Ring-a-Ring-a-Rosey,
A pocket full of Posies,
A-Tissue!
A-Tissue!
We all fall down!
London Bridge
by Eric S. Brown
The jets and helicopters, swarm overhead like files on a pile of dung.
The fires rage, the stars disappear behind cloaks of suspended cinders.
The dust of society. The falling bridge, the toppling house of cards, now sailing down the sewer.
Eric smokes out his flat window, holding the ashes of civilisation in his lungs.
London is burning, yet nobody screams. It's so noisy that it appears completely silent. Like a disk of colours spinning so quickly so as to become nothing but dull whiteness.
The pneumatic detonations of automatic gunfire putter along, with a piercing cadence to the warbles of klaxons, fractal chatter of loudspeakers and the trembling ululations of security alarms.
They smash and crash and vent, destroying all left standing. They sail the bumpers of silver Saabs and Mercedes Benz coupes through the high street windows. Snatching widescreen TV's and overpriced Sony DVD players. Which is ridiculous, Eric reflects. Since recent events have rendered these petty consumable items worthless. And really, the bearers of them will not have much time to enjoy them once the wind changes. And the winds are certainly changing.
Carrying death.
Now the politicians bravely face the cameras, while inside they inside weep and cower like infants.
Now their war machines lie inert, their lustre dappled by chemical rains.
Now their over-elaborate systems spew out digital nonsense.
Possessed by a digital malignancy that blights mankind in fiery precipitation.
Viruses, bio and binary, ruthless and swift. Insurmountable in their varied ubiquity.
The biological blitzkrieg, the electromagnetic lightning war.
The countermeasures are in place however; the reins of power will not be lost by those who have it. And witness the martial wrestling match for control, where the cops don't simply lay down the law, they power-slam it. The more paranoid governments have indeed made contingencies for such events. At the expense of billions of oblivious taxpayers. These nations were the apparently prepared ones.
Terrorists, tyrants, monsters and misfits. Enemies, enemies, so many enemies, so many centuries, so many wars. Countless dead generations slaying legions of external adversaries.
But the Madness has always come from within.
There is no good, no evil. Just disciples of the Madness.
Now the Madness thrives, it breathes in the septic air and it grows stronger.
It marches on clunking boots, as skeletal ethics crackle beneath.
It honks its horns and blasts through speakers and hollers at the damned.
The Death Ships patrol the Thames, the gunboats towards the interior, the evacuees to god knows where. The diesel hearts of personell carriers shudder through empty neighbourhoods, their growls drift skyward in the haunting emptyness. The troops wear grey and black NASA fatigues. The hues specially selected for urban combat, and accessorising with the dull weather just a little too perfectly.
Moral conduct does not come into play.
The chain of command is now broken.
Self-preservation is their only motivational force.
Their attitude being you can leave now, or we can shoot you.
And failing that the air-strike will vaporise every component of your doomed lives down beyond sub-molecular level.
This could be arguably considered the lighter, more humane option.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
Put that stereo down.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
We asked you nicely.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
Please remain calm.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
Don't remain here.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
Please board the evac trucks in a calm and orderly fashion.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
Orderly doesn't mean slowly.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
Do not use your cars, conserve fuel.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
That also means no throwing molotovs.
Others arrive in the black livery of night camouflage, their orders; purge all miracles from the city.They strobe the darkness with flamethrowers, to torch all living matter.
One living person in a city has the capability of killing millions.
There is an antidote of course, but mass-inoculation is expensive.
And money's kinda tight at the moment.
Eric tosses the cigarette butt out the window, and retreats to his sofa.
Revels in his accomplishments. Reminisces about that first childhood revelation of lucid psychosis. And accepts his destiny- in accordance to the Prophecy of Madness.
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"
Young, long-haied Irish type. Vocationally-challenged of my own choice. My main loves include drinking heavily, smoking heavily, listening to and creating music,and of course writing. Have published quasi-cyberpunk stuff on d'web under the alias Wayne Clarke (1, 2, 3, 4) and also for the Orion's arm project as Ernst Stavro Blofeld (1, 2).
Here is a link to my non-PC website, which contains more stories, hopefully it will still be intact when you get there, but somehow I doubt it.
DG/DJ/MCP/ESB/CCC/LSD/RTC/TB303/666@1_5_79.
Political Pagan/Professional Degenerate & All-Round Hed-Reckin' Bastard/(I won an award for it once)
Patron of St James' Gate/Unwitting Inhabitant of Bat Country/Warlock of Aural Anarchy/Literary genius/Last of the V8 Interceptors/Desciple of the One True FUNK MACHINE.GCS/O d--- p--- c++ l !u e*@ m*(+++)(---) s++/++ n++(*) h --f++@ !g w+++ t+ r y++(**)"
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