Just Try Not To Die

by Gareth K Pengelly

  “Keep your eyes on the lever, Helsing. And go get it.”

  He didn’t need to be told, his eyes never wavering from that lever as he slowly made his way across the rickety, rocking bridge. Just a few more yards, he thought to himself, his every muscle tense, his nerves alight with fear, heart pounding in his chest. Get to the lever, pull it, done. Lever, pull, done. Suddenly, Heimlich appeared on the platform ahead in a puff of smoke.

  “Concentrate on the lever, Helsing,” he called out, a smile on his face that Helsing didn’t trust for an instant. “The lever is your salvation. Come, pull it, and this is all over.”

  Helsing stared intently, edging his way further across the bridge. The lever. He needed to reach the lever, that’s all he needed to do. The lever filled his vision, his thoughts. He breathed the lever. He was the lever. So intent on the lever was he, that he didn’t notice Heimlich pull out a remote control from his suit pocket. Didn’t notice him press the red button thereon. He did notice the ominous ‘click’ however. And he certainly noticed the rope bridge detach from its anchor on the platform and plummet away below him.

  “Shit!” he cried out, as he began to fall through the air.

  He was so close, so close, only to be betrayed at the last instant, and his last waking thoughts before being consumed by the flames would be nothing more than the stark image of a lever emblazoned into his mind’s eye.

  A lever before which he was standing, right now.

  He gasped, staggering, legs nearly giving way as wisps of black smoke rose up all about him. Wait, what? He’d been falling to his inevitable, fiery death. How was he…? Suddenly it dawned on him. And he began to chuckle, that chuckle turning into a riotous belly laugh. He’d Blinked! Heimlich drew near, a proud smile on his face and Brian turned to him, still laughing, tears of relief pouring down his cheeks. Before lunging with a bunched fist for his obnoxious, double-crossing, masochistic face. His attempted strike merely flailed at empty air, his right foot seemingly pinned in place. Frustrated, he looked down; the sole of his trainer was partially embedded in the stone of the platform.

  “I’d pull that lever if I were you,” Heimlich told him, laughing. “The flames are nearly upon us. I can Blink back to the antechamber without looking. Can you?”

  He glanced pointedly down at Brian’s stuck trainer. Still angry, but seeing his point, Brian sighed and pulled the lever. The heat began to vanish, the fiery pit of doom receding, a loud gurgling noise signalling the fluid being drained away to god knows where, leaving only burning ladders, ropes and scorched stone in its wake.

  “Good work, Helsing. I knew you’d be able to do it.”

  “Really? I didn’t. And I don’t appreciate that little trick you pulled at the end. My life was flashing before my eyes.”

  “And interesting viewing it was, I’m sure. Now if you follow me, we’ll discuss what you’ve learned. And I don’t know about you, but I’m a little parched. Is it just me, or is it warm in here?” Heimlich made to move, but Brian simply stood, staring at him, before glancing pointedly down at his trainer. “Oh yes, I forgot.” He strolled over to Brian, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Clear your mind for a moment.”

  He did, and by the time any stray thoughts had managed to make entry into his head they were both on the ground at the steaming foot of the platform. Heimlich set off and Brian made to follow, but his first few steps felt awkward, one leg now seemingly longer than the other causing him to walk with a strange list. He lifted his right foot; a sizeable sliver of sole was missing from the bottom of his trainer, no doubt still a part of the stonework high above.

  “God dammit,” he chuntered, hurrying to catch up to the retreating Master of Magic. “These are Converse.”

  Then he suddenly remembered that he was rich; another pair were no more than a click of a mouse away. That went some way towards easing his bubbling rage. From the chamber of horrors they strode, the very stone of the walls hissing and cracking as it contracted following the immense heat, and into the anteroom, the bookcase closing behind them.

  “You can return to the Obstacle Course anytime you see fit,” Heimlich told a stunned Brian. “I will teach you incantations that will change the room to various patterns of obstacles, that you might hone your abilities.”

  “You’re a fucking lunatic.”

  “And you’re surprising. Sit, let me debrief you.”

  “I’ll thank you to keep my pants on.”

  “Just shut up and sit.”

  Brian did, sullenly, his limbs still tingling with the adrenaline that came with near-death, a feeling he was growing far too familiar with of late. At Heimlich’s clicked finger, a functionary from the Scrying Chamber hurried forth bearing drinks; a glass of brandy for Heimlich, a foaming pint of Doom Bar for Brian, before darting away. Brian eyed his beverage suspiciously, eyes darting back and forth from pint to Master of Magic as though expecting it to be drugged, as though this might be yet another trick. Heimlich’s eyes gave nothing away. Tentatively, he gave a small sip. Then another. Finally, a great gulp, the nectar soothing his dry throat.

  “Good, now you’re certain I’m not about to roofie you, let’s discuss what you’ve learned today. Firstly; telekinesis. Or as we call it, the Mind Whip. During your tenure as Helsing – long and prosperous may it be – you will no doubt lose your weapons from time to time. With the Mind Whip you can call them back to you with but a thought. Other uses, too, in abundance, once you’ve trained yourself in its mastery; unlocking doors from outside; pushing a foe from a rooftop; the possibilities are endless.”

  Brian nodded, still downing his pint with gusto. Finally, he finished, half the pint now remaining in the glass.

  “Sounds good. Probably a better way to introduce me to it than threatening me with fire, mind. What about the second trick? How did the boulder roll right through me?”

  “Shadow Form.”

  “Mind Whip? Shadow Form? Honestly, which role-playing games are you nicking these names from?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Come on, I mean, Blink is clearly from World of Warcraft. Dishonored, too, come to think of it.”

  “These terms are older than your grandfather, Helsing. Pre-dating any of these childish games you’re referencing. I don’t even know what this Warcraft is. It sounds like something by Sun Tzu but knowing you I doubt it’s anything so high brow.”

  “Really? Let me ask you a question then; horde or alliance?”

  Heimlich’s mouth made to open, as if out of instinct, before he silenced himself.

  “Knew it,” Brian smirked.

  Heimlich shook his head.

  “Back to the point, Shadow Form.” He paused for an instant at Brian’s laugh, before continuing. “By concentrating on the sensation of weightlessness and formlessness, you can will the ring into making you intangible for a time. Not only can it enable you to move through walls, reach into safes or drawers, but also it can help you avoid what might be a killing blow from an enemy.”

  “Then why didn’t XII do that? Cassandra stabbed him in the heart with her claws right in front of my eyes.”

  “Cassandra is a vampire,” Heimlich explained, his tone grave and serious. “She abides by a different law of physics. As does the banshee you will be facing tonight. So I would suggest you don’t try that trick with her; it won’t end well.”

  “Wait, so it doesn’t work against vampires or banshees. Is there anything it does work on?”

  “Well, yes, obviously. Trolls, mermen, minotaurs, werewolves. This list is nigh-endless. Just don’t try it on anything magical in nature. So no vampires, no witches, no demons.”

  “What about Cthulu?” Brian asked, wryly.

  “You bump into Cthulu, you fucking run.”

  Brian stared at the man. He’d been joking; Cthulu was a meme, born in a horror book and since appropriated by the internet. He’d been in South Park, for heaven’s sake. Yet Heimlich’s face showed no sign of mockery. Brian shivered.

  “
Duly noted. Trolls, yes. Vampires, no. Cthulu, run.”

  “Good. Now the last spell you used, Blink, is possibly one of the hardest to master, requiring a huge amount of concentration. But you did well. Surprisingly so, in fact.”

  “What can I say? I’m a fast learner.”

  “No you’re not. Regardless, you impressed me, no mean feat. Anyway, we’re done here, for the time being. Next, onto Friedrick who will run through your gear. I’m assuming you’ve opened Bertha’s boot and thoroughly inspected the armaments he selected for you?”

  “It, err, slipped my mind.”

  “C’mon Helsing. This is basic shit.” He rose to his feet, gesturing for Brian to follow. Brian held up a finger, downing the last dregs of his pint. “Let’s away to the Armoury.”

  And so, they awayed to the Armoury.

  Chapter Sixteen:

  Try Not To Die

  Brian stood in the entrance to the Armoury, confused. Everything seemed to look the same; the mess, the crates, the disapproving stares from the Masters and the hulking form of Frank still at his interminable hammering away by the forge. Yet something struck him as odd about the scene. Finally, it came to him.

  “What’s Bertha doing here? I left her locked and in the garage. How is she here? She couldn’t fit through the doorway…”

  “Magic!” Friedrick proclaimed from his chair, doing his best impersonation of Heimlich, before laughing. “Nah, there’s a lift. And obviously we’ve got the spare keys.” Brian nodded, somewhat relieved at the lack of magic involved. He’d had enough for one day already. Friedrick continued, gesturing towards the rear of the Camaro. “Pop the boot,” he said. “And witness what I’ve picked for you.”

  With a shrug, Brian fumbled for the keys in his pocket and thumbed the button to open the trunk. The lid rose with a sigh of hydraulics and he craned his neck to look down into the recess. His eyes widened in surprise, for at least some of the items in there he recognised.

  “Is that… is that an MP5K? And that’s a Spas-12!”

  Friedrick beamed.

  “Indeed. I do listen, you know; I’ve one eye, not one ear. I took note of the fact that you play these new-fangled shoot’em up games and selected some weapons you might be familiar with, with some of my own subtle modifications, of course. The sub-machinegun fires silver bullets. And the shotgun, salt shells.”

  “Silver bullets?” Brian raised an eyebrow. “That must cost a fortune.”

  “Benefactors,” Heimlich reminded him.

  “Ah yes. Benefactors.”

  He returned his gaze to the boot. Besides the two weapons with which he was familiar, a crate of the UV grenades, another crate full of gizmos he didn’t recognise, then two more weapons he’d seen before. One of them had been demonstrated, if somewhat ineptly, by Friedrick himself; the bola-launcher. He glanced doubtfully at the Master of Ordinance, who shrugged.

  “You never know.”

  Fair enough. The other weapon lying in a scabbard he recognised well enough as well, having seen the beast in action for himself, on that first fateful day. He lifted it, holding it almost reverentially, before sliding it from the scabbard and hoisting it in one hand. It was heavy, yet perfectly weighted. He could feel the craftsmanship, inexperienced though he might be.

  “XII’s sword,” Gertie whispered from nearby. “That weapon has killed more creatures of the night than you’ve had hot meals.”

  “I’ve had very few of those lately,” Brian replied, stomach grumbling, still eyeing the polished metal with its engraved runes. He glanced at her. “Will you teach me to use it?”

  “Gladly,” she told him.

  He nodded before sheathing it once more and placing it back in the boot, nodding as if satisfied. Why was he taking all of this in his stride so easily? Why was he eyeing all these weapons and evaluating them as to their potential usefulness? He suddenly realised; it was the ring. The ring was feeding him with the knowledge and wisdom of his predecessors, overriding his natural, all pervading fear. He didn’t like the feeling, didn’t like this sensation of being swept along in matters. Had all the other Helsings felt the same way at the start, he wondered? The ring told him that yes, they had, if not quite to the same extent. Suddenly, his eyes caught sight of another box, this one filled with strange phials of brightly coloured liquids, all the hues of the rainbow.

  “What’s that?”

  “Potions.” It was Otto, this time, the man’s bright white crown of hair lending him all the appearance of an eccentric dandelion as he explained. “Each has a different effect; I’d read the instructions printed on the labels before drinking them.”

  “I will.” He frowned for an instant; why did this all feel like a goodbye? “Am I…? Am I supposed to be leaving now? It’s early isn’t it? Lunch time?”

  “No, you’re not supposed to be leaving yet,” Heimlich told him, frowning. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because it feels like a goodbye.”

  The Masters all looked at each other, confused, before Heimlich ventured once more.

  “Well… it’s not?”

  “Oh. Erm, good.”

  Awkward. But then, awkward was a byword for Brian’s life.

  “Besides,” said Friedrick. “You can’t go yet, I’ve one last trick to show you.” He steamed his way forwards to the driver’s door, reaching for the handle. Slowly, with a loud and insistent beeping, he reversed, opening the door. He made to steam forwards once more, to reach inside, before realising his chair kept him too far from the centre console. With a sigh of resignation, he looked at Brian. “Young Helsing, would you care to press that blue button?”

  “The air conditioning?”

  “No, the one above it.”

  “The one with the picture of a great fuck-off gun on it?”

  “Yes, that one.”

  Brian did as he was asked, reaching in and pressing the button. A whirring noise from the front of the car, a panel opening in the bonnet and, from it, a shape rising up, pointing forwards. A shape he recognised.

  “That’s…”

  “Yes,” Friedrick grinned. “Your old friend, the Punisher. Thought if I mounted it to Bertha you wouldn’t fall on your back and spray bullets everywhere like an idiot.”

  “Does that take silver bullets too?”

  “At a thousand rounds a minute? Don’t think so, even our sponsors would balk at that. Besides, even a vampire turns to red-mist if you hit it with enough fifty-calibre rounds.”

  Brian grinned at the thought, fully imagining Cassandra standing in front of the car as he pressed the trigger. Suddenly, the image morphed into her draped across the bonnet in black, lacy lingerie. He shook his head free from the visions and turned back to Friedrick.

  “Thanks.” A stunned silence settled upon the Armoury. Even Frank ceased for a moment in his constant hammering to look over. “What?”

  “That’s the first time you’ve thanked any of us,” Heimlich told him, a smile on his face. “It’s almost like you’re starting to get used to the idea of being Helsing.”

  “Nonsense,” Brian blurted hurriedly. “I just like the idea of a massive gatling gun on my car, that’s all. Could come in useful. Y’know, rush hour and all that.” Their faces showed that they weren’t falling for it. Thankfully, his phone chose that exact moment to vibrate in his pocket. He retrieved it, glancing down at his screen. “Neil, asking what I’m up to, whether I’ve killed anything yet.” He paused for a moment, pondering. “Can I take him on my mission tonight? You know, for moral support? I mean, if he’s not too distracting…”

  Heimlich laughed.

  “He’s not too distracting,” he replied. “Not anymore. And sure. But if he dies, it’s on your head.”

  “Cool.”

  “But you’re not going out like that,” Gertie told him, gesturing at his clothes. “We need to get you in an outfit fit for a Helsing.”

  “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” Brian asked, looking at his faded Number of the Beast T-s
hirt and worn-through Primark jeans in his reflection in the car window.

  “If you’re a student or a fifty-year old metalhead on benefits, nothing. But a Helsing should be dressed a bit more… impressively. Follow me.”

  For what felt like the millionth time, Brian found himself following one of the Masters on some mysterious errand. Once more, the two, the lanky streak and the petite girl, made their way towards the central chamber, then towards the staircase, this time spiralling upwards. A room, they found themselves in, this one small, with mirrors along one wall, a bench in the middle. Gertie closed the door behind them, muting the sounds of activity from below, before flicking a switch on the wall. One whole section of the wall slid away, to reveal a huge walk-in wardrobe.

  “Now these are clothes to suit a Helsing,” she giggled.

  Brian had to say, he was impressed. Long leather coats, denim jackets, fancy suits, hats, canes, umbrellas. There were enough clothes in here to suit any style, to blend into any social circle, all the while looking intensely cool, as befitted a badass hunter of demons. He wandered through the racks of clothes; each of the items of clothing were hung up in various sizes, ranging from small to sizes that would fit even his praying mantis frame.

  “So, this is like my super-suit?”

  “Kind of. I mean, you can wear what you want, really. There’s no rules as such. But Helsing is more than just a title, it’s a figurehead. Helsing is meant to strike fear into the hearts of the undead. When Helsing is abroad, the creatures of the night that would prey on the unwary innocents falter and stay indoors. You need a uniform that befits such a legend. But at the same time, it needs to represent you.”

  “I don’t know what to choose,” he admitted. “My fashion sense is…”

  “Non-existent?”

  “Pretty much.”