MEMP’IS
BOOK
SIX – “MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE”
(Sunday
{Venuday}, January 7, 2035, and After)
What has happened - well, it was this...
After a few failed, futile attempts at ramming the old iron
palisades barring their way onto the King's preserve, the two patrolboats retreat - Kruppe
drawing two pistols he has brought… a prancer and a
skimmer… gazing at them longingly while Sergeant Aspid
bends over in the prow, sniffed the petrochemical emanations rising from the
water. He looks up at Kruppe, shook his head.
"Very well, draw up to the keb
n' rip it out," the Lieutenant orders one of the apprehensive officers,
nodding to another... one of John Crum's men (present, there, by virtue of having
had the misfortune to be in Germany's line of vision late the previous night as
the posse was being hastily assembled).
Too bad someone hadn't thought to bring a hacksaw, Kruppe
snarls, under his breath, but there is
a crowbar; this he presses into the shaky hands of the reluctant Trouble
Factotum, pointing, motioning the EastAmerican
captain from Clarksdale to draw his patrol boat up next to the gate.
Once it was verified that Norlin
had escaped by the midnight bus to West Memphis, his pursuers had piled into a
half-dozen hydros, streaming north into the night
with letters from the City Council to bully the EastAmi
border patrol and the district command at Clarksdale, the westernmost
promontory of the still-chaotic, easternmost remnant of the once-proud United
States. While messages flew between Jatesland, Washington, Clarksdale and the Southwest Command
north of Tupelo... which, also, exerted nominal authority over the Jatesport... both of Clarksdale's police speedboats were
impressed into the pursuit, as was the town's police and naval Captain… Sykes,
an old river-hog who'd roamed the Mississippi in the days before the K'ball, escorting fishermen, smuggling whatever someone
paid him to smuggle.
The fog at Clarksdale was not nearly so
thick as upriver, so, as the brass had walked out onto the dock, Aspid pointed out across the waters to where the tip of a
gray obelisk poked above the dawn's early tide.
"What's that?"
"Monument to Johnson. Bobby Johnson," Sykes explained, taking
a quick, squinting glance around to be sure of the races and faces of Barataria's delegation.
"Nigger - sold his soul to the Devil, so they say, to write songs
an' play guitar... bought himself some fame and fortune for awhile, then died off..."
"Father of the kebbin'
blues, so they say. Anyone had fex offa
Robert Johnson," Eric Ice sidled up, "he'd be a rich, rich man."
"Do you always
show up where you're not wanted?" Aspid had
scowled.
Eric had backed off with a grin, throwing his hands up so
the Sergeant and the local could see the reeking pigeon claws circling his
thick, red neck. "Heyy... I ain't with C-Squad now,
I got protection..." and he'd
jerked his head back towards Dr. Skark who, with
either the Blue Man or the Gray Man (the hour being so early and the air still
soupy enough that the Sergeant's mutilated eyes couldn't individuate the color
of their suits)... was engaged in a furious dispute with the Clarksdale deputy
to the effect that, in order to accommodate his teatray,
one of the Trouble Factory officers would have to be left behind. The dispute was settled by Kruppe, summarily designating one of the flatfeet leaning
on a hydro... another of Crum's dusky prodigies, a relative of a kebbin' relative or, for all the Sergeant knew, Robert kebbin' Johnson... to stay behind. The officer was a large man, slow and tired,
and, once the EastAmi cruisers sped away from the
dock, he crawled into the back seat of one of the vehicles, unwrapped and ate a
whole EastAmi chocolate bar and, then, with a broad,
vengeful grin, fell asleep.
While Norlin was drifting east
and south atop the impersonator's coffin, the Clarksdale cruisers had
embarked... steering a perilous course north on the great, earthquake-created
lake, veering west to hug the WestAmerican shore as
the fog thickened and they approached the no-man's water downstream from the
fearsome Arsenal with its toxins and savage mutes (Kruppe
lowering the heater he'd used to pot the occasional possum-faced pirate, Cai-man or phibe as emerged from
the depths, seeking plunder or, just maybe, a meal).
Now, at the gates of Graceland... and on Norlin's heels at last... Captain Sykes, perhaps
anticipating the account he would be obliged to give for damage to the boats,
asks...
"I got me orders, but do you think this is really necessary?"
Kruppe turns, brandishing the
crowbar as if it really doesn't make much difference to him whether he employs
it on the gate or upon Sykes.
"Don't even think of kebbin' me off at
this stage; I got both thumbs up from Washington and Tupelo, so just do your kebbin' job
and you... Officer Frost, is that right, kebbin' Jack
Frost are you?... get ahold
of this and pry that iron fex an' all them Hi-C music
fexnotes out from their kebbin'
bed!" And he glares out across the
filthy waters, squinting, himself, as if to conjure up hope that the quarry has
somehow doubled back, from pain or from confusion. There'd been a lot of noise out there, but
he'd heard a cry that hadn't come from any phibe, so
he just hoped that Norlin would be still alive when
they caught up to him. The Veronica
could be recovered, undamaged… and, then, he'd have a little fun with Corporal kebbin' Norlin – by Jates he will!
Frost... whose Christian name is Alton, not Jack... warily
crouches in the stern and digs the crowbar down into the muddy water, seeking
out leverage from which to pry the rusty gate away from its stony
foundation. His hands are soon greasy
with sweat and filth that seems to condense from the very air; he gouges,
grunts and the crowbar slips from his hands, landing... fortunately... in the
boat instead of plunging down into the depths.
"Grab hold of yourself, man!" Kruppe
snarls, fists grasping for the security of the guns at his hipbones
"...can't you do anything
without kebbin' up?"
Abashed, Officer Frost squirms in the stern, then lifts his
right leg, lowering it hesitantly into the water, wrapping his thigh around the
prow of the cruiser as if it's just another donna on the Hamorite
Strip... a big, cold, slippery donna who stinks like a day-old corpse. He flails at the gate again, but without
effect, and Aspid, Captain Sykes and the other
policemen in the boat... eight, in all, line up behind Kruppe
to watch his helpless battering, heckling mercilessly.
So consumed with shame, he is… shame, and the humiliation
of his sweaty, slippery, impotent labors, and the swiftness and shock of
attack… the officer, at first, doesn't even realize what's happened until red
ribbons snake out from under his damp thigh.
Incomprehension creases Alton Frost's face - already growing blotchy and
marred by cold sweat.
"Sergeant?" he whispers to Aspid,
"... Sergeant?"
Torrents of fresh, dark blood billow out from under the
Clarksdale police boat, petals of a malignant orchid blooming in kaleidoscopic
profusion as Frost's face begins to blanch, pale as the snowman of Lieutenant Kruppe's leering jibes.
"Sergeant, I... jesk'ball! Oh Jates jates jates... oh kebbin' God, oh keb..." and
Patrolman Frost leans sideways - he would've fallen from the boat entirely but
for the support of the iron bars of Elvis Presley's gate that leave broad red
swathes of rust across his uniform...
Another patrolman leans over the side of the cruiser to
vomit... struggles back, dripping brown and pink
chunks as the waters swirl and the smooth, evil face of a phibe
breaks the water's surface. Leaning
against Graceland's stone and metal gate, the monster lifts his snack out of
the river and, as if taunting the Trouble Factory, begins to gnaw the exposed
flesh of the policeman's leg, as it has been ripped off, just below the
knee. Rotating the joint to nip away at a
gobbet poking out of the shredded trousers, the phibe
bends to nibble at Frost's dark, waterlogged boot until, as Kruppe
fumbles with his skimmer; it smirks and dives beneath the surface of the water.
As Chester Aspid tries to tie off
the gushing veins and arteries, Dr. Skark, in the
other boat, raises a flask of police serum and a hypodermic needle - his thin,
blue lips pursed with disgust. In one of
Graceland's petrified, skeletal oaks rising out of the river, two sickly birds
of prey flap their wings and cough.
"Pull back!" orders Kruppe,
motioning to the other boat, manned by Sykes' unsmiling deputy. "Pull back! You..." he snaps
his fingers at one of his sickened officers, "...bring me the brown box,
and break it open..."
"Lieutenant..." Aspid
cautions, looking to Germany Smith for reinforcement, but the Chief of
Intelligence merely tips Captain Sykes' fishing pole towards the Lieutenant, in
a gesture of comradely assent.
"Now!"