by Miles Hurt
1001 Monsters You Must Slay Before You Die
Miles Hurt
Copyright © Miles Hurt 2017
ISBN 978-0-6480419-0-0 (ebook edition)
Published by Shuriken Press
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means - graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or information and retrieval systems - without written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction, and is not affiliated with the '1001 Before You Die' series published by Quintessence Editions Ltd.
Cover design by Alissa Dinallo.
www.mileshurt.com
For you.
Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
ONE
People say you should live without regrets. But if I didn't have regrets I honestly don't know what I'd think about all day.
TWO
Okay, I'm prepared to admit it now.
I'm lost.
I think I went wrong taking that shortcut through the Zirconia-era flat blocks. They all look the same, especially so overgrown and with their walls blown off.
But wait. Didn't I cross Servitude Square after that?
No. That was yesterday.
I'm standing in a cobblestone square, in front of a huge marble statue. It's of a young man holding a sword high in a heroic pose. The statue is old. I don't recognise it, which is a bit of a worry.
I could use the statue as a kind of sundial, if it wasn't almost noon. The little bit of shade it throws doesn't help me find my bearings.
'That's it, Pops,' I say. 'You're lost.'
I turn around on the spot.
What makes it possible to get lost in a city you've lived in for eighty-three years? The fact that the fighting has obliterated half of it? Or senility?
Scattered around the statue are thousands of sodden blue leaflets. Dumped like confetti.
I pick one up, as if I'm hoping there'll be a map on it. The ink is faded, nearly erased. There's a crude sketch of a half-woman, half snake thing.
'The Mongoose rebellion will never die,' proclaims the leaflet. 'Do your bit for the cause.'
So earnest. Every generation thinks their apocalypse is the worst one.
The so-called Mongoose rebellion was crushed. But not before the city was turned upside down, and everyone got scared away. The place was left in ruins.
I toss aside the leaflet.
The cool morning has warmed up, and this wooden box is only getting heavier. I rest it on the plinth and unsling the rifle from my shoulder. I sit down in the shade of the statue and sigh.
Time to make for home. I've got enough in my box for one day, anyway.
I pull out my pipe and tobacco and light up. The smoke is warm in my mouth. I exhale, and see a shadow flickering over the cobblestone; some silent winged thing gliding high overhead. Then it's gone, and the sunshine makes everything normal again.
As normal as it ever is.
Where am I? Rambunculous is big, but not that big. If I get to higher ground, I might be able find a landmark. Like the VMP-Radio Tower. Or I might catch sight of the Eternity Avenue Bridge.
I have to keep my eye out for any other scavengers. They usually give me a wide berth on account of the gun that I’m toting. It's about the only reason I'm carrying it, as a deterrent. Sod help me if I ever had to shoot the thing. I'd do more damage to myself than my target.
The square is walled with two-storey houses, the ground floors of which were once shops. Glass shopfronts either smashed or panes stolen. A vine creeper has colonised an entire street front.
A nice place to take a girl for a coffee. Before the rebellion, I mean.
Have I been here before? I must have.
I push myself up again, and stare at the statue for a good minute before I realise who the youth holding the sword is.
A rebel from a different age, a long-forgotten war.
It's the Chosen One.
THREE
It was a long time ago that I was picked to be the Chosen One, but I remember the classified advertisement as though I read it yesterday.
SEEKING: The CHOSEN ONE
The role of a lifetime. An exciting opportunity to be plucked from obscurity and to have the fate of the world rest on your shoulders. As defined by the ancient prophecy of Bel-Shabbath, the successful applicant will be a sandy-haired farm boy on the cusp of manhood, preferably good of heart but negotiable. Your initial role will be to flee into the wild while being pursued by the Dark Lord Mörklör's fell minions. Completion of this trial period will lead to questing opportunities and eventual advancement to the throne of Rambunculous. Your claim to the throne will be dependent on your ability to market your brand successfully to a ragtag group of followers and to muster an armed horde sourced from several neighbouring countries. The successful applicant will be remunerated with land and chattels. Adventure and supreme power await! Contact Paul or Margo on 1313-QUEST.
My mother surprised me with her excitement as she pressed the newspaper into my hands. It was usually hard to read her expression, what with her face being covered in grime from her fourteen hour shift down in the Dark Lord's obscuritanium mine.
Every day my parents descended into the mine just north of the city, along with thousands of other enslaved citizens, to search for the elusive element obscuritanium, a precious metal that Mörklör was obsessed with. Dad didn't seem to mind so much. I think he was quite happy to be the drone of a dreaded overlord. It saved him from having to think. But mum wanted more for herself.
And that day, it was written all over her blackened face. Hope. Absurd and pointless hope.
'This is our chance, Son,' she said. 'Everything is riding on this.'
'But no pressure,' offered Dad from his seat at the kitchen table.
Mum drowned him out with a smile.
'You'll be perfect, darling,' she said.
Ironically, it was my complete reluctance to accept the role that won it for me. Every other urchin that went for it was a precocious stage-managed pain. It wasn't what Paul and Margo were looking for.
The casting for the Chosen One and the aforementioned ragtag group of followers took place at the Inner Slocking Community Theatre. During the audition, when I was asked to ad-lib with the guy cast as my wise mentor, I kept up a steady stream of comments such as 'I don't want to be the Chosen One. There's nothing special about me. I don't want to go on a quest to destroy the Dark Lord. I'm too afraid. I don't want anything to do with it.'
The head writer was jotting everything down that I said.
'This is gold,' he said. 'It's exactly the kind of negativity we need in the marshes of Fel X'xad when the wraith ride
rs are after him.'
'See,' I said, 'I really don't like the sound of that. I don't like spending more than about an hour in the park on a warm day, let alone being in the marshes of Fel Whatever for six months. With or without mortal peril.'
But they didn't listen.
'They' being the cabal of powerbrokers, led by Paul and Margo, who hit on the idea of digging up an old prophecy as a means to engineer a coup against the Dark Lord. Orchestrate the career of a puppet Chosen One. Tick off a few side quests, unearth a lost relic or two. Foment revolt among the unhappy slaves. Then pull the strings from behind the throne.
The same old story.
Even the read-through of the quest terrified me. I wanted no part of this insanity. Margo gave me an overly-friendly hug when I arrived, pressing my pimply face into the chandelier of metal hanging from her ear. I think she was trying to make me feel comfortable. Her perfume was so cloying in the air I tasted it on my tongue.
The 'ragtag group of followers' were there, with a sheaf of paper giving a rundown on their roles in the quest. As defined by the prophecy. We sat around a long table on the stage at the theatre, bright in the stage lights. Mum hung around in the wings, throwing me encouraging smiles whenever I looked her way.
I took in the cast who would be my companions: the hulking brute with the soft heart who would defend me stoutly; the faerie princess who would come to my aid in my darkest hour; the rogue with the fingerless gloves and winning smile; the guy who was handy with a bow. How a bow was going to be of use I wasn't too sure, given the existence of the pistol, the rifle and the machine gun. But as the prophecy foretold...
Greyshanks, my 'mentor' was there, of course.
What an arsehole.
'Margo, can we get something in here with a bit of kick?' he called out imperiously, shaking his bottle. 'I'm going to die of thirst drinking this water.'
You could tell Greyshanks was a seasoned professional. Translation: he was a piss-pot. But Paul and Margo liked him for his gravitas. And he could loom on cue. Booming voice, whole room going dark, distant thunder rumbling. There was no doubt that when he was on, he was on.
But Greyshanks came with baggage. Not only did he stink of gin, but he complained about every trivial detail of the whole production. He didn't like the cut of the robes they'd given him, and his staff was too short. He had an opinion on every line of dialogue. He even quibbled with the wording of the Prophecy, which was set in stone. Literally.
And he didn't like me.
'He doesn't look much like a Chosen One to me,' Greyshanks said to the producers during the reading. 'Paul, this kid should be called the Gormless One. I thought you wanted someone rustic, but with potential. He doesn't look like he could go on a quest for a carton of orange juice, let alone unearth the Eye of Horat.'
The big guy with the soft heart snickered at that one. Some protector.
'The kid's golden, baby,' said Paul from the other end of the table, peering over his rectangular-framed glasses. 'Besides, it's too late to recast. We roll out tomorrow.'
Those words were like a bucket of ice water tipped into my underpants. I would be leaving the comforts of home, thrust out into some Sod-forsaken marsh to freeze my nipples off for who knew how long. It was all too much.
I couldn't sleep that night. My rucksack was packed at the end of my bed, ready for the perils ahead. My mum dozed in a chair in the corner. She wanted to keep watch, knowing that I was a flight risk. I lay in bed weeping softly. There was no way out. I was going to be torn to shreds in a bog by the fell critters of the Dark Lord.
But I needn't have worried.
Because during the night the actual Chosen One slipped into town. Relf, the young man immortalised by the statue in the square. He somehow evaded the sentries at the palace, defeated the thrice-headed wolf monster that guarded the Dark Lord's private chambers, and melted Mörklör's head with a bolt of pure energy from the Eye of Horat. Mörklör was caught with his guard down; he was playing with his obscuritanium cast train set when Relf burst in and blew him away.
Relf had unearthed the Eye of Horat with the help of his loyal followers. We saw them on the telly that morning; a hulking brute, a fetching faerie princess, a charming scoundrel, and some guy with a bow. Apparently the bow guy had been really useful at some point. They were all up on the balcony of the palace, a sea of ecstatic Rambunculans below.
There was also a wizened bearded guy in robes who wore a nice smile on his face. He had a grandfatherly arm around the shoulders of the Chosen One. He seemed a lot better than Greyshanks, that's for sure. Probably a teetotaller.
And thus the prophecy was fulfilled.
Oddly, I felt a bit miffed. It's one thing to be a reluctant Chosen One. It's another thing to be an unnecessary one.
But Rambunculans are fickle. They're quick to forget one oppressive regime and begin bitching about the next. It only took a few weeks for the glow to fade, for people to start complaining about the Reign of Relf.
I remember watching Dad opening a power bill at the kitchen table.
'What's this? Upgrade service fee, two hundred bucks?' He scrunched it into a ball. 'Chosen One my arse.'
FOUR
The statue is a good likeness, though.
I know where I am now. Just around the corner from the square, I find the brick retaining wall below the Outer Slocking train line. Papered with old concert posters, ads and graffiti. I walk along its length, a patina of pop images, the posters layered on thick with decades.
The black and white silhouette of the folk singer Judy Blue, repeated in blocks down the length of the wall. Other posters: the bright pink bills for VMP-Radio like data on a scatterplot.
My eye picks out a single faded bill for Slightbulb Books; a flyer for a poetry reading. I try to peel it off the wall, but it flakes in my fingers.
Almost covered up, I spot a large gig poster of a hair metal band posing tough. Those kids put another nail in the coffin of good music with their distorted cacophonies. Not to mention their terrible dress sense. They wouldn't know a tie pin if you shoved it up their nose.
The train line runs east-west here, with the station a hundred paces away. There's a drainage tunnel cutting under the tracks. I could slip through and save a mile or two of walking.
The tunnel is just the kind of spot the Mongoose rebels would use to spring their ambushes. There might be some thugs around keen on some mischief, using the underpass as a hidey-hole. Or something worse than thugs.
I jump down, pointing my gun into the underpass. The double pop of my old knees flexing echoes off the brick walls.
It's clear.
I move through the tunnel, soles sinking into flood muck from the Slowcrawl River, toward the white arch of light on the other side.
The pink bill from the wall comes back to me.
VMP-Radio. I used to know one of the DJs on that station. Wlad. He wouldn't be caught dead playing that hair metal crap. Even with the disadvantage of actually being dead.
FIVE
It was our mutual interest in jazz that brought Wlad and me together. He was a regular at the jazz bar I owned in my late twenties. Just about part of the furniture. He caught every act that came through.
During the day, my bar became Allsop Records, and I sold vinyl and coffee. Before he got into radio, Wlad just about kept me afloat with the amount of vinyl he bought. I remember him lurking, his narrow frame in his high-collared trench, his slender fingers flicking through the boxes.
About sixteen years after my shop fell apart, Wlad programmed a late night jazz program on VMP, playing stuff like old Blue Tone records.
I loved it. I used to visit him most nights his show was on, sitting and reading the liner notes of the records he played. They were records he probably bought off me. Awesome albums from the golden age: the honking bari of Tyrone Powers, the mad cascading runs of Leroy 'Bips' Budheimer. Paradigm-shattering music. Wlad dug modal. I was into straight ahead. We would debate that stuff for hours, a
ll night, chatting through the graveyard shift. He chain-smoked Elk Heavy cigarettes, I toked on a pipe as we sat listening.
Wlad had developed this unctuous tone, had a classy gold mike. He sat there in the dim gloom of the on-air light wearing shades, sipping at the thermos of blood I'd given him. Even by vampire standards, he was a cool guy.
It was hard to imagine why anyone would want to kill him.
Wlad was halfway through back announcing a Cootie Bunsen blues when the vampire hunter burst in.
The hunter swept a heavy gun out from his overcoat, a type of harpoon launcher. With a compressed poosh of air he pinned Wlad, the wooden spear stapling through his shoulder into the high back of his swivel chair.
Wlad screamed. His face changed, became all muscle and teeth. His shades came off, his yellow eyes revealed. He thrashed in pain for a second, and realised he wasn't getting loose. He simmered down, looking nasty.
I was frozen in my seat the other side of the control booth, an LP in my hands.
The vamp hunter coolly pulled out a sword, advanced on Wlad. It was clear from the mutual hate crackling in their eyes that they had history. The hunter said something to Wlad in a language I didn't understand. It sounded thick, woody.
I imagine he said something like:
'Fiend! At last I have you! For decades, I've tracked you across continents and seas. I have cracked deep crypts, climbed craggy towers, crossed black mountain ranges in search of you. And now I will destroy you.'
Wlad snapped back in the same language, spitting a little. I suppose his response was something along the lines of:
'Sod off.'
Wlad was not at all intimidated by this hulking guy, who'd just kicked a door in, and almost puffed him in one shot from the hip with a fence post launcher. There was dead air on the radio. Wlad's eyes flickered to the control panel. Even with a stake through the chest and a sword heading his way, he couldn't abide the thought of confused listeners tuning out.