The banshee floated before him and now all Brian could think about, his anger ebbing away, was that she was at any moment going to resume her attack. And yet strangely, she didn’t. Instead, those long razor talons began to recede into her fingers. Her face softened from its fearful gaze of before, her eyes taking on a softness, her full lips, a smile. Brian stood, confused, unsure whether to run. The ring wasn’t vibrating, warning of impending danger. Instead, as Brian gazed up at the apparition, she drew closer, slowly this time.
And kissed him on the lips, her touch icy cold, before exploding into a shower of bright, glistening sparks that slowly faded away into the moonlit sky.
Brian exhaled the banshee’s breath, icy cold as it misted into the air, as Neil rose alongside him.
“I never knew you had it in you,” Neil whispered in hushed, awestruck tones. “I thought all along it might be some big, long-running joke, that you, of all people, might be the Helsing, protector of the Earth. Ridiculous. I’ve only known you a couple of years, but even in that brief time the depths of spinelessness and social awkwardness I’ve seen you sink to have never ceased to amaze me. But what you just did, the things I’ve seen you do. I couldn’t even do them. I think they might be right, you know… I think you might really be the Chosen One.”
Brian turned to him, face impassive.
“WHAT?”
“Nothing mate,” Neil laughed, slapping him on the back and causing him to all-but double over in agony. “Shit, we need to get that looked at. She really tore you a new one before your little speech.”
“I don’t feel good,” Brian whimpered, gazing down at the blood dripping down to the cemetery lawn. “I think I need a… shower,” he managed to croak out, before finally fainting into the grass.
Epilogue: The Chosen One
So much had happened the last couple of days. So much he’d learned about himself, mainly how cowardly and awkward he still was despite the fantastic gifts bestowed upon him by the ring. He’d encountered vampires, twice, and a banshee once, escaping the first two by luck and panic, in equal measure, and ending the latter confrontation with no less than a ghostly snog. He’d written off one car and would have done another too, had it not proved invulnerable. He’d fired a gun for the first time, all-but destroying a room and scaring the shit out of himself in the process. He’d learned kung fu, after a fashion, or rather had it demonstrated upon him with somewhat too much enthusiasm by a girl he was beginning to have rather conflicting feelings about. He’d at once lost his job, and at the same time become rich beyond his wildest dreams. He’d learned magic, too, not card tricks, but real, proper, Dr Strange-style spells. He’d taken upon himself a mantle, a destiny, wrapping about him thick chains of tradition and duty far too strong for anything but his own demise to break. He was a Helsing, latest in a line of glorious and proud demon-hunters, protectors of the innocent, champions of the light. He was, in a very real way, a modern superhero. He was a dark knight.
And yet why did he feel like a joker?
Despite the slowly changing attitudes of the Masters, despite Heimlich’s assurances, Gertie’s smiles, despite even the whispered words of the long-dead Helsing, first of his name, Brian couldn’t help but feel a fraud. Couldn’t help but think he wasn’t worthy. Things like this happened to men who deserved it. Not men with no backbone, with no skill, with no strength other than that granted them by supernatural means beyond their ken. His had been a life of self-pity, of hopelessness. Of late nights playing games with fake internet friends, and even later nights rubbing himself raw to fake internet porn, before waking the next day sore and full of shame. His was the embarrassing tongue-tied utterance to a pretty girl, the witty putdown to a bully thought of far too late. It felt like a travesty that such a life had been thrust upon him when there were so many out there no doubt far more deserving of such powers, of such wealth, of such adoration.
Don’t be a blithering idiot all your life, lad.
Brian started, surprised, and looked up; there in the rune-etched glass before him, a familiar shape, one that should by all rights have been within a different glass, far below. That wide-brimmed hat, long leather trenchcoat, so similar to those he’d been wearing himself. And those eyes that twinkled in a lined and weathered face, glimmering with amusement. And something else too; respect.
You’ve got balls, Brian. I told you that, right at the beginning. And it’s high time you started believing it yourself.
But I’m an idiot, you said that yourself too, twice now. And in all honesty, despite the powers, the training, the gizmos and gadgets, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to change. Some things just are. I’m always going to be an idiot.
The spectre shrugged.
Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows? Perhaps an idiot is what this world needs right now.
Unlikely, Brian thought. Helsing XII smiled.
And that is precisely what you are; Brian Helsing, the World’s Unlikeliest Vampire Hunter. Wear that mantle with pride, lad. Use it to your advantage. I died, and I was one of the best. The demons of the world are wising up to the tricks of us old hands. Maybe it takes a newer, less steady hand at the tiller in this crazy world.
And with that, the apparition faded.
The blazing sigils in the stone above and below began to sizzle out, the rush of magic dying, the tingling fading from his skin and leaving only a dull ache in his back to betray the wound ever having been there. The glass door opened and Brian stepped out from the Healing Shower, to find the Masters there, waiting for him.
“That was quite a blow she dealt you, Helsing,” Heimlich commented. “Took a while to heal, even with the shower at full-whack. I’m assuming you’ll be telling us how you want to go home, go back to your old life? That the terrifying life of a demon-hunter was never meant for such as you?”
Brian paused for a moment, pondering both Heimlich’s words and XII’s, the two sides of his soul warring in his mind before reaching a verdict.
“No.”
Heimlich blinked.
“Oh.”
At the Master of Magic’s surprised look, Brian laughed.
“You said it yourself, Heimlich; I’m surprising.”
“Yes. And you said I’m a fucking lunatic.”
“I still stand by that. Any teacher who uses napalm as a learning aid should be reported to OFSTED in my book.”
“Well thank God I answer to higher powers than the education board. What now?”
“Now?” Brian thought long and hard. “Home to relax. I’ve a video game I’ve been meaning to get round to. I’m assuming I can have at least one day off a week?”
“You can.”
“Good.”
With that, and under the smiling eyes of the gathered Masters, Brian began to walk from the Healing Chamber, through the anteroom and towards the centre of the Sanctum and the garage beyond. Halfway down the corridor towards the garage, a patter of light footsteps beside him and he turned to see Gertie hurrying alongside.
“Wetherspoon’s opens in ten minutes,” she told him. “And I hear they do a mean Full English.”
“If you like your black pudding like shurikens, sure.”
“Good,” she laughed. “Then it’s a date.”
Out of reflex, he snapped.
“It’s not a… wait, what?”
With a grip that told him she could snap his neck like a fortune cookie, she looped her arm through his and grinned.
“Come on, let’s get some breakfast. And I’m driving Bertha; I’ve heard she can be a little feisty for you…”
I like a bit of feistiness, Brian mused, regarding her petite form and bright hair as they strode through the door and up to the Camaro. A wizened figure laughed at him from within the windscreen, before pulling his wide-brim hat down in a nod of respect and fading. And within moments, Bertha’s angry tones filled the concrete chamber, and with a squeal of burning rubber, she was gone.
Figures stood in the still-open doorway to the garage, reg
arding the receding muscle car. Well, two stood at least; the other sat in a chair that puffed and steamed tiny clouds of oily smoke.
“What do you think?” Heimlich asked the other pair.
“I quite like him,” Otto shrugged, smiling. “Reminds me of myself at that age.”
“What?” Friedrick replied. “Were you a lanky streak of stupid too?”
“Less lanky, but yes, stupid.”
“He’s a work in progress,” Heimlich mused. “But Gertie seems to like him. And she doesn’t like anyone. So there’s that.”
“How do you think he’ll cope with the next mission?” Otto asked.
“Fucking terribly, is my guess,” Friedrick ventured. “Even XII struggled with Water Nymphs. This buffoon’s gonna make a right dog’s dinner of it.”
“We’ll see,” Heimlich said. “He’ll need some training.”
“Oh aye?” Friedrich looked up with a wry smile on his face. “Got some more schemes cooked up?”
Heimlich’s smile was all the answer he needed.
“We’ll make a Helsing of him yet,” he replied. “And you know what…? I’ve an inkling he might turn out to be the best one yet.”
THE END
MISSION #2: SURF’S UP
Copyright © 2017 by Gareth K Pengelly.
Writing and illustrations by Gareth K Pengelly.
No part of this book may be taken, sold or reproduced without the express consent of the author. He can usually be plied with beer.
All characters portrayed are clearly fictitious and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental, and probably downright unfortunate.
Other books by Gareth K Pengelly:
Brian Helsing: The World’s Unlikeliest Vampire Hunter (Comedy Fantasy)
Mission #1: Just Try Not To Die
Mission #2: Surf’s Up
Mission #3: Howlin’ Mad
Mission #4: Land Of The Rising Damp
Mission #5: Wicked Witch Of The North
Mission #6: Where’s My Mummy?
Mission #7: Cirque du Vampire
The Graeme Stone Saga (Epic Fantasy)
The Descent To Madness
The Fall To Power
From The Ashes
Stone Rising
Bloodless Revolution
Tales Of Transition
The Cornish Guardians (Horror)
The Knacker
Redcap
Tregeagle
Foreword:
So much fun I had writing the first Helsing book, that it would have been a crime to not write a second. And so I did. And here it is.
What do you mean, that’s not enough of a foreword? Fine. I shall write a bit more then.
Helsing is not your typical action hero, as you already well know. And, as such, I don’t believe he should win the day in typical action hero way. He’s not about overpowering his foes with dazzling displays of might. He’s a) not strong enough for that (yet…) and b) nowhere near brave enough. And plus, it sounds an awful lot like hard work, and that’s not his favourite thing at the best of times.
And so, in this book, I set out to write it with the aim of Brian using his noggin. He doesn’t want to fight, if he can help it, yet at the same time, he’s keenly aware that he’s the only person who can keep people safe. Again, this is all playing into the whole ‘what would I do if I were a vampire hunter?’ idea. It’s easy to think we’d go full Hugh Jackman, with crossbow and stake, but would we really? Aren’t we, as humans, predisposed to avoiding conflict, wherever we can? If we weren’t, how could we live together in such (relative) harmony.
I also wanted to muddy the waters a little, in terms of who is good, and who is bad. Do the Masters decide which monsters are evil and deserve Huntery justice? Or does Brian?
As you’ll soon see, I was eager to play upon Brian’s awkwardness with the opposite sex again. It’s often easy to know what to do when facing someone out for your blood; you’ve two choices most of the time, either kill them, or run the fuck away. But when it comes to dealing with a lady (or a man, if you’re of the womanly persuasion, or gay, my readership doesn’t discriminate), it’s not quite as clear cut as that. If you run away, you look like a loon. If you stake them through the heart, you both look like a loon AND get put behind bars for a very long time. And rightly so.
This is a book of Brian coming to terms with his new role, settling in, and finding his own way of doing things. But I’m never gonna let him get too settled. Or if he does, I’m going to give him a rude awakening, you can be sure of that.
Again, I cannot for the life of me begin to express how thankful I am for every single person who reads my books. I write because I want to write. But to know there’s people out there enjoying the twisted humour that explodes from my fingers and onto the page (eww… could have phrased that better), means the world.
Please, if you’d like to keep up on new releases, join the newsletter.
And, as always, I hope you enjoy reading Surf’s Up as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Gaz Pengelly
Chapter One: Quiet Pint
Neil gazed down incredulously at the Omega Speedmaster watch on his wrist, his stunned eyes taking in the beautiful craftsmanship; the curves of the steel, the sumptuousness of the leather, the smooth motion of the various hands as they rotated on myriad dials. Slowly, he dragged his eyes back up to the patiently watching form of Brian.
“Mate, I can’t take this. It’s worth more than my car.”
“Your Impreza’s worth fuck all, Neil. It’s a chav-mobile. And besides, it’s your birthday. And anyway, I kind of owe you one, what with the banshee nearly taking your head off and all that.”
“Well, that’s true,” Neil grinned, hoisting his pint and saluting his friend. “Cheers.”
Brian smiled and clinked his own pint against Neil’s, before taking a swig of his Doom Bar. He was probably going to get it in the neck from Heimlich over this little expenditure, but it was worth it to see Neil happy. Though to be fair, Neil never seemed to need much encouragement to be happy; he was the type of person to leap out of bed in the morning, his bed-hair already perfect, his limbs full of energy and mind buzzing to start the day. Whereas Brian needed a team of wild horses to drag him out from the warm cocoon of his duvet when the alarm went off. Even the vast wealth and magical powers his new career had brought him rarely seemed to get him going as they would anyone else. Neil here would have been ecstatic to have been declared the new Helsing, champion of the innocent, hunter of all Things That Went Bump In The Night, and in all honesty perhaps he was far more suited to the role than Brian was himself, what with Brian’s gangly six-foot seven frame and weak chin a stark contrast to Neil’s chiselled good looks and rugby player physique.
The gods had a wicked sense of humour, it seemed.
The band sidled into the pub, all guitars and swagger, making themselves ready on the stage at the far end. Only a small pub, this one, and certainly not Wetherspoon’s; Brian daren’t show his face in there, not after the whole vampire fracas of before. Though the local constabulary hadn’t believed the crowd in their protestations that Brian had murdered a girl in front of them – and why would they have, when there had been no corpse to be seen? – he still didn’t feel welcome there anymore. And he definitely didn’t want to find himself surrounded by angry locals baying for his blood; it would certainly end badly, though for whom he wasn’t sure. Once upon a time, he’d have been sure that he’d have been the one ending the night on the floor in a pool of his own blood. Nowadays, he wasn’t so certain, yet he still wasn’t keen to put it to the test.
“These guys good?” Brian asked.
“Not a clue, mate,” Neil admitted, taking another swig of his pint. “They’re a bunch of fisherman from Newlyn. The flyer said they cover classic metal songs.”
Brian nodded. That would explain the name proudly emblazoned on the front of the bass drum. Boaterhead. The lead singer, clad in leather and studded like an an
tique couch, swaggered up to the microphone. He was relatively young, probably Neil and Brian’s age, with a flashing smile, long, brown hair that trailed down over his shoulders, and shining black eyes that scanned the crowd with the intensity of confidence, drugs or most likely a potent mixture of both.
“Y’all ready to rock, Penzance?” he hollered. The sound of indifference was deafening, but he didn’t notice or if he did he didn’t care, instead continuing into the microphone with gusto. “We’ve got a set and a half lined up for you tonight. So get your pints down you and throw some horns!”
As the band launched into their gig, opening with a stunningly loud rendition of Iron Maiden’s Number of the Beast, Brian wondered at the band’s sheer determination in the face of overwhelming apathy. He looked about; fishermen, pensioners, a smattering of youths. No-one particularly rocky or goth to be seen. Surely this was the wrong type of venue for such a band? Wrong type of music for such a crowd?
Brian Helsing: The World's Unlikeliest Vampire Hunter Box Set 1 - Missions 1-3 Page 14