Just Try Not To Die

by Gareth K Pengelly

  Brian nodded, the abominable ache in his mid-section slowly starting to fade, in the way that a Force 10 hurricane died down to a mere howling gale.

  “About that,” he said. “When XII died, he vanished in a cloud of smoke, what’s that all about? I thought that was a vampire thing?”

  She nodded.

  “He didn’t burn up; he was translocated back here. It happens to every Helsing, their bodies enchanted to return to the Sanctum upon death. It both lets us know that a new one is on the way, and it gives us a chance to inter them into the Crypt, placing them in a position of honour next to their predecessors.”

  “The Crypt?” As with all the rooms’ names around here, he could hear the capitalisation.

  “Follow me,” she told him, before striding from the arena and back towards the Sanctum.

  He did so, the pair winding their way past busy functionaries, before reaching a spiral staircase on the edge of the Sanctum that he’d not noticed before. Down, the stone steps went, down then further down, till he almost felt dizzy, the hubbub from above fading to nothing, before they entered a narrow corridor, dimly lit by the soft glow of candles in recesses in the walls.

  “This is a holy place,” she whispered. “So be quiet.”

  “WHAT?”

  She started at the sudden noise, before removing the ear-defenders that still sat on his ears.

  “Oh yeah. Sorry.”

  “As I said, quiet; you’re treading on holy ground.”

  Slowly they crept their way along the corridor, till it expanded out into a hall, low and wide. Soft music played from speakers somewhere, lending the ambience of a museum or art gallery. All about the mausoleum, glass display cabinets like those in the Bestiary. This time, no gribbly monsters of earth and hell; instead, men. The nearest cabinet, Brian noticed, contained a familiar figure, stood upright and in a heroic pose. Long brown trench-coat spread out behind, as though flapping in some still, silent breeze. From one hand, a crossbow, pointing to an imaginary demon. Wide-brimmed hat was pulled down low over a grizzled face. No wounds on XII’s chest now, his injuries of before covered up, repaired.

  “Is he… is he stuffed?” Brian asked, incredulous.

  “God no,” Gertie replied, as if bemused by his question. “He’s embalmed.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Well you stuff a turkey, you embalm a Helsing.”

  “I see. Clear as mud.”

  Slowly, he meandered his way through this gallery of the dead, gazing up at each of his predecessors, as all the while Gertie watched him, curious. One Helsing was clad in the khaki of a British WWII soldier, an Enfield rifle in one hand, a crucifix in the other. A plaque beneath his case read: Helsing XI, Hero of his age. Thanks to his brave sacrifice, the efforts of Himmler to harness the powers of the supernatural for the Nazi war-machine were foiled. And millions saved.

  He regarded the plaque for a moment, before gazing back up at the preserved man. Then, after long moments, he moved on. Another Helsing was finely moustached and clad in Victorian dress; a top hat, a suit, a briefcase by his side and a cane in one hand, the handle of which was partly drawn to reveal a silver sword, thin and razor sharp. Another was wearing the brightly emblazoned colours of an eighteenth century Royal Navy officer. Another, a green jerkin, a long bow about his shoulders and a rondel dagger in his hand. More and more such Helsings he passed, each proud of bearing, heroic in stance, their glorious deeds proclaimed on the plaques beneath them. Each, it seemed, had changed the world in some way, protecting Earth from some dire catastrophe that had threatened to befall it.

  Finally, he reached the last cabinet, given pride of place at the end of the room and lit by lights from either side that glinted from silver plate and mail. From beneath a glittering crusader helmet, a face peered out, square of jaw, with a neatly trimmed beard and eyes that, even dead, seemed to bore into his very soul. By his side, a shield with a cross upon it, the very same that was on his finger, along with a huge claymore broadsword that looked so large no man might heft it.

  “Helsing, the first of his name,” came the whisper from the girl by his side.

  Brian nodded, regarding the noble figure before him, thinking back to all the others he’d just walked past. All strong, skilled. Worthy.

  “I shouldn’t be here,” he whispered to himself.

  Yes, you should, came the unvoiced reply from the first Helsing before him. My ring wouldn’t have chosen you otherwise.

  Brian frowned, glancing to Gertie, but no hint on her face that she’s heard the ghostly voice.

  “But I’m a coward,” he whispered again, so softly under his breath, that Gertie couldn’t hear him over the gentle music.

  Yes, and an idiot too, the voice agreed. But the ring doesn’t choose based on who you are now. It chooses based on your potential. You have greatness inside you, Brian. For you are a Helsing. And you always were.

  Brian’s mouth opened, and he staggered backwards half a step, stunned by the words. Then a loud artificial tone pierced the air; Gertie’s mobile. Answering it quickly so as to not disturb the sanctity of the Crypt, she whispered into her phone.

  “Sup, Heimlich?” A voice from the other end, then she nodded. “Alright, on our way up.” She turned to Brian. “Come, Helsing; Heimlich wants to do some more magic practice with you.”

  Brian nodded and turned, following her, not sure quite how he felt following his encounter with his forebears.

  Chapter Fifteen:

  Blink 182

  “There will come times where your speed and strength, even enhanced through the power of the ring, won’t be enough,” Heimlich told him, eyes glistening in the light of the anteroom’s fireplace. “And it is then that you’ll need to call upon the magic. For only through use of magic can you…”

  “Yes, magical by nature, blah, blah, you’ve already said that. But you also said this Blinking malarkey is dangerous. Dunno about you, but I already think this new career is going to prove dangerous enough, without adding an extra garnish of voluntary danger on top.”

  “Danger? You know nothing of danger yet, Helsing. You’ve faced what? A couple of measly vampires? There are horrors out there you can’t even dream of yet and when the day comes that you face them you will be glad of the ability to translocate out of harm’s way.”

  Brian raised an eyebrow.

  “What good will it do to Blink out of the way of some troll’s club, only to reappear halfway through a tree? Think I’d rather be smashed by the club. Least it would be quick.”

  “It’s highly unlikely you’ll be fighting any trolls.”

  “Oh. I thought I saw them in the Welcome Pack?”

  “You did, but they live up North, in the Troll Country. Sweden, Norway. They have their own people taking care of them. Rangers and such.”

  “Oh.”

  “Anyway,” Heimlich told him, gesturing to the bookcase next to the fireplace and waving his hand in some eldritch pattern. “Enough stalling.”

  The bookcase began to swing open on well-oiled hinges, to reveal a room beyond. A room bigger by far than any he’d yet seen in this subterranean complex, dwarfing even the Armoury in its scale. Huge columns, scaled by ladders, with rope swings, bridges, boulders rolling down slopes, only to be towed back to the top and set loose to roll again, like some bowling alley from Tim Burton’s fever dreams. It was like an adventure playground for kids, frequented by parents who truly regretted their life choices and wished only for a blank slate. Everything thirty feet up and below looked somehow scorched, blackened as if by fire. A smell of burning filled the air, but he couldn’t see from where it was coming.

  “And what fresh hell is this…?” Brian sighed.

  “An obstacle course,” Heimlich explained. “Think of it like Ninja Warrior. Except if you fall, it’s concrete not water.”

  “Right. And you really expect me to climb up there and leap from platform to platform? Have you lost your marbles? There’s no way in hell
I’m even attempting it.”

  Heimlich’s sudden grin was unnerving, almost as unnerving as the way he slowly sauntered backwards out of the room, the bookcase closing, this side just a scorched stone wall. And suddenly Brian was left alone in the room, confused and growing more nervous by the second.

  “Why do I have a bad feeling about this, Heimlich?” he called out into the air.

  “I’d get moving if I were you, Helsing,” the Master’s voice crackled through a speaker in the roof.

  All of a sudden, the smell of burning intensified, gullies about the edge of the room, Brian noticed, beginning to fill with liquid that snapped and crackled, burning with hungry, licking flames. The gullies filled higher and higher, the liquid threatening to overflow onto the very slabs upon which Brian still stood, gazing about in fear.

  “What the hell, Heimlich?”

  “I knew you’d be anxious about testing out your new powers. All Helsings were, even those of old, especially after they’d learned about the dangers. So I thought you might need an extra little push. Ever heard the phrase, ‘baptism by fire’?”

  “Ever heard the phrase, ‘Master of Magic found dead in pool of his own blood’?” Brian snarled in reply.

  The pools of liquid fire began to suddenly overflow, racing across the floor towards Brian’s feet and he yelped.

  “I’d get moving if I were you, lad. There’s a ladder over there. Climb it or burn, your choice.”

  Some choice, Brian thought, running as fast as his singed trainers would carry him, before leaping for the dangling rope ladder. He caught it, climbing up several rungs, just as the floor beneath him caught light with a whoosh, the heat rising and causing him to sweat after mere seconds. The bottom of the ladder now began to smoulder and catch light, the flames licking up the rope and racing upwards after him.

  “The bloody ladder’s on fire now!”

  “We’ve got spare ladders.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t have spare feet!”

  “Then I’d suggest less stating the obvious, and more climbing.”

  Brian did as he was sarcastically instructed, clambering like some gangly, ill-coordinated monkey up the ladder. He’d tried climbing ropes at school, in PE lessons, hadn’t proved good at it. Didn’t like heights, ironic given that he was already six-foot by the time he was at high school. Yet somehow the climb felt easy, his muscles full of strength, not tiring out, though whether that was the ring’s doing or mere terror it was hard to say. Finally, he climbed with obvious relief onto the stone platform at the top of the ladder.

  “I wouldn’t rest too long, Helsing. Take a look down.”

  Brian did as Heimlich suggested, his face paling, even in the orange glow of the fire; the burning pool was rising higher and higher.

  “The only way is up,” Heimlich told him. “Make your way along the obstacle course. At the very top, after completing every obstacle, there’ll be a lever. Pull it and the pool of fire will drain away and I will open the door.”

  “What happens if I don’t make it?”

  “What do you think?”

  “You can’t let a Helsing die, surely? Who’s gonna protect the world if I’m burnt to a crisp?”

  “There’s always another Helsing. Besides, none of the others died.”

  “If you hadn’t noticed, I’m not like any of the other Helsings.”

  “Believe in yourself, lad. The ring wouldn’t have chosen you if you weren’t worthy.”

  Heimlich’s words, so ominously echoing those he’d heard standing before Helsing I’s entombed body, sent shivers down his spine, cold and refreshing, contesting with the fierce heat from below. Slowly, he looked up; the next platform was a mere ten feet distant, a distance he’d jumped even as a child. With a final glance down to make sure that the fire was, indeed, still rising, Brian made his decision. He ran. And leapt. Stone, then fire, then finally, stone again. He landed with a roll on the other platform, rising, eyes wide as though in disbelief, before looking back across the gap and giggling like a lunatic.

  “Good work, Helsing. But don’t get cocky. There’s a long way to go yet.”

  Brian nodded; Heimlich was right, his next jump looked tougher yet. A rope dangled between him and the next column, fastened to the side of which was another ladder. Somehow, he had to jump, grab the rope and swing across, to grab hold of the ladder. And yet the rope was dangling some twenty feet away, no way at all that he could make that jump, not in a million years.

  “Any ideas?” Brian called out, ever aware that the fire was rising higher, hungry for a taste of his sweet, quivering flesh.

  “Ever heard of telekinesis, Helsing? Clear your mind, concentrate on the rope. Will it towards you. To put it in geeky terms you’ll understand, imagine you’re Luke Skywalker and the rope is your lightsabre.”

  Brian gulped, before staring intently at the rope. Come ‘ere, he thought. Come on, good boy. The flames were getting nearer still now, his forehead beginning to bead with perspiration. Come on! Wait… did the rope just jiggle? Did it move of its own accord? It did! With a mental growl, he stared murder at the rope, willing it, imagining psychic chains lashing out to bind it and drag it towards him. Suddenly, the rope swung towards him. And the heavy, knotted end smashed him in the face, splitting his lip.

  “Good try. Though if I could make one suggestion, I’d recommend catching it with your hand and not your face.”

  Brian spat blood upon the stone column, before reaching out with his hand and summoning the rope once more. This time, as it obeyed, it smacked firmly into his waiting palm and he grasped it tightly with both hands. With a grimace of terror, he lifted his feet from the stone column, swinging out into the fiery abyss, just as the flames overwhelmed the platform he’d just been standing on. The fire was mere inches beneath him as he soared, the end of the rope trailing in the flames, his trainers lifted high yet still smoking nonetheless. The ladder drew near and he reached out with one hand, grabbing hold, before discarding the rope behind him to be consumed in the blaze. The flaming pool was nearly at his feet by the time he started his ascent, scrambling with all his might up the side of this new, taller column, leaving the heat behind.

  “Good work, lad. But you’re not out of the woods yet. Behold: the Slope of Certain Flattening.”

  He could see why the next obstacle had such a ridiculous moniker; a long slope, down which rolled at regular intervals enormous boulders, like those out of Raiders of the Lost Ark. As each huge sphere neared the bottom end of the slope, it fell off to one side, only to be carried up once more by buckets on a constantly rising pulley system, to be reset back at the top. How heavy must each of those boulders be, he wondered? Several tons? They would squash him, bursting him open like a car rolling over a packet of crisps.

  “I am not running up there,” he shouted into the air. “I don’t want to be scooped into my coffin with a spatula.”

  “You are and you will. There’s nothing I can do that can save you from burning to death, but if you listen to my instructions then the boulders, at least, will do you no harm. Now, do you trust me?”

  “Absolutely not,” he replied, eyeing the latest ball to come rolling down towards him with a thunderous noise. “But I trust the flames even less, so against all my better judgement, let’s get on with it. What do I need to do?”

  “Soon as there’s a gap, run out onto the slope.”

  “I won’t make it across before the next boulder comes.”

  “I know you won’t, but trust me.”

  “Trust is earned.”

  “So is a million pounds a year. Now do it. There’s a gap, go!”

  Just as the latest boulder rolled off the side of the slope, Brian did as he was instructed, swallowing his fear like a greasy blob of phlegm as he ran up the slope. Just as he’d dreaded, another boulder dropped onto the top, barring his way and beginning its slow, inevitable roll towards him.

  “Heimlich…?” he whimpered.

  “Clear your mind. Think
thoughts of lightness. Of air. Of wind, water, anything soft. Fluffy kittens, jelly. Soft things. Light things. Think it now! And hold your breath.”

  All Brian could think of was his own impending death, the slope vibrating beneath his feet as the boulder rolled inexorably and lethally towards him, but he tried all the same. Fluffy kittens, he thought. Helium balloons. A summer breeze. A silk kimono. Soft things. Light things. Kleenex. The boulder rolled closer, looming larger. Closer still, larger still. Brian went to scream, but continued holding his breath as he’d been told, a curious clash of instincts. Then blackness. Then just as quickly, light, the slope rising up before him. He blinked confused, glancing back the way he’d come. The boulder continued on its way, rolling down the slope as if he’d never even been there. He looked down at his hands, his legs, his whole body; all remained blissfully unflattened.

  “You can breathe now.”

  “How…?” he gasped, letting his pent up breath out in one laboured heave.

  “No time to explain, just go, get to the top of the slope before the next boulder, unless you want to try your luck a second time.”

  He did not, therefore he ran, sprinting to the top of the slope and rolling onto the next platform, just as the next boulder dropped from its bucket with a resounding thud. He stood, hands on his knees, bent over, breathing hard, strangely elated yet entirely confused.

  “One platform left, Helsing,” Heimlich told him over the speaker. “Make this one and you’re home and dry.”

  Brian rose and looked out at the next platform; there, calling him like the holy grail to Galahad, the lever that would end this nightmare once and for all. Only a rope bridge, swaying gently in the updraft created by the flames below, stood in his way. He glanced down over the edge of his current platform; the flames were some way below yet. He had time. He could do this. He slowly made his way over to the start of the rope bridge.

  “This looks easy enough,” he murmured to himself. “So why do I feel like it’s a trap?”

  One foot slowly, cautiously placed on the bridge, testing his weight. An ominous creak, yet it held. Through the gaps in the rope webbing he could see the flames twenty feet below, licking up at him ravenously, as if goading him to fall that they might have their prize. He gulped, took another step out onto the bridge. Still it held.