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

by Gareth K Pengelly

  Placing his hands on it, he closed his eyes and concentrated, picturing where he’d left his friends. Then imagining himself and the bike somewhat further along the road from them, lest things go awry. The ring grew warm with the potent sorceries woven through its metal, the air growing tense and tasting of tin, as the barriers between space and time grew thin. Then, with a pop, a bang, and a fizzle, he was gone.

  The bearded hipster turned to his friends, their faces all as shocked as his own.

  “Was that Dynamo?” he ventured, before turning to stare back at the empty spot where man and bike had once been. “He looks taller in person…”

  Chapter Fifteen:

  Bear On A Unicycle

  Neil’s Subaru was fast. Bertha was faster still. But this thing, Brian thought, as the wind whipped his face into a tortured, rippling rubber mask, was terrifyingly, mind-blowingly more so. Or it would have been terrifying, were it not for the mollifying effects of the ecstasy that still surged through his veins. As they’d left Scylla and Neil to trudge back down the road towards the festival and the car, Brian’s keys in Neil’s hand – along with whispered instructions not to let Scylla drive – Gertie had wrenched the throttle open, launching the pair, with Brian perched hilariously atop the tiny, credit-card-sized pillion seat, knees forced up about his ears, down the road with a high pitched roar. It had only been on the far side of one hundred miles per hour that Gertie had finally clicked the beast into second gear and the front wheel had mercifully touched down upon the tarmac like a fighter jet coming in to land. Brian clung on for dear life, MP5 flapping from its strap behind him in the howling wind, finding himself caught in some strange chemical-induced limbo halfway between fear and exhilaration.

  “We should catch up pretty soon at this speed,” Gertie shouted to him.

  That’s what he thought she was saying, at least. Between her voice being muffled by her helmet and the banshee wail of gale force winds about his ears, it was hard to tell. How he wished she’d had a spare helmet she could have lent him. It’ll be fine, she’d told him, laughing; if we fall off and you see a lamp-post heading your way, just Shadow Form. Small comfort, he mused, gripping tighter about her slender form, before realising his hands had crept further north about her chest than he’d realised and blanching. Did she giggle as she felt his hands wander? Perhaps. Again, it was hard to tell.

  They leant low into the corner as they rounded a bend in the road, Gertie’s leather-clad knee reaching out to gently kiss the tarmac, Brian feeling for all the world like he was on a boat about to capsize, before the bike righted itself and, with a twist of the throttle, the world blurred backwards once more at warp factor nine. The sky overhead was starting to darken now, a train of red taillights up ahead, visible in the gloom, a traffic jam slowed by the lights at the junction half a mile distant, and Gertie slowed, but only fractionally.

  “Hold on,” she told him. “I’m gonna filter past them.”

  “I hate it when bikes filter,” he replied.

  “That’s cos you’re usually the one stuck in the car,” she laughed. “Watch and learn.”

  Still racing along at far too many miles per hour, Gertie flicked the bike left and right, weaving through cars like a sewing machine needle through fabric. Even without the love-drug that thundered through his system, Brian would have marvelled at the skill and ease with which the motorbike dispatched all lesser, more unwieldy vehicles in its wake. As it was, he giggled out loud at the contemptuous speed with which they threaded through the stationary traffic.

  “Told ya,” Gertie chuckled, glancing back over her shoulder and giving him a wink through her visor. “Nothing beats being on a bike.”

  One of the car drivers up ahead, watching them in his wing mirror with a look of jealousy on his face, was disinclined to agree, it seemed. Before Brian could even warn his pilot, the man edged the wing of his BMW rep-mobile out into the middle of the road, attempting to bar their way. Perhaps the man didn’t realise how fast they were going. Perhaps he didn’t care. Perhaps he was simply a murderous bastard with a pathological hatred of anyone who might have the sheer cheek to attempt to overtake his superior Teutonic barge. Whatever the reason, there was no way Gertie was going to be able to brake in time and, with a huge lorry full of bleating sheep in the oncoming lane, there was no way to dodge either. Gertie caught sight of the obstruction, gasping in shock.

  “Cunting Beemer drivers!” she screamed.

  Ten yards away and closing fast, collision seeming inevitable, Brian’s mind raced, then, lifting one hand from Gertie’s jacket, he held it in front of him like a warding shield and, with an effort born of desperation, he roared and lashed forth with the Mind Whip. As if kicked by the boot of a drunk and pissed-off god, the Five Series launched sideways, tyres leaving black lines of smoking rubber as it slid left across the road and out of their way, before sliding slowly, and inexorably, into the muddy ditch. As they rode past, Gertie stuck her middle finger up at the man who was now climbing, stunned, out of his car and attempting the slippery climb up to the road.

  “Quick thinking,” she told Brian, as they filtered past the traffic. “And is it me, or are your powers growing stronger?”

  “I hope so,” he replied, staring up into the darkening sky. “Because if I’m not mistaken, that big white blob in the sky looks very much like a full moon.”

  She followed his gaze.

  “Shit. You’re not wrong. Where the hell are these bloody werewolves? I would have thought we’d have caught them up by now.”

  “They try to find abandoned places where they can lock themselves away, or most of them at least. Usually somewhere out of the way, like that abandoned farm.”

  As they slowed to a halt at the very front of the line of traffic, waiting impatiently for the lights to change to green, they cast their gaze about at the countryside all around them for any hint of somewhere isolated, remote, with large buildings that might be strong enough, large enough, to contain a pack of angry, bloodthirsting werewolves. The answer loomed over them some quarter mile distant across the peninsula, ominous, dark and perfectly suitable-looking in the gloom.

  “Goonhilly,” Gertie breathed.

  Brian grunted in agreement. The vast Goonhilly Earth Station, with its enormous satellite dishes and warehouses, was the ideal spot. Fenced in, isolated, with industrial-sized buildings. An ideal habitat for a pack of lycans looking for somewhere to hide themselves of a night.

  “Will these lights ever change?” Gertie growled, as traffic thundered across their path, barring their way.

  “Run them,” Brian suggested.

  “We’re on a bike, we’ll get wiped out. No roll cage on a bike, and the only airbags are on my chest and, though they’re ample enough, I doubt their efficacy in a crash.”

  “Well, if we can’t run them,” Brian smiled. “Let’s skip them.”

  A puff of smoke, and the pair, bike and all, vanished, only to reappear a dozen yards further ahead, across the junction, leaving behind stunned car drivers rubbing at disbelieving eyes.

  “Now that’s what I call a legal loophole,” Gertie laughed, clicking the bike into gear and launching them once more down the road.

  A further hundred yards down the road, then they took the road on the right, blasting down the country lane, the roar of the exhaust all but blasting stunned and sleepy birds from their roost in the trees. Finally, after several minutes, they pulled up alongside a huge steel gate in a chain link fence. The metal had been buckled and twisted, the padlock and chain snapped like dried twine by the force of some horrendous blow. The heavy scent of diesel smoke in the air meant that the pair didn’t need two guesses as to the cause.

  “Looks like we’re not too far behind them,” Brian murmured as he clambered his way from the bike and stretched out his sore and aching legs. “Hopefully they’ve managed to lock some of their number away. Without Bertha and the Punisher, I don’t fancy our chances against nigh a dozen of the bastards.”


  Gertie whipped out her phone, dialling Neil. It was Scylla who answered, Neil obviously driving, and the lad could be heard cursing at the traffic.

  “Scylla, we’ve found their hideout,” Gertie told the nymph. “Goonhilly Satellite Station. About ten miles from you. How long till you guys can get here?”

  “About six months with this fucking traffic,” Neil shouted from the driver’s seat.

  “It’s bumper to bumper,” Scylla replied. “We’ll get there fast as we can, but don’t expect us any time soon.”

  “They’re gonna be a while,” Gertie told Brian. “What do you think? Wait for them to get here?”

  Brian paused for a moment, thinking hard as he stared into the looming structures in the compound, before shaking his head.

  “No. We go in now. Every minute we waste is a minute a werewolf might climb over the fence and make his way to one of the nearby villages.”

  “Fair enough. Scylla, you two get here soon as you can. Me and Brian are going in.”

  “Stay safe.”

  “Oh we will, don’t worry. Me and you have still got that thing to do that we planned earlier.” With that last cryptic sentence, Gertie hung up and smile at Brian. “Shall we?”

  “What was that about?”

  “Hmm?”

  “That last sentence? What do you and Scylla have planned?”

  “Oh, nothing. Shall we go kill some werewolves?”

  Brian stared after her as she drew her daggers and strode through the battered gate, perplexed, yet not quite as intimidated and scared as perhaps he should have been, no doubt in no small part thanks to the ecstasy that even now still rendered him oddly suggestible. Then, with a shake of his head, he hurried after her, cradling the MP5 in his arms. This time, making double sure that the safety was off. They crept past the grassy fields that lined the road, towards the complex of warehouses and offices, all huge yet rendered tiny and doll-house-like by the vast satellite dishes that loomed overhead like silent and disapproving parents. Even through the haze of pharmaceutical rose-tinted glasses, their very size gave them an oppressive aura, the same possessed by cathedrals built to cow the masses into submission, to remind them that they were but pawns in a game of gods. It was an aura that spoke of grim death lurking in the shadows, of judgement from on high. Brian clasped his MP5 tighter, staring into the gloom. The sun had long set now, the moon hanging low, gibbous and quite full in the sky. No doubt even now the wolves would be changing, shedding their puny mortal bodies for something more fitting for the hunt.

  That was, if they hadn’t already.

  “Where do you think they’d have locked themselves?” Gertie asked him.

  “Somewhere big, somewhere with some mass-fuck-off doors on it, to keep them penned in.” He gazed about at the cluster of buildings that grew nearer and nearer as they walked. “There,” he said, pointing with the barrel of the gun towards what looked like a warehouse, with a great steel roller shutter that took up one whole end of the building. “That looks like prime werewolf real estate to me.”

  Slowly and cautiously, they made their way towards the building, accompanied by the ever-present knowledge that there was no indestructible, fifty-calibre spitting Bertha to back them up should they stumble upon a bloodthirsty pack. They would have to rely on steel and their own, drug-addled wits. They really, really hadn’t thought this through. A sudden noise, a scuffle of feet on gravel, a cry of pain, drew their attention, and they whirled, Brian pointing his gun and Gertie spinning her daggers in readiness. A shadow half stumbled out of the darkness behind a small gatehouse, but no hulking werewolf this.

  It was Craig.

  “Helsing,” the man croaked, his face clearly wracked by great pain as he staggered towards them, leaning against the wall for support.

  “Craig…” Brian began, making to move towards him before the man raised his hand to ward him off.

  “Stay back… I can feel the change beginning… But I need to tell you,” he gasped. “There’s an open back door… I didn’t notice it until the change had already begun… I didn’t have the strength to climb the steps and close it. You must… you must close it… keep the pack inside. There’s only me out on the hunt. If you must kill me, then do so… but please, spare my friends…” With that, he fell to his knees with a wail of pain. The pair stood there, glancing sidelong at each other, the love drug and basic decent humanity in them urging them to rush forth to the man’s aid but knowing that there was nothing they could do. “Get ready,” the man suddenly growled, his teeth growing longer, sharper, his eyes suddenly turning an eerie yellow like he was an extra from the Thriller video. “It’s coming…”

  Chapter Sixteen:

  The Enwolfening

  A tortured wail, starting high pitched, that of a man in the throes of agony beyond comprehension, before slowly morphing into the deeper roar of a beast. And before their very stunned eyes, the man that was once called Craig swelled and changed into something at once less… and terrifyingly more. Bones cracked, grew, reshaped; muscles swelled outwards as the parasite within infused his body with stores of latent power; fingers stretched to become long, rending talons. But the worst of it all was his face; that which once looked like a man began to stretch out into a long and bestial snout, lined with razor teeth. And eyes that once blazed with kindness and humanity now become bright with bloodlust.

  Even with the ecstasy that rendered the whole scene fascinating, Brian nearly shat himself in fear.

  “Don’t just stand there, Helsing,” Gertie shouted. “Kill it!”

  Perhaps once, Brian would have hesitated. But the hippy of before was gone and now, in his place, was a beast, slowly rising to its full, terrible height and eyeing them with hunger, licking its slavering chops. With a snarl of frustration, Brian raised his submachinegun, ready to pull the trigger and unleash silver death. But the beast was quicker; lunging towards him with speed that beggared belief, the werewolf lashed out razor talons powered by unnatural muscles. The claws smashed into the weapon, snapping the strap like string and dashing it from Brian’s grasp to skitter across the earth in several neatly sliced pieces. With a startled cry, Brian backflipped, just in time to avoid another rending sweep, drawing his sword in mid-air and landing lightly on his feet, heart pounding in his chest.

  “Ignis ver-“

  Before he could even finish the phrase, the howling monster had lunged again; Brian fell backwards, sword raised, but the steel point, unadorned by its usual thirsting flames, pressed harmlessly against the creature’s leathery flesh. It bored down on him, all teeth and claws, eager to feed, pressing down on him with its monstrous weight as Brian frantically discarded his weapon and raised his hands to ward it off. Was it the ecstasy making him feel weaker? Or was Craig even stronger than his werewolf kin of before? Brian didn’t know, but what he did know was that his trembling arms, holding the dripping fangs at bay, were beginning to fail him. So taken aback and unprepared was he for the sudden turn of events, he didn’t even have the clarity of mind to summon his chi, to bolster his flagging reserves of strength. The snapping jaw grew closer, aiming for his face. Then suddenly, then beast howled in pain.

  “Get off my Helsing, you hairy bastard,” came Gertie’s cry from atop the beast, stabbing with her daggers. “There’s only one person allowed to beat the shit out of him, and that’s me.”

  How the tiny daggers were hurting the nigh-invulnerable creature, Brian didn’t have a clue, but somehow they were and he was glad of the fact, for distracted by the pain, the creature’s immense pressure upon him subsided somewhat. With a roar, he shoved the beast from him, before flipping to his feet out of harm’s way, as at the same Gertie launched like a gymnast from the monster’s back. The werewolf snarled, spat and spun, smoke pouring from the dagger-wounds on its back, unsure which of its two assailants to attack first. Brian took advantage of its hesitation, summoning with a thought his sword from the earth to land grip-first in his hand. Thumbing the runes on the hilt, he growl
ed.

  “Ignis veritum, motherfucker.”

  The sword’s blade burst into sorcerous flame and the werewolf’s indecision was broken. It lunged, but this time the pair were ready for it. Even as it lashed with whistling claws and snapped with terrible fangs, the pair ducked and dived, flipping and dancing about it in a grim ballet of death, flaming sword and strange daggers darting forth to nick, score and burn. After long and frenzied moments, the beast collapsed to its knees, weakened by loss of blood. As Brian stood over it, sword raised, he stared into the creature’s eyes. Was he trying to see some hint of the humanity that once dwelt therein? If so, there was none to be found. A final swish of the fiery sword.

  And the beast’s severed head fell to the earth, shortly to be joined by its blood-spurting torso.

  “Well,” Gertie chuckled. “That was fun.”

  “Fun?” Brian stared at her as though she’d suddenly slapped him in the face and pissed on his Cornflakes in one fell swoop. “Pray tell, what part of that was fun? The moment he nearly bit my head off?”

  “Well, yes. But really, all of it. It’s been too long since I’ve worked in the field. Glad to see I’ve not lost my touch.”

  “What’s with those daggers anyway? My sword bounces from their hides if it’s not on fire. How do your little kitchen knives even scratch them?”

  “These ‘kitchen knives’ as you call them,” she explained, “are coated in basilisk venom. One tiny nick from them is death to humans. Looks like even a werewolve’s iron-constitution doesn’t enjoy their touch. Which is good for us, or you’d be Pedigree Chum right now.”

  “Well, yes. And thanks. Still, there’s the small matter of another ten or so of these monsters locked up nearby. Or hopefully locked up; Craig said there was an open door. If any of them have gotten out, there’ll be hell to pay. Let’s get to it. And hope that Neil hurries the fuck up; I’m seriously missing the Punisher right now.”