Brian Helsing: The World's Unlikeliest Vampire Hunter. Mission #2: Surf's Up

by Gareth K Pengelly

  “I have to warn you,” Brian told him. “Last time I killed a vampire, it was without even trying. Pure accident, really. This time I’ve had training. And I’ve got, well, this.”

  He swished the flaming sword in a circle, the bright orange blaze reflecting in the vampire’s eyes. Eyes that puzzlingly enough seemed merely amused.

  “Yeah, well, I’ve got them.”

  He nodded his head over Brian’s shoulder, who turned and followed his gaze. The rest of the creature’s band mates were strolling slowly across the car park, each wielding various instruments, guitars, cymbals, even a keyboard, hoisting them like weapons. On their faces, blank looks, giving them the appearance of the world’s least enthusiastic roadies.

  “Erm… what?”

  At his confusion, a voice called out from the beer garden; Gertie, leaning against the wooden fence, a glass of amaretto and coke to hand, Neil standing beside her and smoking a cigarette, both wearing looks of amusement on their faces.

  “They’re his thralls; try not to kill them if you can help it. Once he’s dead, they’ll get their free-will back again.”

  “What is this?” the vampire growled. “A fucking audience? This isn’t some pantomime, you know.”

  “I do wonder at times,” Brian admitted with a shrug. “Anyway, where were we?”

  “At the point where you die,” the vampire hissed, his fangs now growing long and pointy, fingernails erupting with fierce talons.

  “Nope,” Brian mused, shaking his head. “That doesn’t sound right to me.”

  The vampire lunged, ready to rip his head from his neck, but Brian darted to one side with supernatural speed, trainers dancing a ballet on the tarmac. His sword swept in a fiery arc towards the demon’s neck, but the beast possessed similar speed, ducking and flipping away with a smirk. Before Brian could even thrust towards him, a resounding crack on the back of his head, bits of Yamaha keyboard exploding all about. Out of reflex, he whirled, ready to bisect this new assailant, but Gertie’s words of before stayed his hand, the sword’s edge stopping just in time.

  “Sorry,” he murmured to the strangely hypnotised-looking rocker. “Nearly forgot.”

  The man, if man this blankly-staring zombie could be called, merely growled, discarding his broken keyboard and launching himself towards Brian, who replied with a front kick. Even without the aid of the ring, his ostrich legs would have packed a punch; as it was, empowered by sorcerous means, his kick sent the man flying back twenty feet to thud into the side of a people carrier. No time to marvel at his newfound strength, for a war-groan went up, another shaggy, long-haired band member racing towards him, the sharp stand of his hi-hat cymbal aimed like a javelin. Brian didn’t move, instead filling his mind with strange thoughts; candy-floss, bubble-wrap, that brown oasis stuff that you got in garden centres for putting plastic flowers into. The vampire’s thrall passed through Brian’s form, cymbal and all, as though Brian were no more substantial than smoke, his own momentum carrying him forwards to smack into the side of the campervan, falling to the ground with a groan.

  “Such parlour-tricks won’t work on me, Helsing,” the vampire hissed, before lunging once more, magical claws ready to rend and tear.

  Even as the creature reached him, Brian was no longer there, instead vanishing in a puff of acrid black smoke to reappear several yards behind him, a wry grin on his face at the vampire’s confusion.

  “That one’s called the Heimlich man-“

  His quip was cut short, the business end of a Gibson Les Paul whistling into the side of his face and stunning him, before a snare drum smashed down over him, imprisoning him in a circle of steel and wood, legs sticking out the bottom, head the top, arms pinned to his side and sword falling uselessly to the car park, its flames dying with a sigh.

  “I’ve always wondered what a Helsing’s blood tasted like,” the vampire chuckled, stalking towards him and licking his lips as his minions withdrew.

  “Right now, probably very alcoholic,” Brian told him.

  “You don’t seem very scared,” the vampire mused. “For a man who’s about to die.”

  “I don’t scare easily,” Brian lied. “And I’m not going to die.”

  “How so? You’re trapped, all out of tricks.”

  “Nah. I’ve one trick left.”

  With that, he whistled. A thunderous roar filled the air from behind the vampire, who turned, puzzled, just in time to see a pair of headlights racing towards him, their angry glare dazzling his dark eyes. Brian leapt into the air, higher than any man ought be able to, just as Bertha smashed the vampire to the earth, before screeching to a halt. Landing lightly on her roof, shrugging the snare drum over his head and discarding it to the ground, Brian looked down at the ruined form of the feebly groaning vampire lying prostrate on the tarmac and whistled. Tyre tracks covered his pasty skin. Livid bruises signalled broken bones by the score, bones which, by the hideous pop and crack, Brian could tell were already knitting back together with unnatural haste.

  “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my, oooh, five weeks as Helsing, it’s that even vampires aren’t immune to a good running-over.”

  He dropped from the roof to the earth, lifting one hand. The sword flew from the ground as though tugged by an invisible fishing rod, the handle smacking firmly into his waiting grasp. His thumb found the runes and whispered words fanned flames into bright life once more.

  “Do I taste… is that unicorn piss?” the vampire asked, rising unsteadily to his feet as he wiped the black blood from his split lip. His bones cracked and snapped back into place as he rose, the livid bruises on his pale chest already beginning to fade. “And anyway, enough with your mockery. You don’t know who you’re dealing with. For five hundred years I have stalked the night, taking what I want; women, blood, power. I’ve lived dozens of lives for your measly one.”

  “And yet you live in a van.”

  “I tour in the van! There’s a difference. I’ve been the consort of queens, the whispered word in politicians’ ears. I’ve shaped nations.”

  “You play in a tribute band.”

  “A cover band!”

  “You’re pedantic.”

  “I’m eternal!” the monster screamed, almost falsetto in its exasperation. “The blood of Vlad Drakul himself runs in my veins! You will learn to rue my name…”

  “And what is it?”

  “What?”

  “Your name.”

  The vampire snarled, baring his fangs once more.

  “Kevin,” it spat.

  Brian stared impassively for long, tense moments. Then burst out into laughter, sword drooping at his side as he strained to breathe.

  “What?” the vampire asked, face incredulous. “Why are you laughing?”

  The question only made Brian laugh harder, tears beginning to sting his eyes.

  “Kevin? Whoever heard of a dread vampire lord called Kevin?”

  “It’s short for Kevinius. Just… go look me up in your Order’s archives. There’ll be stuff in there, things I’ve done. I’ve got a reputation. Kevin the terrible, they used to call me.”

  At the continued protestations, Brian doubled over, crying harder now with laughter. The vampire’s confused, almost-offended face now turned to one of rage.

  “Right. I’ve had enough of you and your mockery. You fucking Helsings are all the same.”

  With that, he lunged. Right into Brian’s outstretched and waiting sword, the burning blade piercing the creature right between his eyes and erupting from the back of his head. The demon turned cross-eyed for a moment, staring at the steel, before his face, his neck, his entire body turned black in an instant and exploded into ash that swirled away into the night sky.

  “Kevin,” Brian giggled to himself, before releasing the runes, the sword’s flames dying away, and wiping his teary eyes with a sigh. “God, you couldn’t make it up.”

  All about him, the groggy band members blinked their eyes as though waking from some long and
terrible dream, gazing first at each other, then Brian, then finally the black pile of ash on the floor.

  “Where’s Kevin?” the one who’d hit Brian with his guitar asked.

  Finding no sense in the now hysterical form of Brian, all-but on his knees in laughter, their eyes turned instead to the diminutive figure of Gertie who strode into their midst.

  “He’s gone,” she told them. “So you’d best start advertising for a new lead singer. And someone go let those poor girls out of that van.” She turned back to the beer garden, to the crowd who’d gathered to watch the fracas in the car park. “Neil,” she shouted over. “Get rid of the spectators.”

  “Alright people, back to your drinks,” Neil started shouting, wafting his arms as though herding sheep. “Nothing to see here.”

  As people began to move, chattering excitedly to themselves, back into the pub, Gertie turned to Brian, the lad’s hysterical laughter dying now to a mere painful giggle. In her eyes, a curious mixture of anger and amusement.

  “You’ve a lot to learn, Helsing. I saw a hundred ways you could have ended that fight quicker. You could have done it in three blows. Two, if you were lucky. Instead, you turned it into a bloody spectacle.”

  “I got the job done, didn’t I?” he protested half-heartedly, sliding the scabbard from his shoulders and sheathing the blade before popping the boot open.

  “Yeah. And you can use a sledgehammer to open an Easter egg, it doesn’t make it a good idea. Wait… you’re not going to drive home are you?”

  “We’re training in the morning. And I’m tired.”

  “You’re pissed!”

  Brian sighed.

  “Bertha’s indestructible, you know that.”

  “Yes – but pedestrians aren’t! Jesus Christ, Brian.”

  The pair paused for an instant.

  “You just…”

  “Yes, I know,” she interrupted him hurriedly. “Come on, Helsing. You can buy the next round. You’re the one with the money.”

  “Go back in there? After what they’ve seen? They’ll lynch us. I was lucky to escape Wetherspoon’s with my life.”

  “Then it’s a good job you’ve got me as your bodyguard, isn’t it?” She looped her arm through his and began to drag him towards the pub, looking for all the world like a Chihuahua taking a tree for a walk. “And anyway, someone’s got to rescue those two from Neil.”

  Brian followed her gaze; the two girls from Kevin’s camper were in Neil’s arms as he comforted them following their ordeal of before. They were all-but nude, despite the winter chill, clad only in tightly wrapped sheets, huddled in close to him as he consoled them while at the same time blatantly showing off his new, expensive watch. A birthday and a half it would no doubt turn out for him, thought Brian. He smiled, unsurprised, for Neil had always been gifted with an easy charm that eluded Brian. Things never changed. A tug on his arm, and he glanced down at the petite figure, all rainbow pigtails, cutesy features and terrifying lethality, that led him up the steps to the pub.

  Then again, he thought, maybe they did.

  Chapter Three:

  Something Fishy

  Brian’s head was pounding as he parked Bertha in the Sanctum garage. Whatever the many gifts of the ring might be, immunity to hangovers certainly wasn’t one of them.

  “Morning, young Helsing. I see from your pained expression that turning up for training hungover is starting to become a habit.”

  A bit rich, thought Brian, coming from Friedrick. Even as the Master of Ordinance regarded him with his one good eye, the other a brass contraption of whirring, clicking monocle lenses, Friedrick took a swig from a bottle of whisky, before tipping another shot down the funnel into his steam-powered wheelchair. The amount the man drank, Brian mused, it was no wonder he was permanently legless.

  “It was a heavy night,” Brian groaned in reply.

  “So I heard, another vampire slain. Good work. Though next time, try not to attract so much attention while doing so.”

  “How does news always travel so fast?”

  “You were filmed. Ten thousand hits on Youtube already. Thankfully our Benefactors are pulling some strings and getting the video removed.”

  Brian groaned, raising his hand in apology.

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorry’s not good enough; Helsings are the unseen champions of the world, not internet celebrities. You start making too much of a song and a dance about things and you’ll attract unwanted attention. You’ll end up becoming a meme. And our sponsors don’t take kindly to that sort of thing. Now come; another day’s training awaits you, and God knows you need it.”

  With that, Friedrick fiddled with the brass levers at the side of his chair, the contraption turning about with a hiss and a puff of oily smoke, before steaming his way out of the door and up the corridor to the Sanctum beyond. Brian followed morosely in his wake. The central chamber of the Sanctum was, as it was all hours of the day, filled with activity, various men and women strolling about on errands Brian couldn’t begin to understand. One man was pushing a cart filled with what looked like slippery, glistening organs, though from what creature, Brian didn’t dare to guess. A woman was walking past with a dog on a lead, or what he assumed was a dog anyway. Most breeds of dog weren’t invisible, not to his knowledge; only the hovering collar and the soft padding of paws on stone gave its existence away. Another functionary barged his way past Brian, arms filled with a bundle of candles, various sizes, shapes and colours, trying his damndest not to drop them. They got through an inordinate amount of candles in this place, Brian mused. Finally, another figure appeared in a puff of black smoke in the middle of the room, fixing Brian with a mysterious gaze, his look as-ever a strange mixture of serious sombriety mingled with a glimmer of amusement. Heimlich, Master of Magic, his brown skin, bald head and tall, regal bearing lending him all the appearance of a well-dressed six-foot Malteser. One that, it seemed, was in no mood to tarry.

  “Helsing,” he told Brian, his voice as ever thick and deep. “The Snug. Now.”

  With that, the man disappeared once more in a flash of dark fire, leaving Brian to do as he was told. As he followed Friedrick through the confusing hubbub of the Sanctum, Brian once again pondered how Heimlich managed to Blink without seeing where he was going. Blinking – or translocating, as Heimlich preferred to call it – was yet another of the magical gifts bestowed upon Brian by the ring. Yet to do it, he needed to see where he was going. The Master of Magic, it seemed, didn’t have such a limit. Was it just because the man was so intensely familiar with the layout of the Sanctum that he could picture his destination in his mind? Possibly. Regardless, it would be a long time before Brian would ever dare attempt such a feat; he’d already seen Heimlich’s prosthetic forearm, the result of an ill-fated Blink in his youth. The thought of materialising half-way through a desk or wall was enough to send shivers of dread down Brian’s spine.

  As the pair entered the Snug, the small room reserved only for the Masters and the Helsings themselves, all soft couches, antique bookcases and a roaring fireplace, familiar faces awaited him. Otto was there, the Master of the Bestiary, his long mane of tangled white hair coupled with his scraggly goatee making him look the love child of Doc Emmett Brown and Shaggy from Scooby Doo. Another familiar face, sipping a coffee on the couch beside him; Gertie, her bright eyes and fresh face looking puzzlingly untroubled by the ten drinks Brian had seen her down the night before. She fixed him with an amused gaze, as though reading his dark, jealous thoughts. He was the one with the magic ring, she knew him to be thinking; so why was he the one with the hangover?

  “There’s coffee in the pot,” Heimlich told him. “You look like you could use one. And we’ll need you fresh today; there’s a mission awaiting your attention.”

  Brian took the invitation gladly, grabbing a mug and pouring himself a generous measure of steaming blackness from the pot, before collapsing into one of the couches and taking a sip. The potent caffeine warred with the last
vestiges of alcohol in his system and he wasn’t yet sure which would win. His bed called him. Once upon a time he would have been either asleep or else wrapped in a duvet on his settee playing on his Xbox, besieged by a hangover such as this. But then once upon a time he wasn’t a Helsing. With that mantle came responsibilities. Still, the pay was good at least.

  As was the coffee.

  “Water Nymphs,” Heimlich stated, quite unprompted. “Tell me, Helsing; what do you know of them?”

  Taking another sip of coffee, hoping the caffeine might help him wake up somewhat, Brian wracked his tired mind, thinking back to the list of monsters in the back of his Welcome Pack at home.

  “Creatures of the water,” he began slowly. “In legend, they lured sailors to the rocks with their songs, wrecking their ships and feasting on the crew. They could also be found in fresh water, where they would sing to each other and comb their hair, looking all pretty and bare-breasted, mesmerising any passers-by.”

  “Good,” Heimlich nodded. “You don’t spend all of your time getting pissed and making a spectacle of yourself on camera then.”

  “Not all of the time,” he agreed. “Anyway, what’s up? I’m assuming there’s Water Nymphs up to no good somewhere? And I’ve got to go all Helsing on their scaly asses?”

  “Correct. Though their asses aren’t scaly, not all of the time, at least. Otto?”

  At Heimlich’s behest, the Master of the Bestiary pressed a button on the remote in his hand, a projector screen sliding its way down the wall above the fireplace. Brian settled back into his couch, ready for another PowerPoint presentation. Images flickered into life on the screen as Heimlich began to speak once more.

  “Recognise that seafront, Helsing?”

  Brian squinted through tired, aching eyes.