With a snarl, the Cracker charged at Tark, who dropped to the ground and kicked out with his leg. The Cracker tripped, stumbled forward and plunged headlong into the pond. With a raucous quacking, most of the ducks made it into the air before the sword electrified the water.
Energy crackled across the surface, frying two ducks and one thiever.
For a moment, everyone was still and silent.
‘Wow!’ breathed Zyra eventually. ‘How'd ya do that?’
‘It wuz ’is idea.’ Tark pointed to the princeling.
‘Water conducts electricity,’ said Princeling Galbrath, staring at the duck carcasses floating in the water alongside the face-down, spread-eagled corpse. ‘My late uncle's personal chef used to make an exquisite duck casserole.’
Tark looked at Zyra and shrugged. ‘Now wot?’
Zyra gave the Cracker a final glance, then looked around, hands on hips. She pointed to the tall grass behind the playground on the other side of the library. They would have to cross open ground in order to reach it.
They made it undetected and once safely concealed, they peered out at the street. The once quiet suburb was now filled with panicked people, police wielding swords, and a variety of elements that did not, under any circumstances, belong in Suburbia — cowboys lassoing a steer; an overturned carriage with a distressed horse still attached; a group of bikini-clad women with a volleyball. A peculiar shimmering effect, like a heat haze, came and went, giving these suburban intruders an unreal quality.
Overhead, a bomber plane came roaring into view, attracting everyone's attention. It too was shimmering in and out of solidity. As it neared the library, the bomb bay doors sprung open and a dark, oblong object plummeted towards the building below. Seconds later, the library erupted into flame, a geyser of heat shooting up into the air and incinerating the plane that had initiated the destruction.
The force of the explosion shattered shop windows and knocked people to the ground. Thick black smoke billowed out over the street and parkland, as chunks of debris rained down. Princeling Galbrath slowly got to his feet, legs shaking, and stared out at the devastation.
‘No,’ he whispered. ‘Not the library.’
‘Wot?’ yelled Zyra, her ears still ringing with the sound of the explosion.
The princeling shook his head sadly and turned away.
Through the smoke and debris appeared a cluster of bedraggled people carrying pitchforks, machetes and burning torches. They looked around, then pointed to the tall grass where the princeling stood. With cries of ‘kill ’em all’, ‘burn ’em’, and ‘flush ’em out’, they made their way to the edge of the grass and hurled their torches at it. The dry, yellowing grass woofed into flame.
Giving up any attempt at concealment, Tark, Zyra and the princeling fled. They made it to the rear of a set of shops and hid behind a dumpster.
The princeling tried the nearest door that swung open at his touch. He stuck his head inside the shop then waved the others in.
The cramped storeroom was filled with cardboard boxes, stacked in haphazard towers that looked like they might topple over at any moment. A television sat atop one of the boxes. It showed scenes of destruction and violence as police clashed with suburban residents, looters raided shops and gangs fought in the streets. The three of them gaped at the television. Then the scene changed to show an advancing army of Roman soldiers.
Zyra reached out and turned up the sound.
‘… forces are gathering on the outskirts of Suburbia,’ said the announcer's harried voice. ‘Invasion is imminent. The police are outnumbered and otherwise engaged.’
The television showed a close-up of the soldiers with their raised shields. Zyra shrieked and pointed. The design on the front of the shields was a stylised silhouette of a bloated face.
‘The Fat Man,’ said Tark.
‘I tolds ya,’ said Zyra. ‘Didn't I?’
Seeing the flicker of a reflection on the screen, Zyra jumped to one side.
With a loud, unexpected bang, the television exploded. Boxes fell in an avalanche sending the three scurrying from their path.
Standing in the doorway was a middle-aged man with greying hair, a large gut hanging down over his trousers, and an enormous double-barrelled elephant gun.
‘Get the hell out of my shop,’ he demanded, waving the ugly mouth of his gun from one person to the next in an agitated manner.
Zyra waited till he pointed the gun at the princeling then sprang forward leading with her foot. The gun went off as it was kicked from the man's hands. A chunk of ceiling plaster and dust cascaded down over the princeling.
The shopkeeper fell, scrambled to his feet and ran back into the main part of the shop. A bell tinkled and a door slammed.
The princeling looked angrily at Zyra through the gently settling plaster dust, but before he could say anything an old-fashioned, black Bakelite telephone rang erratically. It morphed in and out of reality as it balanced on the edge of a box.
Zyra reached out and picked up the receiver. It felt insubstantial in her hand and it dropped with a muted clatter to the ground. It was as if it had passed right through her fingers. She tried again, more carefully. It stopped shimmering and she was able to pick it up, but had trouble lifting it to her ear.
She was greeted by the sound of heavy breathing.
‘Hello,’ she said.
‘My, my, my, but you and your associate are proving to be somewhat irksome.’
‘But … but, we killed you!’
‘You seem to have overestimated your own abilities, whilst drastically underestimating mine.’ The Fat Man's laughter boomed through the earpiece. ‘I'm afraid that I'm not that easy to kill. Granted, you did set me back. And you almost succeeded. But not quite. I began to exit just as my starfighter exploded. And I was dispersed. Left adrift in the system behind Designers Paradise, with no physical presence. It took a little getting used to, but I've discovered that I can exert so much more control as part of the system itself than as a player. So, it seems that you have done me a great service. You have given me the capacity to control everything!’
‘But ya is not controllin’ anythin’,’ Zyra yelled into the phone. ‘All ya is doin’ is destroyin’.’
‘Well, as the saying goes, you can't bake a cake without breaking a few eggs.’
‘Wot does ya mean?’
‘I am destroying Designers Paradise.’
The Fat Man's voice echoed through the room. It had lost its humorous edge and become very serious — deadly serious.
Zyra dropped the telephone. It was shimmering again.
‘No more multiple environments with different rules and different games,’ the Fat Man continued. ‘There will be only one world, with one set of rules. My world! My rules!’ He paused to catch his breath. ‘The reign of the Designers is at an end. The whole of creation will bow to me.’
Princeling Galbrath retrieved the elephant gun and aimed it at the telephone. He waited for the shimmering to stop then pulled the trigger. The telephone and the box it was sitting on blew apart, showering everyone in shredded comics.
‘You do realise that he's completely insane,’ said the princeling, checking the gun. ‘Out of ammunition.’ He tossed the gun to one side and sighed. ‘What I don't understand is why the Designers are letting the Fat Man get away with this. Why don't they stop him?’
‘Maybe we should ask ’em,’ said Tark. ‘We's gots ta find a weakness and gets through to them.’
‘We did finds a weakness,’ said Zyra, glaring at the princeling. ‘But ’e just shot it.’
‘Wot?’ said Tark.
‘The phone,’ said Zyra. ‘Didn't ya sees the way it wuz shimmerin’? I couldn't gets a proper hold on it. It must ’ave been a weakness.’
‘But a trifle small for us to get through,’ said the princeling.
‘Yeah,’ Zyra agreed, grudgingly.
‘How is we gonna find a bigger one?’ asked Tark.
Zyra's face brightened. ‘We looks for somethin’ that don'ts belong ’ere. Somethin’ the Fat Man's sending after us. Somethin’ big!’