OCR is Not the Only Font Read online

  “Your job,” he spoke dramatically, for the benefit of the lone television camera he had set up to capture the moment, “is to erase evil from history!” The real command he tapped into the robot’s keypad: “Enter the machine and destroy all money.” Money was the root of all evil, they said, and they were right. Fredersen had done his research. All crimes, even those that seemed violent and unplanned on the surface, had their ultimate cause in financial gain. Anyone who thought differently simply didn’t appreciate the sheer scale and brilliance of his plan.

  The robot rolled into the machine, emitting a small puff of sherbet and lice as it passed into the temporal disassociation field. Fredersen made a mental note to replace the plasma reticulation filter: he’d pick one up from the corner shop later in the afternoon. Despite this hiccup, however, the robot’s journey went smoothly. It vanished in a sparkly haze. To the camera, it would appear as though it simply reappeared a few seconds later, but Fredersen knew the truth. Its voyage had covered hundreds—no, thousands—of years. There was no telling how many stops it had made throughout history.

  Frederson stuck his hands in his pockets and his face fell. He felt change, and so he had changed nothing. He took a penny out and squinted at it. Definitely still money.

  “Heap of junk!” He slapped the robot on the side of its plastic head. “You haven’t done anything!”

  “Incorrect,” the robot droned. “Task has been completed as specified. Claude is dead. Humankind has been freed from the corrupting influence of impressionist art.”

  Frederson scrolled back through the robot’s memory to check. “Money, you idiot! That was supposed to say ‘money!’ What have you done?” His rage becoming unbearable, he hurled his clipboard into the time machine, causing it to turn up thirty seconds earlier as a startled egret. Fredersen knew money was the root of all evil, but at that particular moment he couldn’t help but wish that he’d spent just a little more of it and got a robot with spellcheck.

  6

  The Card

  Challenge #3: Write a story that incorporates elements from detective fiction and speculative fiction, and where the protagonist is a Byronic Hero.

  “The assassin is through here.”

  Alfonso followed the husband through to the drawing room, squeezing through the door close to the frame to avoid disturbing what was slumped behind it. Gruesome though it was, the sight of the body did not disgust him. It did, however, leave him somewhat disappointed. As the most famous private eye in London Superior, his cases were usually extraordinary. There had been the tailor found locked in his workshop, killed by a single needle through the heart. Then there was the priceless Foucard, burned to ashes in the space of time it took the gallery curator to turn around. Crime for Alfonso was not just a job: it was a passion. He was a connoisseur, and the wreck that lay on the carpet before him was peasant’s fare.

  Naturally, he could see why he had been hired. The first reason—as always—was that the family was exceedingly wealthy. They chose an investigator with much the same care as they chose a chaise longue, and the shabby blue suit of a police detective was bound to clash with the decor. Alfonso, however, had style. The second reason, more practical but less important, was that the police lacked the…unorthodox connections necessary to identify this particular corpse. They knew little of the secret languages of the city’s gangs and cartels and would be unable to interpret the myriad of little clues that to Alfonso were as clear as the expensive print on the house’s wallpaper. Their piles and piles of criminal records may actually have given them a better chance than Alfonso when it came to matching a name to the face, but that blast from the pneumatic blunderbuss had evened the odds completely. Looking at the toes of the “assassin’s” boots, Alfonso could already guess how the events of the evening had played out. Nevertheless, he began his interview.

  “Mrs. Rugworth, could you tell me exactly what happened here.”

  “I thought I’d explained all that over the voicewire,” Mr. Rugworth snapped.

  “You told me your wife had encountered the assassin in the kitchen. You then refused to let me speak to her.”

  “Well? You can imagine how distressing that would be just now.”

  “Oh, Ernest!” she cried. “I’d feel far better if I only knew that something was being done about this.” She turned to Alfonso. “I went into the kitchen to pour a drink and he was there, waiting. It was all I could do to fetch the gun.”

  “Have you any idea how he got in?”

  “No! The door was bolted all evening.”

  “He couldn’t have climbed in a window?”

  “We’re on the fiftieth floor!” Mr. Rugworth butted in.

  “Of course,” said Alfonso, eyeing the emergency ladder through the drawing room window. “How silly of me.”

  It was becoming apparent to Alfonso that his clients didn’t know anything. It was apparent in this particular case and, indeed, in general.

  “I’d like a few minutes to inspect the body,” he said, kneeling down before the mangled face. “You may wish to leave.”

  Mrs. Rugworth took the hint, but her husband remained, arms steadfastly crossed. “I’d very much like to supervise your work,” he said.

  “Very well.” Alfonso took his favourite tool from his bag. It was a big one: a motorised saw blade mounted beside a large filing wheel. Pulling the cord to start the miniature kerosene engine, he engaged the gears and began to lower it towards the cavity in the face. Before it had a chance to connect, he checked behind him. Mr. Rugworth was gone and the door was closed. He waited a moment before switching off the engine and setting the tool down to cool. It had originally been intended for fitting horseshoes, but seemed better suited to situations such as these. Unbuttoning the body’s jacket, he began his real work.

  The toes of its boots, he had already noted, were well-worn. Not only that, but they were worn in a manner consistent with incessant contact with ladder rungs: this man had come through the window, and he had been through other windows before. He smoked opium—the smell alone made that abundantly clear—and he was a gambler. A gambler and a cheat, said the bundle of aces and kings stuffed in his pocket, all from different packs. When Alfonso found the empty wallet in the breast pocket, he saw his chance to grab some free money.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Rugworth,” he called through the door. “I believe I have the solution to your mystery.”

  Like the tailor and his dodgy electromagnetic sewing machine, and like Jaque “le clown” Foucard’s self-destructing painting, the solution was unbelievably simple. Taking advantage of the upper classes’ false sense of security, tucked away in their sky-scraping towers, this no-name thief climbed through windows to fund his habits.

  “I say,” Mr. Rugworth stared at the body. “It doesn’t look like you’ve done anything here!”

  Alfonso rolled his eyes dramatically. “A good inspector,” he explained, “always leaves the scene as he found it. However…” he retrieved one of the cards from the man’s pocket: the Ace of Spades. “Do you know the significance of this?”

  “A spade?” Mr. Rugworth took a step back. “Isn’t that…the calling card of the Gravediggers’ Gang?”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  “Good Lord!”

  “You are right to be concerned: these people will try to strike again. However, there is some good news: they’re only in this for the money. I simply have to find out who hired them.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Rugworth. “Oh, please do! I shan’t be able to feel safe until then.”

  “Don’t fret, my lady.” Alfonso smiled and clasped her hand. “You need fear nothing while I am in your employ. Now…” he turned to Mr. Rugworth. “There is the small matter of payment?”

  Alfonso began his long walk down the stairs, the bag of coins satisfyingly heavy in his coat pocket. It was a curious fact that often the least interesting cases were the most rewarding.

  7

  Isle of Dust

  The
sky is baking and the sea calm. Inland, the desert stretches out far beyond the horizon. I am marooned on an island of brick dust in an ocean of acid. I sit on the concrete pier with my ruined shoes beside me: a stroll at low tide has left the soles soft and bubbling, slowly decomposing in the chemical wash.

  My fishing line seems, so far, to be holding out. The safety pin I have for a hook has survived a brief test dip but I can only assume it is still intact. Even if it is, I doubt I would catch anything: on the mainland, I never have. Even if I do, I can’t be sure it will be edible, but there is nothing else. Away from the coast, the orange sand stretches out in all directions. The pier is the only man-made thing I have seen on the island, and I will not leave it. I can remember the mainland, but not how I got here. I have no idea how long it has been. My watch had been flashing “00:00” the first time I checked it. The stopwatch shows thirty-one hours: still no nightfall. The sun beats down.

  My first catch—with a scrap of Kit Kat foil for a lure—turns out not to be a fish at all, but a little snake. It is a bright, mottled red and, even if I wanted to, I would not eat it: it is the only bait I have. Still struggling on the line, the hook in its belly, I dip it back into the sea, hoping for a fish.

  The next catch is also a snake, but this one is bigger. It is dark and scaly, with a criss-cross pattern on its back. It looks venomous. I leave it dangling over the edge of the pier while I consider whether to give up my rod or risk its fangs. I wonder also if its flesh is poisonous. I accidentally let its tail dip back into the sea.

  The third snake bursts from the water, swallowing whole the two on the line. I give up the rod, staggering back down the pier. It shakes the line and the short stick back and forth briefly before swallowing those too. It has a face like a moray eel, the bottom jaw jutting out, but the top is split. This, I am sure, is the work of the caustic sea. Instead of narrow fangs, it has the wide, spade-like teeth of a mole rat. Divided, the top two twitch independently as its broad head seeks me. As I turn to flee, I know I have seen it once before, on another island.

  It was a limbless thing with a horrible face that writhed along the ground in a serpentine fashion. It was immensely strong and in infuriating pain, and it travelled in a rolling way like a porpoise swimming…

  The way Moreau described it, it almost sounded slow. This is not the case. As I run, plodding feet heavy in the dust, it ploughs over the sand with a sound like a sharp knife through paper. Sour-smelling water runs from its skin and evaporates in the heat. The sun makes it hard to run, but I dare not stop.

  After a few minutes, however, I realise it is slowing. When I linger to look back, I see that its skin is dry and drags in the dust. Seeing me waiting, however, it renews its efforts and I must run again. Already, I wonder if I will ever be able to find my way back to the pier.

  Again I gain ground, and again I look back. The eyes of the limbless thing have been baked into its head and its skin is like ash. It looks dead, it can hardly follow, but again I must flee: desperation only increases its terrible strength.

  The third time I stop and turn, it lies on the floor and I see its last breath. When I approach, the head makes a sudden upwards movement, but it is not the snake. A tree pushes up through its mouth, followed by another nearby. Within moments, there is a small forest and moss has begun to creep across the shady ground. Though I don’t know if I will find the pier again, I know I don’t need to. Though I have lost my rod, I need no fish. This place is a desert no more.

  8

  When Hell Freezes Over

  Challenge #4: Write a story that includes the themes of change and forgiveness.

  “Ah, sweet!” said Bob. “Pop-Tarts! I didn’t know they had Pop-Tarts in Hell! Can I have one?”

  “No,” said Satan. “That’s the point. They’re all mine and you can’t have any. Om nom nom nom nom. Mmmmmmm…” He closed his eyes and smiled, savouring the taste.

  Bob judged the distance between the plate and the bars of his cage. It was a bit of a stretch, but he might have a chance while the Devil was distracted. Those Pop-Tarts sure looked good. He squeezed his arm through the bars all the way up to the shoulder, but still couldn’t quite reach. One tart in particular was sticking out, but his fingertips could barely brush the pastry. Satan laughed, flames and sticky crumbs spraying from his mouth.

  “Ahahahahaha! Tantalising, isn’t it? I used to use fruit, but nobody seems to want it these days. Not much point trying to get your ‘5 A Day’ when you’re dead, I guess.”

  “Actually,” said Bob, prodding his beer-belly “I meant to ask about that…”

  “Nope. Sorry. I’m afraid you’re doomed to stay podgy for eternity. There’s no slimming in Hell. No repentance, either…I’m kind of surprised people don’t ask about that one first.”

  “Oh. I was kind of hoping there was a gym or something.”

  “You had your entire life to go to the gym! And this is Hell, not Butlins.” He tossed the last scrap of Pop-Tart into his mouth and brushed the crumbs from his beard before folding his arms. “There was a pool once, but it kept evaporating.” Bob wasn’t sure what to say about that.

  “You don’t seem to be eating your Pop-Tarts,” Bob said, after a pause.

  “Actually, I’m getting a bit sick of them.” Satan eyed the huge pile on the plate. “I wasn’t a huge fan of the chocolate ones to begin with.”

  “Can I have one, then?”

  “Hmm.” He thought carefully for a moment. “Still no.”

  “Awww, come on, Satan. You’re not going to eat all those Pop-Tarts.”

  “I don’t have to, necessarily.” He stood and picked up the plate. “I just have to make sure you want them but can’t have them. I could spit on them!” he said, pleased with the sudden idea. “Or I could sort of trample them underfoot…but then my hooves would get sticky.”

  Bob felt a faint surge of panic rise inside his stomach: only Lucifer himself could have thought of ruining such a delicious treat like that. “Well,” he said carefully, “if you did that then I definitely wouldn’t want them.”

  “Yes,” Satan eyed the plate again. “That’s true. I’ll have to think of something else.”

  “If you don’t want any more,” said an Italian voice nearby, “perhaps you could get someone else to eat them for you.”

  “Why, yes!” Satan began to wander over towards another cage just out of sight, then… “Wait a minute! Nice try, Boniface. No Pop-Tarts for you!”

  “Who was that?” asked Bob.

  “None of your business!” Satan sat back down in front of the cage, dropped the plate of Pop-Tarts onto the table and picked one up. He stared at it, looking a little unwell. Bob kept his eyes on the plate. It was closer than before, he was sure of it. In fact, it was very close, and one of the Pop-Tarts was practically falling off. He could definitely reach that one. But then…he felt a little sorry for the Prince of Darkness.

  “What’s all this about, anyway?” asked Bob, still watching the plate eagerly. “I mean, you don’t seem any happier than the rest of us.”

  “Oh…” Satan huffed discontentedly. “It’s just that…things used to be different, you know? Back when there weren’t quite so many people. I used to know everybody down here, but now…eternal torment is just so impersonal these days.”

  “I don’t know. You’ve been here with me…what, half an hour now?”

  “Yeah, but Brian…by the time I get back to you, I probably won’t even remember your name.”

  “If you don’t like the job any more, why are you doing it?”

  “Well, somebody’s got to.”

  “Why?”

  “Come on…” he grinned. “Would you really have gone to Church every Sunday if it hadn’t been for the threat of this place?”

  “Actually,” said Bob, “I don’t think I ever went to Church.”

  Satan raised an eyebrow. “Well, then. I hardly think you can complain if I don’t give you a Pop-Tart.”

  “But there was never
any solid evidence that this place existed!”

  “What.” It wasn’t a question. It was the sound of a mind being blown.

  “Well, sure, everyone had heard of it, but not that many people actually believed it. In fact, a lot of the ones who did believe it thought it was more of an allegory than an actual…thing.”

  Stunned, Satan stood up and stepped back from the bars. “Hands up,” he called, “how many of you actually knew for sure this place existed.”

  There were a great many answers.

  “No.”

  “Nope.”

  “No.”

  “Not me.”

  “Nope.”

  “I didn’t, and I was the Pope.”

  “No.”

  “Seriously?” Satan scratched his head. “Oh. It doesn’t really seem fair to hold a grudge against you for that.”

  Bob couldn’t believe it. He had convinced the Devil to forgive mankind. He had wrought a tremendous change in the very fabric of reality. But most of all… “Can I have a Pop-Tart, then?” he asked.

  “Wh…” Satan still didn’t seem to be too sure of himself. “Well, I guess you can.” He held out the plate.

  Bob reached through the bars and picked up a Pop-Tart, taking a big bite. Even in the sweltering heat, the warm pastry and gooey chocolate was wonderful. “What are you going to do now, then?” he asked with his mouth full.

  Satan wiped his sweaty forehead with a clawed hand. “I think I’ll try and find the thermostat,” he said. “It’s too hot in here.”

  9

  Ouija

  It had started small. Pens had kept going missing—but didn’t they always?—and the lights would start flickering now and again, but it was never anything particularly ghostly. There had also been phone calls, calls with nobody on the other end, but even after everything that had happened Edna was still fairly sure that had been telemarketers. It was the bigger things, things that had come later, that had convinced her that something had to be done.

  The time she’d found all her odd socks arranged in a little pentacle on the dining room table had been the first time it was obvious there was something unusual going on. Soon after that she had found the tea cosy in the microwave. Odd, but harmless. Back then, the presence in the house had actually been quite nice to have around. Sure, it was creepy, but what a conversation starter!