up all down the side of it for good measure. The chunky bits had growth on them. Soon some of that growth would form into rare psychedelic mushrooms that would spread through the dirty, stained, carpet. Harry propped his Postie bike against one of the open doors. The place looked like the Cans had enjoyed themselves. Nothing had been safe since the invasion. He doubted anyone was around but he shouted out just the same. It was the right thing to do. "Jez, Miss Jezabel Hurt? Hello? Miss Hurt?" Harry expected no response, he had the feeling Miss hurt was not at home. He just hoped she had got away before the Cans arrived. Still, Harry had been given his instructions, and they had been very clear. He took the letter from his inside pocket of his uniform jacket and he began uncertainly to make his way over to the bar. On his third step Harry started at the sound of glass breaking under his foot. He looked down at the glass framed picture under his foot and froze at the new sound of an approaching vehicle. It sounded like some sort of car or small truck to begin with, but as it got closer, Harry could make out the rhythmic thud, thud, thud of a motorbike engine. A big one, moving fast, and coming straight towards him. The hairs on Harry's back would have stood proud if he'd had any; he slipped the letter back into his inside pocket and ducked down behind the bar. Outside a bike was indeed moving at speed towards the former cornerstone of community civilization. It began slowing as it got nearer, emitting great slow regular throbs. Harry expected it to stop outside but it didn't. The bike and its rider came straight through the doors in an explosion of glass and splintering wood coming to rest in the centre of the bar lounge. Looking around the bar the rider turned off the motorbike's engine, shook off the debris, and slowly and deliberately unfastened his full face helmet removing it and hanging it from the handle bars. Unzipping his jacket the rider took out a sweet smelling Ital from his shirt pocket and lit it with a shotgun cartridge lighter. He took a deep hit from it and exhaled a long slow stream of smoke that clouded like dragons breath, "I know your here Harry. I saw the bike. I want my letter." Harry felt his stomach drop and his balls crawl back up inside. He couldn't run, he'd have to go past the rider to do that. He couldn't hide because, well, whoever he was, he'd seen Harry's Postie bike and knew he was there, and about the letter. On rubber legs Harry stood up to confront the rider. He saw a well built man wearing a leather motorbike jacket. Beneath it it looked like he was wearing a shirt over a T-shirt. He wore black trousers. Not leather, but not jeans either, and boots. His hair was dark short and cut into a wicked flat-top. His eyes were as cold as flint, fixed, studying Harry's every move. "How do you know my name ?" "I arranged it for it to be you to bring the letter. Where is it ?" "How did ...?" "I used to know your dad. You going to give it to me ?" Harry was surprised and eyed the rider suspiciously, "If you know my dad ID him, tell me what's on his left arm." "Nothing. He lost it in a chainsaw accident at Clegg's orchard fifteen years ago.", said the rider slipping off his leather and rolling up his shirt sleeve. "Before that, he had one of these. Do you remember Harry ?" It was a pentagram circled by a serpent swallowing its own tail. Above it, and circling the pentagram were the words 'Esse Quam Videri". Harry handed him the letter without further delay. His dad said only a few bore that mark and if Harry was ever to see anyone else with one of them, he should do as he was asked by the wearer, without further questioning. Harry was bursting with questions, but he kept silent. The rider took the letter from Harry and opened it. After a brief examination he set it alight and let it drop to the floor, burning itself out as it descended. Taking a marker pen from his pocket Skanks walked to the bar and wrote on it: "SKANKS WUZ 'ERE" and dated it, before checking his compass and drawing an arrow. He got back on his bike after a brief look around the bar and fired the engine into life. Turning the bike around inside the bar lounge Skanks knocked over a table and a couple of chairs on the way. "You want to come and meet some old friends of your Dad's Harry ?" "But what about ……… ?" "What about it ?", said Skanks cutting him off. Harry got on the back of Skanks motorbike putting on the spare lid without another word. They rumbled slowly along Market Row and onto the East Road out towards the open road into the main land ..............
Skanks had taken Harry to meet Green and Eric. The thirteen had fallen to nine since the invasion. Harry's Dad had been one of them. Skanks believed it was time to start Harry on his apprenticeship to the Thirteen. The lad was showing promise too. It was time to take him back to Farmchurch though now his prime initiation was over, and the world had moved on. Skanks got up from the fire and sand washed his breakfast plate on his way over to the big customised bike. Picking up the mobile handset Skanks dialled through, "Dr Green .......................................... ?" ____________________________________
Like everywhere else Farmchurch had suffered, but thanks to its geography most of it was due to supply shortage, internal conflicts between competing families, and raids on the town by the gangs and the Can's. The electricity supply had gone down but, thanks to the closeness of the reservoir, they still had some running water and for now at least, the gas was still on. Communication from outside was tightly controlled by the Army and the Police who had sealed the three roads into Farmchurch from the main land. Farmchurch was important to those under the illusion they were still in charge. Easily defended, the extensive farm land could provide an adequate and regular supply of food for the city of Bloodpool. Farmchurch bordered on Dagon, also on the peninsula, with its small docks and harbour. Before the war Dagon had been popular with the tourists for its fishing, fish and chips, and its top class golf range. It had been used in several international Golf tournaments over the years. Tourists, Tom laughed to himself bitterly. Those days looked gone forever now. The crazy bastards had finally brought about Armageddon. Fuck them. Tom was too old to care about anything but regular meals and a clean dry bed. He wasn't convinced the Army boys could help much, but at least they'd stopped the gangs coming through and raiding the place. The county of El-Dan had been pretty lucky compared to others. Most of the bombing had taken place further south. The flying bombs were something new the old Nazi's working for the CIA had come up with. Huge bombs disguised like passenger planes. Instead of being nuclear these things had been incendary devices that somehow took the nitrogen from the air, released hydrogen, and ignited the oxygen. If you weren't flash fried you'd get suffocated.
In Farmchurch the raiding parties had done some damage to the buildings and had killed a number of locals who had tried to fight them off before the Army arrived. Some of the locals had simply fled, although Tom couldn't see where they thought they might flee to. They were probably all raped and murdered by now. Silly buggers. The Army boys had turned up a little over a year ago. They had sealed the roads to the main land and effectively turned El-Dan into an island. Order of sorts had been restored. Life had simply gone on as people adapted to the changing situation. How the rest of the country was coping could only be guessed at. With the electricity down, the only incoming news came through the Army boys, and of course they had to censor what came through for security reasons. Tom began thinking it had been nearly three months since any real news about outside had come through. Even the Army boys were beginning to wonder what was happening, and that wasn't a good sign in Tom's opinion. Still, they were helping organise the farming and they were helping with the town repairs. They had put up some new storage barns too. It looked like they were planning on turning El-Dan Province into one giant food factory. That was alright with Tom. Whatever else might be going on in what was left of the world, at least the folk of Farmchurch weren't going to starve. "Tom !", That was Molly Squires. She was a bit of a busy body but she had a good heart. Ever since the world went to hell Molly had taken it upon herself to 'do the rounds' each day. She went from house to house in the street taking 'the news' with her as she went. Molly had been a registered nurse once, and she administered first aid as she did 'the rounds'. She also helped organise the community cooking and home meal system. "Tom !?" "Morning Molly. Come right in.", called Tom from the comfort of his chair by the window. Molly came bustling through from the kitchen, "Oh Tom, you'll never guess." Viper 14/4/2008 & 11/5/2008 As commissioned and submitted to 'Ed Connel, of 'Stoner' magazine for Issue 3. ___________________________________________________________________________ All images & text ©Viperslair.co.uk 2008 All rights reserved. Any un-authorized publication of texts, parts of texts, or images, will result in legal action, and this particularly applies to Enigma Publishing - unless I get paid. Publishing permission can be obtained from Viperslair.co.uk by written request, on paper, only. First Published 22/6/2008 by Viperslair.co.uk
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