The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 67: The Following Evening.

Cut back to the car, parking lot of the Alternatron, me in the backseat, Nepotism in the front, and Mephis never relinquishing his driver’s seat, no matter how much I beg. Mephis turns the ignition, roars the car to monstrous life and coaxes into reverse. “The operation is run out of some filthy punk commune,” Mephis says distastefully. “That has kept off any real attention so far, but the place smells terrible. They call it ‘Castle Greyskull.’” He crinkles up his nose and glances down between the seats. “They offered to let us spend the night, but I don’t think I could stomach the whole affair.”

“You’re so subtle,” Nepotism mumbles.

We take side-streets past graffiti-covered tenements. I have not been back to Metro City for years. I traveled around a little, especially when I was doing the cryptozoology work, but I never came back this way. I didn’t expect police, or even Scrubbers at the border, but I didn’t forget the Old Priest’s command. Stay out of town.

We’re in Doom City, where the Superhero Gang don’t mean shit. Half these people are rehabbing for some petty crime or villainy. Every time they get caught it’s another 6 months they can’t set foot on Hero Island.

Children jump about happily on the sidewalk in imagined games. “We need to be at the garden party by 7:30, so we have 45 minutes to suit up.” He glances at me pointedly. “We don’t have time to waste, so I don’t want dawdling.”

“Party Mayor gonna be there?” I ask.

Mephis points to a massive grey monstrosity of a building looming to our left. “This is the one we want.” The cluster of windows make it resemble the grinning skull that named the place. Banisters of the wide front porch are clenched, rotten teeth. A red Punchbug vacates it’s spot and Mephis slides in. 

“Seriously, dude,” Nepotism says. “What kind of Metro City sneezers will be at this shindig? If we get recognized, we’re done.”

“No one gives a shit about the Unnatural,” Mephis says, and gets out of the car. We follow, and he leads us through the gate up the stone steps. A liberty-coned punk rocker in once-black clothes lays semi-conscious on a torn, rent and spray-painted couch by the front door. “Whattafuk a’you wan?” he says in mimicked Cockney.

“Tyr,” Mephis says in a low voice.

The punk’s glazed eyes clear and he nods. “They’re waiting for you.”

The protest of the metal gate announces our arrival. We follow Mephis in, and pass a sitting room full of ratty furniture and a drum kit, each crammed with punk kids in faded t-shirts drinking from paper bags or sticking heroin in their veins. One ancient-looking punk rocker with patchwork leather pants, tied-back greying mohawk and an intricate tribal tattoo across his craggy face is seated in the back corner. He sees Mephis and smiles, making a delicate hand gesture that I almost miss. “Tophel,” he whispers.

Mephis says nothing, and does his best to keep his hand gestures out of our sight.

“They waiting for you in the kitchen,” the old punk says, gesturing down the hall. Harsh florescent light pours from a doorway and Jello Biafra singing for a band that is probably Lard. One of the kids slurs at Mephis under his breath. The old punk silences him with a look.

“Thank you, Brother,” Mephis whispers, bowing his head. He turns to his right and leads us to the kitchen.

Go to Part 68