Brian Helsing: The World's Unlikeliest Vampire Hunter. Mission #3: Howlin' Mad

by Gareth K Pengelly

  “No. I mean, yes. I mean, sorry for your loss. And we’ll help in any way we can.”

  The seal nodded as though satisfied.

  “Good. My friends in the sanctuary have a hard enough life of it as it is, what with entertaining you two-leggers on a daily basis, just for some scraps of fish that we’d turn our nose up at in the wild. We don’t need giant fucking monsters coming to drag us away on top. This needs sorting, and pronto.”

  Brian grunted in agreement.

  “You’re right. We need to find where these beasts are, and stat. Any ideas?”

  “Well, you’d be best off to ask Dave. He’s got the best nose of the lot of us. Better, even, than your Nymph lady-friend’s there.”

  “Can you call him over for us?”

  “Hardly; he’s a sea-lion, lives over in another pool entirely.” The seal raised his nose to the air and barked into the dark sky. “Dave! Dave, you there?”

  Another voice called back from somewhere nearby.

  “Of course I am, Alan. Where else would I be? Timbuk-bloody-tu?”

  “Alright, no need to be sarcy. Got some guests for you.”

  “Guests? Like who?”

  “Helsing, a Nymph and a random human.”

  “Oh. Righto. Send ‘em over.”

  The seal, whose name they’d now learned was Alan, lowered his gaze to the trio.

  “Dave’s in the third pool on the left, opposite the penguins.”

  “Thanks,” Brian replied.

  With that, the trio turned back to the wall, ready to climb out, before staring up at it and realising it was nine feet high. With a sigh, Brian reached out with both arms, to touch his companions on their shoulders.

  “Hold your breath.”

  As the smoke of translocation wafted away on the cold breeze, the three made their way down the path towards the other pools. All about them, the air was filled with the idle and noisy chatter of dozens of captive sea-creatures. Penguins, bickering and arguing with each other, over nothing in particular. Fish, asking each other the same inane questions again and again. Groups of seals hurling obscenities at each other from pool to pool. Brian darted a disbelieving look at Scylla, who shrugged.

  “You learn to tune it out after a while. Kind of have to. Sound travels a lot further underwater, after all. Ever tried to sleep when all you can hear is the screeching of mating dolphins that might be some five hundred miles away?”

  “Nope. I’m starting to be thankful for my mundane human ears.”

  “And so you should be.”

  Finally, they arrived at the sea lion enclosure. Climbing up the stairs to the viewing platform, they gazed down into the water below. A sudden splash of water, and an enormous, whiskered head erupted from the darkness, followed by a vast bulk of a body. If the sea lion had been aiming to make an impressive entrance onto its concrete ledge, it failed, landing instead halfway out of the water. Flailing its flippers and frothing the water into a white foam behind it, it wriggled and writhed, its folds of fat rolling almost hypnotically, as it apologised, sheepishly.

  “Sorry about this. Almost there,” it panted. “Nearly. Won’t be a moment.” Finally, it managed to heave its bulk onto dry land with a sigh, before looking up at them, embarrassed. “Sorry about that; piled on the pounds lately. The fish here might not be the tastiest, but they don’t skimp on portions.”

  “No worries,” Brian told the creature. “You must be Dave.”

  “And you must be Helsing. Thought I could smell the whiff of magic about you.”

  “Indeed. Alan told us you’ve the best nose in the sanctuary?”

  “That I do. And I’m assuming you’re here because you want to know where those whacking great beasties from last night might be?”

  “Please.”

  Dave nodded, before closing his eyes and lifting his great, whiskered snout up to sniff the air.

  “Well, they’re certainly distinctive. They smell like wet dog. And they’re not too far away, maybe a couple of miles? Five tops?”

  “Yes, but in which direction?”

  “Well, the wind is coming in from the coast, so that way. South-ish, towards Lizard Point. More than that I can’t guess.”

  Brian sighed.

  “There’s a lot of ground between here and the coast, even within that radius. Can’t you smell anything else, anything distinctive that might give us a clue?”

  “I can smell…” The sea lion sniffed, harder this time. “Body odour. And something pungent and sour… is that… is that patchouli? Yes, that’s it. And something else… what’s that stuff you two-legged weirdoes smoke that gets you all giggly? Weed? Wait… the wind’s changed direction. It’s gone now, sorry.”

  The trio looked at each other, puzzled.

  “Somewhere within five miles,” Scylla murmured. “And the smell of body odour, patchouli oil and weed…?”

  Brian frowned, trying to piece the clues together, to no avail. Amazingly, it was Neil who ventured forth with a suggestion.

  “I think I have an idea,” he slowly told them.

  “Aye?” Brian asked. “I’m all ears. Not that I’m keen to face these things, mind.”

  “The Barefoot Festival.”

  “And what, pray tell, might that be?”

  “Come on, Bri! Don’t you remember? I tried to drag you to it last year – that big festival they hold on The Lizard every year; live music, camping. All that malarkey. Sounded like awesome fun, but you being the boring sod you are – well, were – didn’t want to go.”

  Brian nodded, recalling the conversation.

  “Yes, I remember now. You mentioned there would be huge amounts of mud and smelly hippies. And I mentioned something about wild horses and them not being able to drag me there.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Well, fair enough. Sounds like a plausible lead, I’ll give you that. Otto mentioned something about werewolves living in small communes. Looks like one of these communes has decided to go to a festival. I suppose if a hairy, mangy, stinking werewolf can hide anywhere, it’ll be amongst a bunch of hippies. Looks like we’re off to the Barefoot Festival.”

  “Yes!” Neil gave a small fist pump, to which Brian and Scylla replied with an incredulous stare. Slowly, Neil cottoned on. “Oh yeah. Werewolves. Remind me to fist-pump again after we’ve not died.”

  “Quite. Right, let’s get going. Dave, it was a pleasure to meet you. You’ve been of great assistance.”

  “The pleasure is all mine,” the sea-lion replied with a bow, that of an ice-cream finally succumbing to the summer sun. “To think, me, a mere sea-lion, meeting the legendary Helsing. Why, if they ever see fit to bring me a mate, I’ll be telling this one to the kids. Good luck with your beast-hunt.”

  “And good luck with your… what do you do, exactly?”

  “Eat fish, mostly.”

  “Well, good luck with that.”

  “I don’t need luck. I’m a pro.”

  I can tell, thought Brian, as the trio turned and began the long walk back to Bertha. So, somewhere between here and this Barefoot Festival, there were werewolves on the prowl? But how many? And where, exactly? How could they track them down? He turned to Scylla.

  “I know you Nymphs have a keen sense of smell. Do you think you could maybe track these things down if we get close enough?”

  “Maybe,” she shrugged. “Patchouli is quite… pungent. Some regulars used to wear it back at Leeroys. I could smell them arriving before they’d even stepped foot in the door.”

  “Brilliant. Then maybe we stand a chance of catching these guys before they eat anything else that ought not be eaten. And if they’ve been smoking weed, well, I’d imagine they’re quite peckish.”

  “Yeah,” Neil replied. “But what if it’s us on the menu?”

  “Well,” Scylla ventured. “I could always try to extol upon them the virtues of veganism?”

  “It’s not worked on me, so far,” Brian murmured. “Probably work even less on an eigh
t-foot man-eating werebeast.”

  “You never know,” she told him with a sage nod.

  No, you never do, he thought, as they strode back down towards the visitor’s centre and the car beyond. But if it’s all the same with you, I’ll put my trust in the Punisher.

  Chapter Eight:

  In Firepower We Trust

  “For Christ’s sake, Neil; aim for the bloody werewolves, not us!”

  At Brian’s urgent screaming, Neil grimaced and wrenched the joystick that protruded from Bertha’s dashboard, the Punisher that rose from the Camaro’s bonnet adjusting its aim accordingly. On the night-vision screen on the dash, two small figures glowed brightly in the darkness, one slightly more so than the other, what with Scylla being nigh-cold blooded, as they raced towards him through the woods. But it wasn’t the two small shapes he was aiming for with the digital cross-hairs; rather, the two enormous bulks that chased after them on all fours, crashing through the undergrowth and smashing smaller trees aside with their hideous strength.

  “Fire in the hole!” Neil shouted out of the open window, as he depressed the trigger on the joystick once more.

  With a whine of electric motors, the Punisher’s three steaming barrels spun up once more, unleashing a fusillade of fifty-calibre death that raced through the evening gloom into the woods. Once again, however, the werewolves proved too fast, darting to one side just in time, the enormous rounds merely shredding the bark from trees and leaving their swollen canine forms wholly untouched.

  Dammit, thought Brian, as he raced through the trees back towards the car; these things were fast, far faster than their bulk would have had him believe. Even Scylla, with her supernatural Nymph speed, was struggling to keep ahead of their rending claws and snapping, slavering jaws. The beasts howled their hunger behind them and, paling, Brian picked up the pace once more. The woods had been so quiet when they’d parked Bertha up on the country back road. Scylla could smell them, but couldn’t tell where, so leaving Neil in the car at the controls of the Punisher, the pair, the Helsing and the Nymph, had ventured out into the darkness to see if they could flush the beasts out into the open. They’d all but stumbled upon them in a small clearing, the pair of hulking great figures crouched over the remains of a deer that they’d been ripping to pieces and devouring with great gusto. At their approach, however, they’d launched themselves after Helsing and Scylla with furious abandon, having had their fill of game and now hankering, it seemed, for surf ‘n’ turf.

  Brian forced his tired feet to run faster still, trying to keep pace with the Nymph a few steps ahead. If they could just make it back to Bertha, they’d be safe even from the werewolves’ hungry maws, and they could think up a new strategy that didn’t involve being eaten. So intently was Brian staring at the headlights glowing through the undergrowth ahead, that he didn’t notice the tree root sticking out at perfect ankle-snagging height. He landed on the hard, frosty earth with a thump, the impact driving the air from his lungs and filling his vision with stars. A sudden shadow loomed over him, blotting out the silvery moonlight that streamed down through the trees and Brian rolled over onto his back, spitting mud, just in time to see a hideously fanged mouth sweeping down towards him. With a whimper, he lifted his own hands in a flash, just in time to grasp the creature by its upper and lower jaw, holding the snapping fangs at bay, for now at least. The monster’s strength was unbelievable. As was its breath. As Brian’s arms wobbled with the strain of holding that ferocious visage at bay, a long, gelatinous tendril of saliva began to slowly, slowly, descend from the beast’s bottom lip, stretching down like an abseiling spider towards his face.

  “Oh, hell no,” he gasped.

  His eyes spied a tree branch some twenty feet overhead in the gloom, thick enough, he hoped, to withstand his weight. With a surge of concentration, he Blinked, landing atop the branch on his stomach. The werewolf, of course, came with him. As it blinked and looked about, dazed by the sudden strange sensation, it realised that it wasn’t on the ground anymore. Nor was it on the tree branch. As Brian waved goodbye, gravity caught hold and dragged the creature back to earth, where it smashed into the ground with a thump. Brian’s relief was short-lived, for the creature was only momentarily stunned by the impact, rising to its feet and shaking its head, before snarling up at him. With a start, Brian noticed its fellow, too, now at the foot of the tree, the pair of them circling and growling, alternately taking turns to scrabble at the trunk and roar their hunger, Brian’s haven shaking and swaying precariously beneath the onslaught of their weight.

  “Oi, you smelly creatures! Over here!”

  Brian glanced away from the werewolves, to see Scylla standing a dozen yards away, waving her arms in an effort to attract the lycans’ attention. It was working; the pair of creatures turned from the tree, starting to stalk towards her on all fours, mouths dripping glutinous saliva at the thought of sweet, tasty Nymph-flesh.

  “What are you doing?” Brian shouted over. “Get back to the car!”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’m planning on it. But not without these two in hot pursuit. Come dogs, follow me. Leave Brian in his tree. You don’t want to eat him anyway; he’s stringy.”

  Like Lurchers coursing after a hare, they did as they were goaded, launching themselves on powerful legs towards the Nymph, who vanished in a flash, propelled by her own supernatural limbs. Brian watched in apprehension as the group disappeared into the woods, heading towards the road and the car thereon, hoping beyond hope that Scylla would make it. Having felt the unnatural strength of a werewolf first-hand, he didn’t hold out any hope even for the Nymph’s chances should the creatures catch her. With a thought, he Blinked back to earth, before setting off in pursuit after the sounds of baying and hungry growls. A few moments into his flight, he heard the dull thud of a car door being slammed shut, and relief filled his body, but it was relief cut-short as he reached the edge of the forest; the two werewolves snarled and snapped as they scrabbled at the Camaro’s invulnerable outer shell, his pair of friends cocooned safely within, but leaving Brian with no way to get close without ending up as were-chow. The Punisher whirred this way and that at Neil’s frantic behest, but it couldn’t angle far enough towards the rear of the car to get a shot off at the monsters.

  Brian stood for a moment, in the shadow of a tree, and thought furiously. As usual, it hurt. Suddenly, a grin broke out on his face; the MP5, in the boot of the car! It was loaded with silver bullets, bullets that, according to Otto at least, should be able to hurt the creatures. He fumbled in the pocket of his long and – thanks to the mud – browner than usual trench coat, for the keys. Thankfully, he still had them to hand. Could he creep his way over to the boot without the werewolves noticing? Doubtful; the beasts had heard his and Scylla’s stealthy approach with all the ease those enormous ears suggested. But then, he didn’t need to. He was Helsing. He had ways and means. He thumbed the boot-release button on the key, the lid at the rear of the car rising with a soft hiss that, thankfully, the werewolves ignored. Then, reaching out with his mind, Brian summoned the sub-machinegun. Under the influence of his telekinesis, yet another gift bestowed upon him by the ring, the stubby, black weapon rose slowly in the glow of the boot’s interior light, as if dangling from invisible strings, and began its silent drift towards him. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until the very last second that Brian realised the long strap attached to the gun had somehow snagged one of the brightly-coloured glass phials of liquid that also resided in the boot, phials of potions and enchanted chemicals that Brian had never yet dared to use. As Brian frantically paused the MP5, the phial teetered on the very lip of the boot. Before he could even think to lash out with another tendril of the Mind Whip and push the vessel back into the car, it fell, to explode upon the tarmac, with a bang and a puff of lurid green smoke.

  “Fuck,” he whispered.

  The werewolves rounded on the mini-explosion with rage and surprise in equal measure writ large upon their twisted canine features. With a curse
, Brian summoned the sub-machinegun with renewed haste, the weapon flying towards him, strap trailing like the tattered remnants of Batman’s cape. As the weapon flew, the creatures’ gaze followed it and, when it smacked into his waiting hand, they narrowed their eyes with bloodlust. And charged. As the beasts came racing towards him, Brian slung the strap over his shoulder and smirked.

  “Eat… silver?”

  He pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. His face paled as he glanced down at the silent weapon in his hands. Neil wound down the Camaro’s window and shouted over.

  “The safety! You’ve got the safety on!”

  “For Pete’s sake,” Brian sighed. “Bloody safety catches are gonna get me killed one day.”

  But before he could even thumb the switch from safe to live, the werewolves were almost upon him, bearing down on him in an unstoppable landslide of furred muscle and razor claws. With a whimper, Brian forgot about the gun for the moment and dashed to one side, ducking to avoid the lethal sweep of an outstretched arm as long as his entire body. Back-flipping with a skill he never knew he had, a skill no doubt learned and passed down by one of his forebears whose talents now resided in the ring, Brian landed on the road and whirled about, surrounded on both sides by frustrated werewolves that looked hungrier by the second.

  “Catch!” shouted Scylla, her top half visible out of the sunroof of the car as she threw something long and metallic his way.

  The sword landed in his grasp, thankfully handle first. Brian’s thumb found the ancient rune on the hilt and, despite the baying death that approached, he smiled.

  “Anyone for hot dogs?” The creatures lunged and, with a snarl, Brian whispered the words that activated the sword’s enchantment. “Ignis Veritum.” The length of the blade erupted in sorcerous flames, the werewolves pausing in their attacks as the orange light flickered in their beady black eyes. Swirling the blade about him in an arc, Brian spat venom at his foes. “Right, which one of you mangy mutts wants to be put down first?”