Lost in a Good Book

23. Fun with Spike

The incidents I am about to relate took place in the winter of the year 1985, at a place whose name even now, for reasons of propriety, it seems safer not to divulge. Suffice to say that the small village I visited that night was deserted, and had been for some time. The houses stood empty and vandalised, the pub, corner store and village hall but empty shells. As I drove slowly into the dark village, rats scurried among the detritus and small pockets of mist appeared briefly in my headlights. I reached the old oak at the crossroads, stopped, switched off the lights, and surveyed the morbid surroundings. I could hear nothing. Not a breath of wind gave life to the trees about me; no distant sound of humanity raised my spirits. It had not always been so. Once children played here, neighbours hailed neighbours with friendly greetings, lawnmowers buzzed on a Sunday afternoon, and the congenial crack of leather on willow drifted up from the village green. But no more. All lost one late winter’s night not five years earlier, when the forces of evil rose and claimed the village and all that lived within. I looked about, my breath showing in the still night. By the manner in which the blackened timbers of the empty houses pierced the sky it seemed as though the memory of that night was still etched upon the fabric of the ruins. Parked close by was another car, and leaning against the door was the man who had brought me to this place. He was tall and muscular and had faced horrors that I, thankfully, would never have to face. He did this with heart filled with courage and duty in equal measure, and, as I approached, a smile rose on his features, and he spoke.

‘Quite a shithole, eh, Thurs?’

‘You’re not kidding,’ I replied, glad to be with company. ‘All kinds of creepy weirdness was running through my head just now.’

‘How have you been? Hubby still with an existence problem?’

‘Still the same—but I’m working on it. What’s the score here?’

Spike clapped his hands together and rubbed them.

‘Ah, yes! Thanks for coming. This is one job I can’t do on my own.’

I followed his gaze towards the derelict church and surrounding graveyard. It was a dismal place even by SpecOps 17 standards, which tended to regard anything merely dreary as a good venue for a party. It was surrounded by two rows of high wire fences, and no one had come or gone since the ‘troubles’ five years previously. The restless spirits of the condemned souls trapped within the churchyard had killed all plant life not only within the confines of the Dark Place but for a short distance all around it—I could see the grass withering and dying not two yards from the inner fence, the leafless trees standing lifeless in the moonlight. In truth, the wire fences were to keep the curious or just plain stupid out as much as to keep the undead in; a ring of burnt yew wood just within the outer wire was the last line of undead defence across which they could never move, but it didn’t stop them trying. Occasionally a member of the Dark One’s Legion of Lost Souls made it across the inner fence. Here they lumbered into the motion sensors affixed at ten-foot intervals. The undead might be quite good servants of the Dark One but they were certainly crap when it came to electronics. They usually blundered around in the area between the fences until the early morning sun or an SO-17 flame-thrower reduced their lifeless husk to a cinder, and released the tormented soul to make its way through eternity in peace.

I looked at the derelict church and the scattered tombs of the desecrated graveyard and shivered.

‘What are we doing? Torching the lifeless walking husks of the undead?’

‘Well, no,’ replied Spike uneasily, moving to the rear of his car. ‘I wish it were as simple as that.’

He opened the boot and passed me a clip of silver bullets. I reloaded my gun and frowned at him.

‘What, then?’

‘Dark forces are afoot, Thursday. Another Supreme Evil Being is pacing the earth.’

‘Another? What happened? Did he escape?’

Spike sighed.

‘There have been a few cuts in recent years, and SEB transportation is now done by a private contractor. Three months ago they mixed up the consignment and instead of delivering him straight to the Loathsome Id Containment Facility, they left him at the St Merryweather’s home for retired gentlefolk.’

‘TNN said it was Legionnaire’s disease.’

‘That’s the usual cover story. Anyhow, some idiot opened the jar and all hell broke loose. I managed to corner it but getting the SEB transferred back to his jar is going to be tricky—and that’s where you come in.’

‘Does this plan involve going in there?’

I gestured at the church. As if to make a point, two barn owls flew noiselessly from the belfry and soared close by our heads.

‘I’m afraid so. We should be fine. There’ll be a full moon tonight and they don’t generally perambulate on the lightest of nights—it’ll be as easy as falling off a log.’

‘So what do I do?’ I asked uneasily.

‘I can’t tell you for fear that he will hear my plan, but keep close and do precisely what I tell you. Do you understand? No matter what it is, you must do precisely what I tell you.’

‘Okay.’

‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’

‘No, I mean you have to really promise.’

‘All right—I really promise.’

‘Good. I officially deputise you into SpecOps 17. Let’s pray for a moment.’

Spike dropped to his knees and muttered a short prayer under his breath—something about delivering us both from evil and how he hoped his mother would get to the top of the hip replacement waiting list, and that Cindy wouldn’t drop him like a hot potato when she found out what he did. As for myself, I said pretty much what I usually said, but added that if Landen were watching, could he please, please, please keep an eye out for me.

Spike got up.

‘Ready?’

‘Ready.’

‘Then let’s make some light out of this darkness!’

He pulled a green holdall and a pump-action shotgun from the back of the car. We walked towards the rusty gates, and I felt a chill on my neck.

‘Feel that?’ asked Spike

‘Yes.’

‘He’s close. We’ll meet him tonight, I promise you.’

Spike unlocked the gates and they swung open with a squeak of long-unoiled hinges. Operatives generally used their flame-throwers through the wire; no one would trouble coming in here unless there was serious work to be done. He relocked the gates behind us and we walked through the undead no-go zone.

‘What about the motion sensors?’

A beeper went off from his car.

‘I’m pretty much the only recipient. Helsing knows what I’m doing; if we fail he’ll be along tomorrow morning to clean up the mess.’

‘Thanks for the reassurance.’

‘Don’t worry,’ replied Spike with a grin, ‘we won’t fail!’

We arrived at the second gate. The musty smell of long-departed corpses reached my nostrils. It had been softened by age to the odour of rotted leaves, but it was still unmistakable. Once inside the inner gates we made our way swiftly to the lichgate and walked through the crumbling structure. The churchyard was a mess. The graves had all been dug up and the remains of those too far gone to be resurrected had been flung around the graveyard. They had been the fortunate ones. Those that were freshly dead had been press-ganged into a second career as servants of the Dark One—not something you would want to put on your CV, if you still had one.

‘Untidy bunch, aren’t they,’ I whispered as we picked our way across the scattered human bones to the heavy oak door.

‘I wrote Cindy some poetry,’ said Spike softly, rummaging in his pocket. ‘If anything happens, will you give it to her?’

‘Give it to her yourself. Nothing’s going to happen—you said so yourself. And don’t say things like that. It gives me the wobblies.’

‘Right,’ said Spike, putting the poem back in his pocket. ‘Sorry.’

He took a deep breath and grasped the handle, turned it and pushed open the door. The interior was not as pitch black as I had supposed; the moonlight streamed in through the remains of the large stained-glass windows and the holes in the roof. Although it was gloomy we could still see. The church was in no better state than the graveyard. The pews had been thrown around and broken into matchwood. The lectern was lying in an untidy heap and all sorts of vandalism of a chilling nature had taken place.

‘Home away from home for His Supreme Evilness, wouldn’t you say?’ said Spike with a cheery laugh. He moved behind me and shut the heavy door, turning the large iron key in the lock and handing it to me for safe-keeping.

I looked around but could see no one in the church. The door to the vestry was firmly locked, and I looked across at Spike.

‘He doesn’t appear to be here.’

‘Oh, he’s here all right—we just have to flush him out. Darkness can hide in all sorts of corners. We just need the right sort of fox-terrier to worry it out of the rabbit-hole—metaphorically speaking, of course.’

‘Of course. And where might this metaphorical rabbit-hole be?

Spike looked at me sternly and pointed to his temple.

‘He’s up here. He thought he could dominate me from within but I’ve trapped him somewhere in the frontal lobes. I have some uncomfortable memories and those help to screen him—trouble is, I can’t seem to get him out again.’

‘I have someone like that,’ I replied, thinking of Hades barging into the tea-room memory with Landen.

‘Oh? Well, forcing him out is going to be a bit tricky. I thought his home ground might make him emerge spontaneously but it seems not. Hang on, let me have a go.’

Spike leaned against the remains of a pew and grunted and strained for a few minutes, making some of the oddest faces as he tried to expel the spirit of the Evil One. It looked as if he were trying to shit a bowling ball out of his left nostril. After a few minutes of exertions he stopped.

‘Bastard. It’s like trying to snatch a trout from a mountain stream with a boxing glove. Never mind. I have a plan B which shouldn’t fail.’

‘The metaphorical fox-terrier?’

‘Exactly so. Thursday, draw your weapon.’

‘Now what?’

‘Shoot me.’

‘Where?’

‘In the chest, head, anywhere fatal. Where did you think? In my foot?’

‘You’re joking!’

‘Never been more serious.’

‘Then what?’

‘Good point. I should have explained that first.’

He opened the holdall to reveal a vacuum cleaner.

‘Battery powered,’ explained Spike. ‘As soon as his spirit makes an appearance, suck him up.’

‘As simple as that?’

‘As simple as that. SEB containment isn’t rocket science, Thursday—it’s just not for the squeamish. Now, kill me.’

‘Spike!’

‘What?’

‘I can’t do it!’

‘But you promised—and what’s more you really promised.’

‘If I’d known that meant kill another SpecOps officer,’ I replied in an exasperated tone, ‘I wouldn’t have gone along with it!’

‘SpecOps 17 work ain’t no bed of roses, Thursday. I’ve had enough, and believe me, having this little nurk coiled up in my head is not as easy as it looks. I should never have let him in in the first place, but what’s done is done. You have to kill me and kill me well.’

‘You’re crazy!’

‘Undoubtedly. But look around you. You followed me in here. Who’s crazier? The crazy or the crazy who follows him?’

‘Listen—’ I began. ‘What’s that?’

There was a thump on the church door.

‘Blast!’ replied Spike. ‘The undead. Not necessarily fatal and severely handicapped by that slow swagger—but they can be troublesome if you get cornered. After you have killed me and captured Chuckles up here you may have to shoot your way out. Take my keys; these two here are for the inner and outer gates. They’re a bit stiff and you have to turn to the left—’

‘I get the picture.’

Another thump echoed the first. There was a crash from the vestry and a shape moved past one of the lower windows.

‘They are gathering!’ said Spike ominously. ‘You’d better get a move on.’

‘I can’t!’

‘You can, Thursday. I forgive you. It’s been a good career. Did you know that out of the three hundred and twenty-nine SpecOps 17 operatives who have ever been, only two ever made it to retirement age?’

‘Do they tell you that when you join?’

There was the sound of stone against stone as one of the headstones on the floor started to be pushed aside. The undead who was thumping on the door was joined by another—and then another. Outside we could hear the noises of the awakening. Despite the moonlit night, the Evil One was calling to his servants, and they were coming running—or shambling, at the very least.

‘Do it!’ said Spike in a more urgent manner. ‘Do it now before it’s too late!’

I raised my gun and pointed it at Spike.

‘DO IT!’

I increased the pressure on the trigger as a shaky form stood up from the open grave behind him. I pointed the gun at the figure instead—the pathetic creature was so far dried out it could barely move, but it sensed our presence and teetered in our direction anyway.

‘Don’t shoot it, shoot me!’ said Spike with some alarm in his voice. ‘The job in hand, Thursday, please!’

I ignored him and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell harmlessly with a dull thock.

‘Eh?’ I said, chambering the next round. Spike was quicker than I and loosed off a shot that disintegrated the abomination’s head. It collapsed in a heap of dried skin and powdery bone. The sound of scrabbling from the door increased.

‘God damn and blast, Next, why couldn’t you do as I told you?!’

‘What?’

‘I put that dud on the top of your clip, idiot!’

‘Why?’

He tapped his head.

‘So I could trick Chuckles in here to come out—he’s not going to stay in a host he thinks is about to croak! You pull the trigger, out he comes, dud bullet, Stoker lives, SEB sucked up—QED.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I asked, my temper rising.

‘You had to mean to kill me! He might be the personification of all that is evil within the heart of man, but he’s no fool.’

‘Oops.’

‘Oops indeed, knucklehead! Right, we’d better be out of here!’

‘Isn’t there a plan C?’ I asked as we headed for the door.

‘Shit, no!’ replied Spike as he fumbled with the key. ‘B is as high as I ever get!’

Another creature was rising from behind some upended tables that had once held a harvest festival display; I caught it before it was even upright. I turned back to Spike, who had the key in the lock and was muttering about how he wished he was working at Sommeworld™.

‘Stay away from the door, Spike.’

He recognised the serious tone in my voice. He turned to face the barrel of my automatic.

‘Whoa! Careful, Thursday, that’s the end that bites.’

‘It ends here and tonight, Spike.’

‘This is a joke, right?’

‘No joke, Spike. You’re right. I have to kill you. It’s the only way.’

‘Er, steady on, Thursday—aren’t you taking this just a little bit too seriously?’

‘The Supreme Evil Being must be stopped, Spike—you said so yourself!’

‘I know I said that, but we can come back tomorrow with a plan C instead!’

‘There is no plan C, Spike. It ends now. Close your eyes.’

‘Wait!’

‘Close them!’

He closed his eyes and I pulled the trigger and twitched my hand at the same time; the slug powered its way through three layers of clothing, grazed Spike’s shoulder and buried itself in the wood of the old door. It did the trick; with a short and unearthly wail an entity emerged from Spike’s nostrils and coalesced into an ethereal version of an old dishcloth.

‘Good work!’ muttered Spike in a very uncertain voice as he took a step back. ‘Don’t let it get near you!’

I ducked as the wraith-like sprit moved in my direction.

‘Fooled!’ said a low voice. ‘Fooled by a mere mortal, how utterly depressing!’

The thumping had now increased and was also coming from the vestry door; I could see the hinge pins start to loosen in the powdery mortar.

‘Keep him talking!’ yelled Spike as he grabbed the holdall and pulled out the vacuum cleaner.

‘A vacuum cleaner!’ Sneered the low voice. ‘Spike you insult me!’

Spike didn’t answer but instead unravelled the hose and switched the battery-powered appliance on.

‘A vacuum cleaner won’t hold me!’ sneered the voice again. ‘Do you really believe that I can be trapped in a bag like so much dust?’

Spike sucked up the small spirit in a trice.

‘He didn’t seem that frightened of it,’ I murmured as Spike fiddled with the machine’s controls.

‘This isn’t any vacuum cleaner, Thursday. James over at R&D dreamt it up for me. You see, unlike conventional vacuum cleaners, this one works on a dual cyclone principle that traps dust and evil spirits by powerful centrifugal force. Since there is no bag there is no loss of suction—you can use a lower wattage motor; there’s a hose action—and a small brush for stair carpets.’

‘You find evil spirits in stair carpets?’

‘No, but my stair carpets need cleaning just the same as anyone else’s.’

I looked at the glass container and could see a small vestige of white spinning round very rapidly. Spike deftly placed the lid on the jar and detached it from the machine. He held it up and there inside was a very pissed-off spirit of the Evil One—well and truly trapped.

‘As I said,’ went on Spike, ‘it’s not rocket science. You had me scared, though, I thought you really were going to kill me!’

‘That,’ I replied, ‘was plan D!’

‘Spike you you you Bastard!’ said the small voice from inside the jar. ‘You’ll suffer the worst torments in hell for this!’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ replied Spike as he placed the jar in the holdall, ‘you and all the rest.’

He slung the bag round his body, replaced the spent cartridge in his shotgun with another from his pocket, and flicked off the safety.

‘Come on, those deadbeats are starting to get on my tits. Whoever nails the least is a sissypants.’

We flung open the door to a bunch of very surprised dried corpses who fell inward in a large tangled mass of putrefied torsos and stick-like limbs. Spike opened fire first, and after we had dispatched that lot we dashed outside, dodged the slowest of the undead and cut down the others as we made our way to the gates.

‘The Cindy problem,’ I said as the head of a long-dead carcass exploded in response to Spike’s shotgun. ‘Did you do as I suggested?’

‘Sure did,’ replied Spike, letting fly at another walking corpse ‘Stakes and crucifixes in the garage and all my back issues of Van Helsing’s Gazette in the living room.’

‘Did she get the message?’ I asked, surprising another walking corpse, which had been trying to stay out of the action behind a tombstone.

‘She didn’t say anything,’ he replied, decapitating two dried cadavers, ‘but the funny thing is, I now find copies of Sniper magazine in the toilet—and a copy of Great Underworld Hit-men has appeared in the kitchen.’

‘Perhaps she’s trying to tell you something?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Spike, ‘but what?’

I bagged ten that night, but Spike only managed eight—so he was the sissypants. We partook of a haddock chowder with freshly baked bread at a roadside eatery and joked about the night’s events while the SEB swore at us from his glass jar. I got my six hundred quid and my landlord didn’t get Pickwick. All in all, it was a good evening well spent.