The Infernals: A Samuel Johnson Tale by John Connolly

Author:John Connolly [Connolly, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Young Adult, Horror, Fantasy, Science Fiction, Adventure, Humour
ISBN: 1451643098
Amazon: B004T4KXC8
Goodreads: 13260212
Publisher: Atria Books
Published: 2011-01-01T06:00:00+00:00

XX

In Which We Meet the Blacksmith

THE BARREN LANDSCAPE BEGAN to change, although not for the better. It was now dotted with objects that seemed to come from another world, Samuel’s world: a suit of armor, empty and rusted; a German biplane from World War I; a submarine standing perfectly upright, balanced on its propellers; and a rifle, the largest, longest gun that Samuel had ever seen, so long that it would have taken him an hour or more just to walk around it, made up of millions and millions of smaller guns, all fused together to create a kind of giant sculpture. As Samuel examined it he saw that pieces of the rifle appeared to be alive, wriggling like metal snakes, and he realized that the rifle was still forming, weapons popping into existence in the air around it and slowly being absorbed into the whole.

A huge man appeared from behind the discarded turret of a tank. He wore dirty black overalls and a welder’s mask upon his face. In his right hand he held a blowtorch that burned with a white-hot flame. He killed the flame and pushed the mask up so that his face was revealed. He was bearded, and his eyes shone with the same white fire as his torch, as though he had spent too long looking at metal dissolve.

“Who are you?” he asked. His voice was hoarse, but there was no hostility to his tone.

“My name is Samuel Johnson, and this is Boswell.”

Those white eyes looked down upon the little dachshund.

“A dog,” said the man. “It’s a long time since I’ve seen a dog.”

He reached out a gloved hand. Boswell shied away, but the hand was too quick. It fastened on Boswell’s head, then rubbed at it with a surprising gentleness.

“Good dog,” said the man. “Good little dog.”

He released his grip on Boswell, somewhat to the relief of the good little dog in question.

“I kept dogs,” he said. “A man should have a dog.”

“Do you have a name?” asked Samuel.

“I had a name once as well, but I’ve forgotten it. I have no use for it, for nobody has come here for so very long. Now I am the Blacksmith. I work with metal. It is my punishment.”

“What is this place?” asked Samuel.

“This is the Junkyard. It is the place of broken things that should never have been made. Come and see.”

And Samuel and Boswell followed the Blacksmith beneath the ever-changing gun, and past row upon row of fighter planes and armored cars, and there was revealed to them an enormous crater, and in it were swords and knives; machine guns and pistols; tanks and battleships and aircraft carriers; every conceivable weapon that might be used to inflict harm upon another person. Like the great gun, the contents of the crater were constantly being added to, so that the whole mass of metal creaked and groaned and clattered and clanked.

“Why are they here?” asked Samuel.

“Because they took lives, and this is where they belong.”

“Then why

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