"What Madness Is This?" Volume III: The Pinnacle Future
- Thread starter Napoleon53
- Start date
I think one of the best things in Madness has always been the really unique and memorable character names. Like, who else could come up with ”Charles Oswald“ or”Acme Ashton” or “Jehohanan Holyfield” or ”Richard Nixon.”
Wait. The last one isn't like the others.
I'd say "Joe Steele", but that comes from an earlier book (?) which also had an American Stalin of that name (however, Madnessverse Steele is a better developed character and not just "Stalin, but American")
I think that's the joke.
Wyetta Arkham is a good one too. Especially with the addition of Custer-Steele after her wedding.
ALL HAIL THE CHRIST-CHILD, EMANUEL OSWALD-ARKHAM-CUSTER-STEELE!
AFTERMATH: CHAOS IN BRITANNIA
I'll add illustrations tomorrow, for now I need to go to bed because it is 5 am. Enjoy another pulpy ride!
AFTERMATH:
CHAOS IN BRITANNIA
AFTERMATH:
CHAOS IN BRITANNIA
Like black ghosts, soldiers wove their way through the seemingly infinite amount of abandoned motor vehicles on a foggy London morning. Lorries, sedans, motorcycles, buses, tractors, and ambulances all now served as haunting symbols of the Great Flight. Millions of Britons had raced to the sea in the two days since "Maddie of the Highlands," the Massive Area Denial Device, had been deliberately detonated by the Wormist sect leader and self-proclaimed Grand Master, Dr. Nathan Clubb. Clubb had manipulated both the dying, sickly project head Dr. Wolfe Skinner as well as the nation's leader, Aethelred Williams, into building a sacrificial pyre for all of the British Isles. Now, just a few miles outside of London, legions of the abandoned transports sat in what was assumed would be their eternal rest after bringing so many civilians this far in their desperate quest for safety.
"Captain! Gotta live one over here!" shouted a corporal through a black gas mask, his posh London accent echoing through the maze of empty hulks.
At that, several troopers scrambled over to where the corporal stood, his trench-sweeper shotgun pointed at the driver's seat of a delivery truck. A middle-aged man in overalls sat huddled, a blanket pulled over his head like a shawl. The man looked dreadful, and he was covered in blisters; clearly, he was infected with anthrax toxin.
"Leave him be, men," said the captain of the group. "He'll be dead by nightfall. Let him suffer in the name of the Worm."
Suddenly, a thud could be heard from the back of the truck. The dying driver suddenly sprang to life, obviously trying to protect whatever had made that noise. The driver swung his door open and lunged desperately at the corporal, immediately getting a shotgun shell emptied into his chest, sending him crumpling to the ground like a slab of ground beef. Red drops flecked onto white graffiti written on the corporal's helmet that read, "Feed The Worm."
"Check that truck! Now! Now!" the captain ordered, pulling a sidearm revolver from out of his combat belt and joining the scramble to the rear of the big metal shipping container.
Arthur Aldridge, a thirteen year-old now separated from his mother and sister, bolted from the back of the shipping container and bobbed and weaved around the nearby vehicles. He was running on pure instinct and a will to live, and it was miraculous the hail of wild gunfire from the soldiers didn't cut him down. Thankfully, the fog was making it easy to lose them for the time being. He slowed his pace and threw himself under a small car and tried to catch his breath.
The soldiers were nothing new. It had been two nights since the group of refugees he was with were set upon by Britannic troops wearing strange necklaces and covered with strange mottoes written in white paint on their helmets and uniforms. They all were screaming something about a maw running red and a faceless eldritch deity, but Arthur had no real clue what the devil they were on about. What he did know was that these soldiers were running on apocalyptic frenzy and bloodlust and were killing any refugees they thought weren't yet infected with anthrax. He couldn't have known that these were Worm Cultists from within the armed forces that were dedicated to stopping refugees from escaping in an attempt at maximizing the death toll of Maddie. These troops had been summoned to London ahead of time by an unknown official who was now using them as a tool to wreak absolute havoc on the main roads. They were destroying road signs, damming up pathways with vehicles and debris, and putting down nails and tacks to pop the tires of anyone who got any funny ideas about continuing to live.
Arthur struggled to control his ragged breathing as he hid underneath the car. In the immediate area, he could hear jumpboots on pavement scuttling his way like so many legs of a terrible spider of his worst nightmares. He could hear their shouts of anger and frustration as they began to open and slam close car doors and trunks all about him. Just three cars away, he could see the shiny black cap-toe boots of one of the men spin on a heel and start heading his direction. Our young protagonist had been trying to get some desperately needed sleep in the back of the sick driver's truck. The driver was more than happy to help a young boy in need and had told Arthur that his own children were infected far too the north. The man had attempted to drive the opposite direction of the flow of traffic for half a day to reach his children, but it was too late for them. Now, the poor sod could rejoin his family in the afterlife.
"Come on out, lad! We ain't gonna hurt you. We just gotta see if you're sick or not," a coy and devious voice said through a gas mask respirator. The boots got closer and closer and seemed to be zeroing in on his location. "Come out, son! I know you're here somewhere." The boots were now directly facing Arthur, standing at the trunk of the car he was under. The soldier struggled with the trunk before yanking it up. Frustrated it was empty, he slammed it shut with vigor that shook the whole vehicle. "Dammit, come on out or I'll gut you like a fish, you bloody brat!"
Arthur felt a hand grab his ankle pull him from behind. He had been so focused on the loud-mouth he had not noticed someone approach from the rear. He didn't scream, but he nearly blacked out from fear as he slid along the pavement and into the hands of a waiting soldier. To his surprise, his captor was wearing an American uniform, like the ones he had seen time and again in the news. It was of a dark blue hue and featured a more rounded helmet than the Brits used. The man's crystal-blue eyes stood out against a face smeared with black paint. A brown leather gas mask hung around his neck and a short assault rifle of some type was slung over his shoulder. Without a sound, the American raised a finger to his lips, warning him to stay quiet and low.
Loudmouth seemed to have heard the slide nonetheless and Arthur heard the approaching footsteps. In a flash, before Loudmouth could say a single word, another American stepped from the mist like a specter and slid a knife directly into his spine. The Brit hit the ground with a whimpering gurgle, blood trailing from his lips as his wild eyes locked with Arthur's. In a split second, Loudmouth's eyes rolled up and he was no longer among the living.
"We'll help you, kid, but stay low," warned the American with the face paint. "Stay right fuckin' here, you understand?"
Arthur nodded and recognized the man's accent from Kissimmee movies as a New Yorker. He shakily scooted himself to sit upright against the wheel of the car and the soldier handed him a canteen of fresh, clean water. After patting the kid on the shoulder, the man gave an almost silent whistle, like nothing Arthur had ever heard, and in a flash at least five more of the blue-uniformed Americans crept up to their position, each with a yellow shirt pocket patch that read "O.R.R.A." Several of them were wearing their brown gas masks that matched the buffalo leather of their boots. In perfect synchronization, the men of the Office of Racial and Religious Affairs bobbed around the vehicles and made their way toward the other Wormist Brits.
Arthur greedily downed the canteen, as it was the first drop of good clean water he had had in over twenty-four hours. He waited for the sound of grinder fire with bated breath, hoping this nightmare might soon finally be over if these Americans were really his friends. He clenched his teeth as the first volley of gunfire touched off, spraying lead wildly into the surrounding area. The Wormists were getting mowed down from every angle and were blindly blasting away at their unexpected foe from the fog. The Yankees chewed their way through them like breakfast. This was what ORRA men trained for. This is what Pinnacle Men were bred for. To kill Wormists for Jev Almighty. Within twenty seconds, ten Wormists were dead on the pavement, and the Americans suffered not a scratch.
"Alright, kid! You can come out! They're dead!" shouted New York.
Arthur slowly stood up on his shaky legs and staggered over to the men to offer his thanks. "I don't know who you Americans are, but I owe you my life. Why are these soldiers doing this to us?"
New York shrugged and replied, "Shucks, kid, ain't no thing. As for your question, they're cultists that worship a death-god. That's about all you need to know besides the fact that we kill 'em. You run into them before?"
"All along the road," Arthur said with the somber tone of someone who had been through true hell. "Me and my mum and little sister, we were coming to London to find my Uncle Jerry Aldridge and get on a ship out of here. A night ago, men with those queer symbols all over 'em just started mowing down our column of folks just trying to get to someplace safe. I haven't seen my folks since."
"Sorry, son," said a Yankee with an Appalachian intonation. "Shit's horrible out here. And these dead Wormies and their ilk gotta make a horrible sitch-ee-ation even worse for everyone. We're American special forces. We were sent in to, uh, procure some assets. We can give you some soo-plies and water but then we gotta keep-a goin'."
"Wait, you won't help me get into London?" Arthur asked in horror at the thought of being on his own again.
New York said, "Hey, Sarge, poor kid don't go nobody. We can't just leave him out here. He'll snuff it from the 'Thrax if more of these palookas don't get to 'im first."
"We can't have some fuckin' boy mackin' up our operation," Appalachia said firmly. "We'll give him some shit and we gotta keep moseyin'. You know why we're here."
***
Arthur sipped cold soup from a tin can as he sat on the floor of a flat just outside London. It was weird-tasting American stuff that New York called, "clam chowder." It was odd, but inoffensive and filling. Arthur was just grateful to have something nutritious to eat and a roof over his head as the driving rain pounded the roof overhead.
One of the Americans walked past him, the old wooden floorboards creaking. "Sarge! I got movement up on the road! I think it's our target!"
"You sure?" barked Appalachia from another room. The sounds of the slide on his sidearm moving into place and his boots entering the room could be heard promptly.
"Five big trucks, Sarge. Could see 'em like a Prophet sees Njarl." the American replied. Arthur wasn't sure what accent he had. It kind of just reminded him of the stereotypical "American" accent that so many films portrayed. Deciding on "Pennsylvania" as a nickname, after the pulp hero Pennsylvania Jack, Arthur grinned to himself. He liked these guys, even if they could be hardasses and ate weird food.
Appalachia scratched the fuzz on his chin and threw his cigarette on the floor, crushing it with his heel. "Alright, men! Take your places! We got our target inbound. Try to not damage the vehicles, because we don't know which one has the asset. Now, lock and load! And kid! Stay the fuck outta my way. Don't make me regret the guys lettin' you tag along!"
Arthur scrambled over to behind a big cast iron stove and brought his knees in under his chin. He watched New York set up a belt-fed grinder in the window of the flat that faced the main road. Vines from a creeping ivy helped obscure the position. Several other Americans scurried around the house like clockwork men, seeming to know precisely where to go and what to do. "New York, what is the asset?"
The man grinned and said, "That's classified on a need-to-know basis, kiddo. Sorry. You just stay out of trouble, alright? Stay behind that stove and if we tell you to move your ass, you do it. And take this."
Arthur felt the cold grip of a revolver slide into his hand. It was one of the dead cultists' sidearms, standard Britannic issue. "You want me to fight?" the teenager asked.
"Fuck no, stay down and out of our way. But if you are in real trouble, you protect your fluids and worry about everything else second, ya dig? You know how to shoot that thing, right? They teach you in schools, yeah?"
The boy nodded vigorously. "Everybody has to learn. National Defense Class."
"Well, I'm sorry but there isn't much a nation for you to defend, kid. So defend your fluids, like I said. Don't let nobody spill 'em. And keep low. Hey! Here they come!"
The low rumbling of military trucks could be felt underneath their feet and the headlights lit up the foggy street before them. The trucks were driving like a bat out of hell, expertly maneuvering through the scattered abandoned wrecks and vehicles. Within moments, the speedsters were nearly upon them. New York wracked the belt-fed. It was almost time.
The attack commenced when Appalachia barked the order, and the whole house rang with the sound of brass hitting the floor. The first truck skidded off the road and smashed into a fire hydrant, sending a geyser of water and steam into the air. As its crew bailed out in terror, New York raked them with grinder fire, sending their bodies falling to the pavement. The trucks behind slammed on their brakes and tried to begin backing up, only to also bail out and return fire from small arms.
Arthur immediately recognized the language of the convoy truckers. They were screaming in French. Despite orders to stay down, Arthur poked his head up just enough to get a look at the dead bodies on the street outside. The corpses wore a dull, dusty blue uniform, black puttees, and sported black fezzes. Their skin was bronzed and they sported black beards. These were Libyans, some of Europas most famous foreign legionary fighters. He knew about them from their constant presence in the news as one of Caesar's most loyal enforcer units in the North African colonies, where they were accused of war crimes by the Egyptians.
The remaining Libyans took cover and began to return fire with more precision. A Yankee two windows down from New York convulsed in a death-shock before collapsing to the floor, a bullet squarely between his eyes. "Jev dammit, Ted's down! Ted's down!" New York bellowed, sending a retaliatory burst of grinder rounds through a picket fence and into a Libyan, blood and splinters flying through the air.
"Vive l'Empereur!" shouted one of the Libyans in an Arabic accent, charging the flat like a man possessed, firing away with a machine pistol. A round struck New York on the helmet, sending him flying to the floor, his belt-fed lazily tilting up on its tripod mount and falling silent.
"He's got a grenade!" shrieked Appalachia in horror. The bullet-riddled front door was kicked in and the Libyan stood there, a stick grenade held high, ready to lob it in there and snuff out their existence in a fiery blast.
Arthur raised the revolver and fired, striking the Libyan in the chest. It had all happened in the blink of an eye, and the grenade was still in the Arab man's hand, ticking away. As the man staggered back and then collapsed down the front porch steps, the charge went off, blowing him into a paste that flecked the ruins of the flat entrance like an Old Testament plague deterrent on steroids. New York, holding his ears and with eyes-wide, simply wheezed, "Nice shot, kid," before slowly rising to his feet and grabbing the grip of his belt-fed again. "Uh... don't get cocky."
The Americans turned once more to the remaining Libyans, who had entrenched themselves across the street inside the entrance to a metro tunnel. Pushing out of the flat and covered by New York and Appalachia, the ORRA boys slowly advanced toward the now abandoned convoy. After a few more minutes and one grenade later, the guns fell silent, and the Libyans were defeated.
The trucks were inspected for the "asset," which Arthur could quickly see was stack upon stack of gold bullion, no doubt part of his nation's reserve. There was, quite literally, a king's ransom in there. But there was not only gold, but also artifacts. The crown worn by the Hanoverian family during the last days of the United Kingdom sat in a steel box, alongside several medallions and items of ancient origin. There were chests full of jewels and even what looked like the original copy of the Magna Carta.
New York slapped Arthur on the shoulder. "Well, kid, I gotta say nice job saving our bacon from that fez-head back there. You must have had a hell of a range instructor at your school. And since we're gonna try to get you outta here, along with the asset, I don't expect you to pretend to not see fifty fuckin' tons of gold and shit. We're ORRA AAU: the Artifacts and Antiquities Unit. We are on a mission from President Oswald to make sure your country's greatest treasures weren't lost forever to the 'thrax. We got more of us in the area, we just have to make comm contact and then we'll get this shit outta here, yourself included."
"What... what about my family?" Arthur asked, forlorn.
"I'm sorry, kid. London is a fucking nightmare beyond words right now. We aren't going that way, and you shouldn't either if you know what's good for ya. Just pray to Jev they make it out, too. But for now, focus on yourself and getting out of this to look for them another day. Now hop in the back of one of these trucks so we can all get the hell outta here. Me and Sarge are gonna go get Ted's body from inside and then we'll hit the road."
***
London War Department
Subbasement Bunker Command Center
Marshal Ephraim Becket sipped his brandy from a foam bathroom cup as he and his officers discussed their important matters of business. As the highest-ranking living member of the Britannic Worm Cult, since the demise of his superior, Dr. Nathan Clubb, it was now his duty to see to it that the death total from Maddie was as high as possible. He yearned to be in Clubb's place, a martyr for the Crowned and Conquering King, already one with The Worm. If he hadn't lost a trial by combat several years before, he would have been the grand master. But it was still an honor to carry out the greatest sacrifice in human history.
Just days before the Christmas Eve detonation, Becket had summoned various officers he knew would be loyal to the cause to London. Only an infinitesimal percentage of the Britannic armed forces were followers of his cursed religion, but gathered in one place, the capital, they could make a real difference in keeping as many victims present as possible to be wrapped in Maddie's sickening embrace. He took another sip of brandy just as an adjutant entered the concrete bunker office.
"Grand Master! May the Maw Run Red! I regret to say I have bad news," said General Norman William Wesley, his own right hand. "We were moving the treasury from North London Depository via lorries when our men were beset and overrun by Europan special forces. Something about Arabians in the report--black fez hats and all that rot. As if that wasn't unfortunate enough, our eyes say that the Europans were eliminated by Yanks, who are now driving toward Southampton."
"Blast!" Marshal Becket growled, pounding his fist on the minimalist metal desk before him. "We need that shite to fund the movement. We have to get it all back."
"Sir, ah, if I may... we need to evacuate ourselves posthaste before the anthrax arrives. It shan't be long before there are outbreaks in London proper and we won't even be able to breathe outside."
"Turn the bloody ventilation system on full-blast. I'll sit here in a bloody bio suit if I have to if it means we get that treasury back. I will not be leaving without it! Send as many men as we need and get that blasted bloody gold back. I'll smelt those relics into a golden idol of the Faceless One. This is the greatest sacrifice ever made, Wesley. Our... past leadership botched the whole works what with sacrificing a bunch of pygmy Negroids in a jungle somewhere and thinking that would unlock the secrets of the universe. We are sacrificing millions of Pinnacle Men in the bloody heartland of Anglo-Saxon blood itself. We're really pissing in the Abrahamic God's eye, so to speak, and if we're going to defeat God, we'll bloody need the North London Depository, won't we? Get me that treasury back, Wesley. I don't care what you have to do, but get it."
Wesley clicked his heels together and bowed slightly. "Yes, Grand Master. So let it be written, so let it be done. Are we still going to perform the, ah, ritual tonight?"
"I can have a treasure convoy tracked down and still blood eagle old Aethelred, Wesley. Speaking of our illustrious defender of our liberties, how is he liking that cell?"
"He says he is most uncomfortable and is demanding to see a doctor, Grand Master."
"So be it. Get him a doctor. I want that heart of his beating strong for the ritual tonight, what and all. Dismissed, Wesley."
I really hope poor Arthur makes it out of this mess and finds his family. I mean, there has to be something that doesn't go horribly wrong.
Oh ho, who's this ? Jennings ? But he's got captured by the ORRA right ? So who is this ?
By the way, where is the original epicenter of MADDIE ?
Edit : Nevermind, it's Aethelred right ?
Paladín Wulfen
Kicked
The problem is that Oswald plays both sides.
Face to face he is the President of NUSA and therefore an enemy of Worm.
But Face Inward is the Grand Master of the cult.
Discount Palpatine?
Face Inward: Darth Sidious
Face Outward: Supreme Chancellor Palpatine
So we have a death cult versus French Foreign Legionaries versus American Special Forces to help 'secure' the treasurers of England after the release of a biological WMD. Some people would call this the Apocalypse. Readers of WMIT call it Wednesday.