SIX - ROADTRIP

The alien ship hung in the air, glinting like an old chrome hub cab in the shafted light of the sun which arced above it like a vengeful phoenix. It was a round saucer shaped craft, with a large concave Plexiglas dome on the top. The words ‘unidentified flying object’ were painted upon the side of the craft, and inside they sat, the occupants, the aliens, like giant oozing balls of snot, they squelched inside their orbiting ship, consulting instruments with their many eyes as they curiously watched the strange little greeny-blue planet far below. On the screen in front of one of the aliens a picture could be seen. It showed a large lizard creature, all scales and teeth, chasing a screaming man in a business suit down an otherwise empty street.

“Reconfirming,” one alien said in a female voice with a perfect English accent, “there is a cross-connecting of time zones. Continental shift seems to be increasing also.”

Another of the aliens nodded in agreement, (actually it waggled four of its eyeballs and put one of its sixteen fingers up its middle nostril, but in the alien’s own culture this was the equivalent of a nod).

“Reconfirming,” this one said, once more in an English accent and sounding rather more like a rugged square jawed male athlete than a squelchy alien, whatever squelchy aliens are supposed to sound like, “it would appear that time is running backwards in a somewhat limited form. Corpses of the recently dead have begun to reawaken.”

The third alien, who wore a badge proclaiming: ‘I’m not interested in your leader, just take me to a disco’, muttered his words in an angry voice; the faint hint of a Scottish burr lingered in his speech as he rolled his R’s in exasperation.

“I can’t believe it,” he cried, “we’ve been planning this holiday for months now, and what happens the day we arrive? The whole blasted planet ends up in turmoil!! How the hell am I supposed to enjoy a seaside swim if I can expect to meet a Plesiosaurus!!? How can I be expected to go surfing with Ichthyosaurs nibbling at my toes!!?”

“The resurgence of long dead creatures is fairly limited,” the rugged male athlete squelch interrupted, “the only ones I can see on my screen are those which have escaped from museums and the like, along with the occasional Cro-Magnon. It seems mostly to be the recent dead who are resurfacing. My own theory would be that if time is running backwards, it is doing so at a very slow rate. It will take a lengthy period to reconstitute all those that have gone to dust; it is more likely that those only recently buried, or those whose excavated remains lie above the planet’s surface, will appear first.”

“If it’s any consolation,” the female alien interjected, “there will be no danger to us. In an environment saturated with negative time particles, such as the Earth now appears to be, any injury we suffer would be instantly healed. Anyone on the planet would become effectively immortal.”

“Hurrumph!!” muttered the Scottish alien bad temperedly. “That still doesn’t help me with going surfing.”

It was at that moment that another shape resolved out of the traditional inky black backdrop of space, an Alaskan White Mustang with the top down. On the driver’s seat there sat a man with long brown hair, a perfect tan and very dark sunglasses. He waved at the surprised aliens good-naturedly and flashed them a smile with teeth whiter than any toothpaste model the world had ever seen. The car spun past them, looping on a lazy spiral down toward the planet below.

“Bloody hell,” the Scottish alien cried, “that was Jesus Christ, the Son of God himself!! We’ve only gone and gate-crashed the second coming!!”

There was silence for a moment as the aliens digested this fact.

“Let’s get the hell out of here!!!” they all cried at once.

But of course it was then that the fan-belt broke and the gear-box shuddered and three voices screamed in the void as their ship choked and spluttered and they followed the path the Mustang had taken, plummeting relentlessly down towards the planet below.

*

Behold he cometh with clouds; and every eye shall see him, and they also which pierced him: and all kindreds of Earth shall wail because of him.

*

A hand reaches over, turns the dial. The shirtsleeve pulls up the arm, the wound readily apparent for all to see. Music blares from the speakers but is quickly drowned out by static. A search is commencing, a search which has preoccupied humankind since time immemorial, the search for palatable music. Fleeting moments of music air, long enough to be deciphered, long enough to decide that this will not do. Frustration reigns, the hand reaches over and turns off the radio.

For a moment the hand motions and pulls back, the wound looks fresh, new, as if it had just been inflicted, but no blood pours from it, it does not seem to cause any pain. The hand reaches to the lock on the glove compartment, squeezing until the compartment springs open, a number of different items falling out, including a roadmap. The hand reaches into the compartment, searching for a specific item; finally it pulls out a CD and places it onto the leather-clad seat. Then the hand closes the glove compartment.

Swiftly the hand takes the CD out of its cover and carefully places it into the CD player. The hand’s index finger touches the ‘play’ button, then ‘stop’. The finger hits the select button four times, cueing track four. The music brings a smile to the face and the hand reaches up and strokes the goatee. The wound on the palm is a hole, all the way through it. The smile is brought on by amusement, amused that in many ways this song was critical of those that had followed his teachings. Still he smiles and quickly joins in singing along with the Soundgarden tune.

“Arms held in your Jesus Christ pose....”

His voice is rich and vibrant, words echoing out in perfect unity with the music.

“... it’s the coming of the Lord.”

The singing stops, the words: ‘Coming of the Lord’ ring in his mind. It was true that the Lord was coming, that was no secret.

The hand turns the key, the foot pumps the accelerator, the Mustang’s engine bursts to life. The arm moves, the hand clutches the stick, putting the car into gear. Eyes look about one last time, lips locked in a smile. The Mustang takes off and a plume of dust is left in its wake.

The Mustang roars down the road, miles from anywhere. The wheels spin, a plume of dust rising at the rear, growing as he continues down the road until it becomes a great cloud, a storm all its own, a solitary hurricane summoned from the heart of a Mustang. It is time to begin his work. It is time for the end of the world.

“It’s the second coming,” Jesus Christ howls as the wind blows back his hair and his sunglasses glint in the sun, “let the good times roll.”

*

“Armageddon is coming!!” shouted one man. Others yelled of the second coming, others of the Rapture. But to Mick it was all gibberish from lunatics. You see, Mick had some education and knew the great Apocalyptic War would occur somewhere in the Middle East, it said so in the Bible somewhere. No, Mick didn’t worry about getting killed in a war, he had to worry about getting killed by the scum on the street. That’s if you could truly die anymore. All the risen dead seemed to suggest otherwise. Mick wasn’t sure, but for some reason he felt that even if he had his ticket punched, he would still pop up again. After all, he had already done it once.

Yeah, he’d come back from the dead. But then every single criminal who had ever lived or died had come back too, and here they were, just waiting to punch Mick’s ticket for him. Mick McDaniel had been famous once, he was a cop first, and then a private detective. Bloody good at it too, only thing was that he got lazy... he got killed. It wasn’t forever though, he was back. And this time around he was determined to shoot first and ask questions later. Even if the dame was pretty. Even if the commission was high.

Mick took the cigarette out of his mouth and threw it into the gutter. He held back the urge to mutter “those things will kill me one day” knowing full well that they wouldn’t. Not anymore. Nothing could kill him now. Nothing could kill anyone. Only judgement day would put an end to an Earth full of uncertain immortals and that didn’t seem to be coming anytime soon. On the curb sat a Mustang, white, its driver staring directly at Mick. Mick could see his smile and that made him uneasy; nobody smiled these days unless they were going to try and pump a few rounds through you.

“Are you Mick McDaniel?” asked the guy in the ‘stang.

“Yeah I am, what of it?” asked Mick.

“I’ve been looking for you,” stated the man.

Mick reached for his gun; a life spent on the street had taught him one thing, no one went looking for someone unless it was to waste them. Mick didn’t even wait for the guy to explain himself, he emptied a whole clip of ammo into him, just to make sure he wouldn’t get up. When he had finished he reloaded, packed his gun and continued walking down the street. The shmuck was now a dead shmuck - nothing more than a distant memory. At least until he rose from the dead again, as corpses so annoyingly did these days. But that wouldn’t be for a while yet. Time enough for a dangerously stereotypical hard-bitten detective to make his getaway.

Mick reached for a cigarette in his coat; putting it in his mouth he attempted to light it but a head wind stopped him from doing so. Stopping, Mick turned, briefly catching the sight of his own reflection in a nearby shop window. Finally the cigarette was lit, and as it lit so too did a thought in Mick’s head; he had seen something else in the reflection, something that wasn’t him. The cigarette fell from his mouth. Mick turned, brandishing his pistol at the same guy he had already shot.

“This can’t be true, I killed you,” shouted Mick hysterically as the Mustang idled on the road next to him and the driver continued to smile, “resurrection from that would take at least a week of careful concentration and face reconstruction. How the hell did you do it in sixty seconds!!?”

“Take it easy Mick, I don’t want to hurt you, I need your help,” stated the man, still smiling with a reassuring grin which only succeeded in making Mick feel more uneasy.

“Help doing what?” asked Mick nervously, his gun still leveled at the man’s head.

“I need you to help me find some people, people who I haven’t seen for a while.”

“I don’t come cheap,” Mick quickly interjected. There was nothing like shooting a client for bringing down your royalty cheque, and Mick wanted it clear from the start that he did nobody any favors, at least not without collecting his pound of flesh.

“I know. I can pay.”

Mick jumped into the passenger seat of the car, offering his hand to the stranger. The stranger accepted the hand and gave it a casual shake.

“Sorry about what happened back there.”

“That’s fine, it happens sometimes. By the way, I’m Jesus.”

“I’m Mick.”

“I know.”

“Jesus eh? Heh. It’s a good thing people don’t mistake you for the messiah in this day and age. So who are these people you’re looking for?”

“They’re a bunch of guys I used to spend time with, a sort of gang I had going a while back. I need to organise a reunion and I was hoping you could round them up for me.”

“Fair enough, do they have names?”

Jesus took out a piece of paper, handing it over to Mick. Mick casually surveyed the list.

“A bunch of guys and a dame?” stated Mick in a questioning tone.

“Yeah,” answered Jesus simply. “I need you to get them to the address written on the back of the paper, by this time next week.”

Mick tucked the list into his pocket. Reaching for the door handle he turned to Jesus before getting out of the car and asked:

“How will I find you?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll find you.”

Mick got out of the car and grumbled under his breath:

“I knew you’d bloody say that.”

Mick turned back towards Jesus, but he was already gone. Looking down the street, Mick couldn’t even see the ‘stang.

*

Mick slumped into the chair in his office. The first guy on the list was called James. Nothing unusual. Scanning over the rest of the names he felt that they were all vaguely familiar. The thirteenth name was Mary Magdalene. Then it clicked, twelve guys and a dame. The twelve apostles and the chick Jesus saved.

“Holy shit!! That was the Jesus in the ‘stang.”

Mick’s parents would have been happy that all those weekends spent at Sunday school had not been wasted on Mick. He reached over his desk to the wooden box where he kept his cigars. Reaching in he took one, bit the end off and began sucking it as he reached for his lighter to light the stogie. Mick began puffing, stoking the fire at the end of the cigar. Inhaling deeper than usual, Mick sat, pondering his new client.

“Jesus the Son of God, asking me for help. Fuck me.” Then, as Mick thought about it some more, he added: “Fuck everyone.”

*

The number of different names that had been applied to the organisation over the years left him in a constant state of awe and amusement. Men in Black, perhaps the most ridiculous and pretentious, was one he felt no affinity with at all, especially considering his love of Hawaiian shirts. The Outsiders he quite liked, along with The Inner Circle and The Shadows of Justice, they gave the group a credence and respect which he had always thought they deserved. Deserved now more than ever, now that the world had gone mad.

He walked through the echoing halls of the headquarters, and frowned, looking into rooms as he passed, old trophy rooms, weapons rooms, rooms filled with books and rooms filled with ghosts, frozen memories and the silent hushed aura of expectant doom. It was the monitor room he sought, the pinnacle of their technology. The room that watched the world. There was nothing but silence to be heard from behind the door, but the endless flickering of lights coming from the gap between the door and the floor signaled that there was someone in attendance. That there was one last watcher casting silent vigil upon the world. With a heavy sigh Brigadier Matthew Carson waved his hand at the sensor pad and watched as the door swished open with a movement that had seemed futuristic back in the sixties, but which now just seemed dumb. With a sigh he entered the monitor room of the main headquarters of Division Six. With another sigh he opened his eyes and looked upon the world.

The technology had been put in place many years before the second coming, long before the dead had arisen and started to walk the land. It was technology that encroached upon every aspect of living, technology that peered out of every camera, out of every circuit, technology that allowed an opening upon the world, a window into all, a watchtower from which they could serve and protect all of humanity. It had worked without fail in the past, their little group had kept the world in check and all had been fine. That was, of course, until the second coming. That had been a real crimp in the previously perfect plans of Division Six. Matthew Carson glanced once across the monitors, but the chaos he found there was too much even for him to handle. He looked instead at the member of his group who currently kept watch over the world, on the look out for dangers of a very specific kind. With a grin Matthew walked across the room to stand behind the Inhuman Machine, waiting patiently until it turned to regard him with cold processors and eyes formed from fibre optics and the left-over circuits of abandoned toasters.

“Greetings Matthew,” the Inhuman Machine spoke, its voice composed of whirrs and clicks, hands formed of old typewriter keys waving in faint gestures of welcome, “there have been no further developments. The usual chaos ensues, as always, but there is no situation requiring our attention.”

Carson was one of the few members of Division Six who felt comfortable talking to the Inhuman Machine. The others would make excuses to leave or fall silent and scuff their shoes, but Brigadier Carson actually liked the conversations he had with this member of his troop, the strange fusion of logic and misunderstanding which seemed the lot of artificial intelligences actually put things in perspective for Carson. The more time he spent with the Inhuman Machine, the more he found he liked it.

“I don’t know,” Carson muttered disparagingly, pulling half-heartedly at the collar of his bright Hawaiian shirt. “Sometimes I feel as though Division Six is obsolete. Our world is gone and this new world in which we find ourselves doesn’t seem to want us around anymore. World orders, secret societies, strange alien conspiracies, once these were things strange and unknown, things which only we were qualified to deal with. Now these things are everyday occurrences. I know for a fact that Non-Death Girl feels totally out of place here. It was her abilities which set her apart, made her important, but now that everyone is immortal she won’t even put her tights and cape on, she says she just feels silly. Seriously, I don’t know how much longer I can hold Division Six together. Somehow it doesn’t seem worth it anymore.”

The Inhuman Machine whirred and clicked. Carson knew from experience that it usually took at least five minutes before it would reply to such a speech. As he waited Carson glanced across at the screens that lined every wall and thought about the creature that he spoke to. The Inhuman Machine was the creation of one of the founding members of Division Six, the eccentric Professor Coughlan. Coughlan had died many, many years ago, and so far had not returned to Division Six despite the continuing resurrections of all and sundry. When he had served in Division Six he had spent his time inventing, creating the most advanced technology out of the remnants of old bits and pieces, pilfering old television picture tubes and refrigerators to sculpt interactive workrooms, monitor rooms and heating systems. The whole headquarters had been built by him, as well as taken apart and rebuilt again quite a few times. Incredible technology. As a field agent he had been invaluable, coming up with devices for every eventuality. It was he who had captured the Master of Madness, creating a dream cage out of his pocket watch and an old rusty bicycle in a matter of minutes. Carson wished he was around today; he could have used his help.

The Inhuman Machine had been Coughlan’s last invention. Incomplete before his death, they had all assumed it to be inactive and left the pile of random circuits and chaotic instruments draped across the workbench in the late Professor’s workshop. It had been little more than a month later when the Inhuman Machine had achieved sentience, through a complicated series of events too strange to be true, and he had been a member of the team ever since. Carson stopped in his reminiscences as the Inhuman Machine stirred from its reverie and spoke with a whispering of circuits and turning of gears.

“There is still a place for us, Matthew,” it whispered, “there always will be. The world is in chaos and we are still the best qualified to deal with it. Someone needs to save the world. Why shouldn’t it be us?”

Matthew grinned at the clicking machine, as usual its words were exactly what he needed to hear. He was about to respond to it when he caught a glimpse of something on one of the screens. A man with a goatee, driving a white Mustang, sunglasses reflecting the streetlights as he drove. The car passed out of sight of the camera and was gone, but the Brigadier had seen enough.

“Assemble the team immediately,” he muttered with a grim voice, “and tell those three aliens to be prompt this time. Tell them that we’ve found him. He’s on the move, which means it’s time for Division Six to get to work.”

*

Mick had made a few phone calls, all of which proved useless. None of his regular snitches could tell him a thing. This was to be expected though, considering that none of the Apostles or the Mary chick were criminals and lifers like most of his assignments. No, to find these people, Mick would need to use a little more finesse than usual.

The little Brownstone he stood outside was home to one Mickey Spillane, crime writer. Spillane had come to Mick several years ago to do some research about contemporary detective techniques. He had been writing a novel and wanted to base it on Mick’s adventures. He wrote it in the end but apparently publishers wouldn’t touch the book. Apparently, it was even harder to get published now because not only did your competition come back, but every other mutha had as well. Shakespeare’s latest science fiction epic was still on the bestsellers list and Mickey Spillane was hardboiled bygone.

So Spillane had holed himself up, becoming a recluse. Mick hoped he was still writing the quintessential novel of the millennium, just so he wouldn’t have to hear about the latest Shakespeare crap, or the newest ravings of idiots like Aristotle. Mick wanted a real book, one drenched with the bile of the streets, a book, to be honest, that he could read without pulling his hair out. A book only the incomparable king of crime fiction, Mickey Spillane, could write. But that wasn’t why he was here today. Today he was here for stories of a different kind.

Mick pressed the button to sound the doorbell, a rundown chiming that sounded like a dwarf head butting a cargo liner. With no response forthcoming Mick knocked on the door as well, hoping that someone would open it. After several moments Mick knocked again, beating until his right hand was red raw.

Abruptly the door opened and an overweight Spillane, wearing only a pair of y-fronts and holding a twelve-gauge shotgun, charged at Mick. Mick took cover at the side of the house pulling his own colt out and reaching for his back up.

“I told you to never come near me again you piece of shit dime fuckin’ store detective,” yelled Spillane as he charged out into the street, his shotgun firing indiscriminately. “I’m gonna have your guts for garters.”

Mick could see that Spillane was upset and decided that he should console his one-time friend. “Fuck you Spillane, don’t blame me that your damn novel never got published,” shouted Mick as he fired some rounds at Spillane while diving behind a car.

Spillane started shooting up the car that Mick had taken cover behind, riddling it with shrapnel. “Come out you damn lullabell, I’m gonna kill you this time. And once you resurrect I’ll kill you again.”

Mick had circled around to the front of the car and quickly moved to come up from behind Spillane. Spillane was so pissed, not only in anger toward Mick, but also from the bourbon Mick could smell, that sneaking up on the hulking figure was far too easy.

Mick leveled his colt at Spillane’s head.

“Relax old buddy, I’ll ask you a question, you give me the answer and I’ll be outta here.”

Spillane nodded in agreement. Mick was always surprised by the fact that people would easily relent when they had a gun at their head. Even with a bullet through the brain you would come back to life; it might take days or even weeks, but you would come back. So it shouldn’t be that big a worry. Mick had often thought of what he would do himself in such a situation - taking the bullet wouldn’t be so bad, he just worried what would happen to his corpse while he didn’t have control of it. Rumour had it that a cult of hard core necrophiliacs wandered the streets at night. If such tales were true then it would be better not to take the bullet after all.

“I’m feeling religious,” Mick smiled, pressing the barrel into the side of Spillane’s head. “Tell me, how might I be able to find the Twelve Apostles and that Mary friend of theirs?”

“Do I fuckin’ look like I give a shit about Apostles?!!”

“Where can I find them?” asked Mick, irritation creeping into his voice.

“Go ask a bloody priest...” spoke Spillane, his words interrupted by the echo of a round shot straight through his head; his face was ripped out by a single hollow point round leaving his eyes and lips, his matted hair, flesh and now loose teeth all adorning the shrapnel riddled car.

“Thanks for the advice. Be seein’ ya Spillane,” mocked Mick as he walked off to go find a priest. Behind him the corpse stuck its middle finger up before collapsing to the ground. “Fuck that,” thought Mick, he could do better than find some old whiskey priest, hell, he could find a pope who had more to drink than some two-cent bottle of moonshine turps.

*

Extract from the unpublished works of Mickey Spillane.

He wasn’t much of a dresser, that was for sure. A rag tag fan boy of the worst kind, a cheap hood in an even cheaper suit. He was a thug and in a perfect world that would have been the end of it. But it ‘aint no perfect world and these days thugs are only the beginning, certainly not the end.

He strutted like a disco reject and spoke like a lavatory attendant, dragged from the sewer with nothing but an old .45 Revolver and a pair of ragged sneakers to keep him from going insane. He called himself Mick, Mick McDaniel, and he didn’t answer to anyone.

There were a lot of cases Mick undertook in his latter days, but there was one of which none would speak. Referred to only by pseudonyms such as ‘The strangest case of all’, ‘The case of the missing messiah’, or ‘The Apostles Strike Back’. Only Mick knew the truth of that case, only he knew the strange depravity that was the world in those final dark days. Only he knew what was said between himself and Pope Pius the Fifth, the Pirate Pope of Lepanto. It was a meeting held in shadow, a meeting charged with the dark spectre of death.

“Dude,” Pius had said, grinning from ear to ear as Mick had strutted into his cabin, “how cool is this, totally rad.”

Mick stayed aloof, his otherworldly charm kept him in check, his cold detective veneer allowed him to examine his situation with a resourceful eye, taking everything in and giving nothing away.

“Yo Pope, my man,” he cried, flinging himself into a comfy chair, “how’s it hangin’?”

It was an opening Mick could hardly have expected. If he played his cards right, he might not even need to shoot anyone. Well, not too much anyway. He held his cards tight to his chest, like a true poker player he kept his knowledge behind a straight face, caught in shadow as the red circle of a cigar puffed resolutely from his mouth, surrounding him in the aura of a cloud of faint blue smoke.

“I’m looking for the twelve apostles,” he stated, voice grimmer than a graveyard’s gravel, “what can you give me?”

“All twelve huh,” the Pope frowned, fiddling aimlessly with the earring in his left ear, “geez, that’s a tough one man, those guys aren’t what you’d call socialites. I invited Judas to a party once, and he didn’t even return the RSVP. So far as I’m concerned he’s one Laodicean git. I lost contact with him long ago, and as for the rest... What can I tell you, the most I can give you is an address, the place where James used to hang.”

The Pope passed a small square of paper across to Mick and the detective felt his fingers close about the rough surface, his first tangible clue. He tightened his hand into a tight fist, it felt good, it felt mighty good. At last he was getting somewhere. Now all he needed was a bottle of cheap alcohol and a few heads to crack and his day would be complete.

“Nice one Pope,” he grinned, “the cheque’s in the mail.”

The Pope returned the smile, then picked up the surfboard that lay on the floor nearby.

“You sure you don’t wanna come on down to the beach,” Pius grinned, “we got some tubular action going on these days.”

But Mick did not reply, his head shrouded in shadow as he exited the room, moving off toward a destiny which he felt calling him onward, onward into a darkness blacker than his own eternal soul.

“Bitchin’,” muttered the Pope, then he too moved out of the cabin, wondering what the weather was like and wishing that they’d had more waves in Lepanto, back when he’d first been alive.

These Spillane extracts were never completed, although friends of the great novelist claim that he spent many hours on them, attempting to hone them to perfection. He was once heard to say that he was writing the next book of the Bible, but the idea of a sacred text reading ‘Mathew, Mark, Luke and Spillane’ was too ridiculous to be given credit. As to the truth of the existence of anyone by the name of Mick McDaniel and any quest to find the Twelve Apostles, who can say? Pope Pius the Fifth still enjoys surfing and can usually be found off shore at Bells Beach, using words like ‘gnarly’ and ‘radical’.

*

The briefing went about as well as could be expected.

“So, as you can see the second coming has now officially been confirmed,” Carson muttered grimly, pointing to a freeze-framed image of Jesus in a Mustang that was displayed on the large screen at the heart of Division Six’s headquarters.

“It already had been confirmed,” muttered one of the three aliens who squelched about sullenly in the background. “We saw him arrive on Earth the same day our ship crashed here.”

“Yes, well, now we have more than just your word of it. We have proof. And we know what he’s up to.”

“Does it really matter,” Non-Death Girl griped from the corner. “I mean, the dead have risen, the return of Christ has been confirmed. So, it’s obvious what he’s up to. He’s preparing for Judgment Day.”

“Bloody Judgment Day,” muttered one of the alien trio. “All I wanted was to go surfing.”

“Alright, that’s enough of that,” shouted Carson. “Yes, he’s preparing for Judgment Day. Yes, we already knew this would happen. The Rapture will come and everyone will be judged and some will go to heaven and the rest will go to hell. And we have to stop it.”

“Why?” the Inhuman Machine whirred and clicked.

“Because it’s our duty,” Carson replied proudly. “To save the world. Even if it doesn’t want to be saved. If we stop Judgment Day then there won’t be any Rapture. There won’t be any Ascension. We’ll still have the problem of the risen dead to deal with, but we’ll be one step closer to getting things back to normal.”

“And how exactly,” Non-Death Girl whined, “are we supposed to achieve this?”

By way of reply Carson pressed a button on a nearby handset and the image on the screen came to life.

“I need you to get them to the address written on the back of the paper, by this time next week,” Jesus said on the screen. Carson pressed another button and the image zoomed in on the paper, showing the address in question to all who watched.

“We know where,” Carson smiled, “and we know when. And we’ll be ready.”

*

He’d done it. Not an easy job, perhaps the hardest one he’d ever tackled, but he’d done it. Mick had found the Twelve Apostles. He even found Mary as well. The job was done, and not a moment too soon. It was time to set up the meet.

They made their way up the hill to the quiet tavern that sat at the top. He was already there of course, grinning from inside the white Mustang. Mick returned the grin with one of his own and watched amazed as the Apostles did likewise, ambling forward amiably to meet their old friend. Jesus had words with his friends and one by one they all climbed into the Mustang. Once the crowded car was full, Jesus got out and walked over to Mick.

Mick and Jesus stood outside of the tavern, the darkened streets about them a stark contrast to the white Mustang which seemed to be luminescent in the dark. Jesus was holding out a wad of bills. Mick grabbed it, not knowing if even the Son of Man would be able to pay anymore after this.

“I’m taking the gang for a bit of a Roadtrip. Did you wanna come along?” asked Jesus.

It took Mick a moment to decide. It was a tempting offer, but in the end not at all his style. The job was done, he had no desire to do much of anything now except enjoy the finale. Things were almost at an end and he meant to go out in his own blaze of glory.

“Nah I’ve got work to do,” Mick muttered apologetically. But whatever else he might have said was suddenly drowned out by the sound of an alien spacecraft flying over their heads and an amplified voice bellowing from it with the words:

“This is an illegal second coming. In the name of Division Six you are all requested to surrender immediately.”

“Damn,” Jesus muttered before leaping gracefully into the Mustang and kicking the car into life. “Thanks for the help Mick. You have yourself a good apocalypse now,” Jesus cried, then the car was away, roaring madly down the road. Mick watched it go and watched the alien spacecraft race after it, bellowing out instructions to slow down as the two speeding objects disappeared into the distance.

“Well, that was weird,” Mick muttered to himself. And, disconsolately, he headed for home.

*

Mick could smell the pleasant scent that lingered in the hallway outside of his office and sometime home. The scent was hard to trace, something rather exotic and at the same time enchanting. At least that’s how Mick would have liked to have thought of it instead of thinking that some drunk had urinated in the doorway again.

Reaching for the brass doorknob, Mick instantly saw the door was open. Peering through the large glass plate with his name emblazed upon it, Mick could see that the light was on. There was no other way that Mick could perceive to deal with the situation other than go in guns blazing. And so he did, jumping through the glass panel, .45 Colt Revolver in hand, hammer already cocked. Falling into a forward roll and snapping onto his feet, Mick promptly jumped over his desk. The desk had been specially designed for just such a situation; beneath the dark timber the desk was lined with titanium. Mick hid under the desk long enough to pull out his sawn-off double-barrelled shotgun, always loaded for such a situation. Rising from behind the desk Mick held both his guns out ready to fire, but the only sign of life in his office was an elderly man sitting comfortably in the art deco armchair he kept in the corner near his small television set.

“Who are you and what the fuck are you doing here?” spat Mick, his fingers twitching as he prepared to fire at the first sign of trouble.

“Tying up loose ends,” the man replied with a wry grin. “Aren’t you curious to know what happens to the second coming? What transpires with Division Six? Where Jesus goes on his Roadtrip? If the aliens get home? If the Rapture finally comes? Don’t you have curiosity about any of it?”

“I’m not paid to be curious,” Mick replied. “I did the job, so far as I’m concerned my part in that strange debacle is over.”

“Well yes,” the old man replied. “It is in fact. But then by the same logic your part in everything is over. You no longer have any purpose.”

Mick tightened his finger on the trigger, ready to pull it at the first sign of trouble.

“I’ve engineered all this,” the old man smiled. “The second coming, the rising of the dead, all of it. Nothing to do with religion, nothing to do with aliens, nothing to with anything except me.”

Mick, although claiming to have no curiosity, suddenly found that unwanted house guests did tend to bring out a little of it in him.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Professor Coughlan,” the man replied. “I used to work at Division Six. I was always obsessed with world order you see. The human race are such a wretched and untidy lot. Killing this, destroying that, I knew that without guidance they would one day destroy themselves. I thought through Division Six I could stop that, but I soon realized the chaos was too great for us to stem. At least in that capacity. But when I invented the Inhuman Machine I came to realize there was another way. So I faked my own death, went into hiding and set my great plan in motion.”

“Plan?” Mick was losing concentration by this stage. He took a swig from the bottle of bourbon he kept hidden under his desk and contemplated killing the old guy now before he was bored to death.

“A highly complex affair, well beyond your capacity to understand. Through nanotechnology I recreated the recently dead, repaired their bodies and brought them back to life. Then through a number of androids I had created I began to shape the flow of history. I instigated this false Judgment Day, I made it so that no-one on earth can die anymore. I even created an android Christ to lead the world forward to where I need it to go for my plans to finally succeed. I manipulated my old colleagues at Division Six through some android aliens I created. And I set up the final piece on the board through a mechanical detective that would bring all the pieces together. You Mick. You are one of my creations and now you have seen to it that my plans all finally fall into place. In just a few hours my life’s work will be complete.”

Mick was too busy drinking to have taken in most of what the Professor was saying, but there was one question which remained firmly at the forefront of his mind.

“So, what does this have to do with me now?” he asked.

“As I said,” the Professor smiled, “I’m here to tie up loose ends. You have served your purpose, the purpose for which I built you.” The Professor rose and began to walk towards Mick. “It’s time to turn you off.”

“I think not,” Mick replied and pumped a large number of rounds close range into the approaching Professor’s body. As the elderly man fell to the floor, surprise written large across his face, Mick stepped out from behind his desk to survey the damage. On the floor before him lay the Professor’s body, but instead of blood flowing from the wounds sparks and smoke came, an internal system of mechanics wound in broken configurations as the Professor looked down at his own mechanical body in horror.

“No,” he whispered. “This isn’t possible. How can this be?” He looked at Mick in utter surprise. “But if I am an android then who built me? What is going on? What will happen now?”

The light began to dim in his eyes, his final word a plaintive: “Why?” Then the light died, the sparks fizzled out and the mechanical Professor was no more.

Mick made his way to the window and looked out upon the city. As he did a great light lit up in the sky and he saw the people of the world beyond begin to rise up, floating through the air toward the heavens far above.

“I’ve never been so confused in all my life,” Mick muttered. “To hell with all of it. I’m going for another drink.”

And that is precisely what he did. Drinking to excess. And to the end of the world.