by Tony Lewis
Ollie opened the secret door at the rear of his office and descended the stairs to the basement. At the bottom was a short hallway that led to an ancient, rusty door that bore the sign ‘My other corridor has a Porch’. He opened the said door and was met by the overpowering and somewhat farty smell of sulphur, and a grinning Crumble clad in a filthy lab coat and wearing a pair of safety goggles that were so thick, if the glass had cracked, his head would have de-pressurised.
“Ah, Mr Splint,” he said, beckoning Ollie into the dingy interior. “I’ve got a couple of new things to show you, if you have a few moments.”
“Oh right,” replied Ollie, trying his best to sound upbeat.
Rhubarb led him to a cluttered bench that had so many dishes, test tubes and beakers on it that it was difficult to see what was going on. It was obvious that this was the source of the stink though, because a putrid, vaporous shroud of yellow smoke was hanging over a large container. It looked like a small nuclear explosion had gone off. Ollie tried to breathe through his mouth, but still a tiny tendril of stench stole up his nose.
“What the Devil have you been up to, Rhubarb, it smells like a morgue down here?”
“My latest creation,” he replied proudly, indicating the offending glassware. “A cunning fusion of explosive gel and toothpaste.”
“And where would I use such a concoction?” Ollie asked sarcastically. “Because I can’t envisage any dangerous bathroom situations coming up in the near future. Unless I’m actually using the stuff, that is.”
Rhubarb smiled the smile of the totally deranged and the eternally optimistic. Never mind the glass being half full, Crumble’s was always full to the brim, laced with Malibu and had a little pink umbrella in it.
“Well, you never know. It could come in handy.”
“Possibly. So what’s it called then?”
The Professor grinned. “Gumpowder.”
Ollie laughed and slapped the little man on the back. “It’s worth it just for the name. What else have you got, you said a couple of things?”
“I’m really pleased with this,” said Crumble, indicating a wooden box attached to the wall.
As they approached the box, Ollie began to hear a distinct fluttering noise coming from inside it, and only when he was really close did he notice a small light bulb on top that was struggling to give off a faint glimmer of light.
“And what do we have here?” he asked, genuinely interested.
Rhubarb unhooked a latch and opened the box, revealing the cause of the noise. There was a wheel inside and attached to that, at six equally spaced intervals, by tiny leather harnesses, were half a dozen small bats, each furiously flapping its wings. For all their efforts though, the wheel was turning incredibly slowly, which explained the pathetic glow.
“The Pipistrel Dynamo!” announced Rhubarb triumphantly.
Ollie inwardly sighed, not wanting to cause offence, but at the same time wanting to give the Professor a hearty slap across the chops.
“It’s a bit weak, isn’t it? It would take thousands of them to make a decent amount of light. And aren’t you worried about the animal rights people finding out?”
“Mmmm, still it’s not like I mistreat them. They’re very pampered little creatures, and I always let them have a nice rest when they get tired.”
“Ah, their batteries keep running out, do they?”
“Excuse me.”
“Never mind. Well keep working on it. Bats in a box might be the next big thing. As well as few too many roos loose in the top paddock,” he added under his breath.
Ollie was just about to make his excuses and leave when the lab door flew open and Stitches, as much as he could, rushed in.
“We’ve got a phone call,” he said, stopping to retrieve his hand which, in his urgency to get in, he’d left gripping the door handle.
“Who?” asked Ollie, watching as the zombie put his right hand into his left hand coat pocket for safekeeping.
“You’ll never guess.”
“No I probably won’t.”
“Go on, have a go.”
Ollie sighed and folded his arms. “Elvis?”
“Nope.”
“The Pope?”
“He called yesterday.”
“Eh!” exclaimed Ollie.
“Gotcha!” said Stitches pointing, well, stumping, and laughing. “Try again.”
“I give up.”
“Aww, go on. One more,” pleaded Stitches.
Ollie was now on the verge of plunging a stake into his own chest. “Stitches! For the love of a supreme being, just shut up and tell me.”
The zombie looked puzzled. “How can I shut up and tell you, Boss?”
“JUST. TELL. ME. NOW!”
Stitches pouted and looked at his feet, swaying back and forth like a scolded child.
“His Regal Darkness, Count Jocular.”
Ollie’s breath caught in his chest and his eyes nearly burst from their sockets. He tried to speak, but his mouth had suddenly turned into a desert. After a moment he regained a modicum of composure. “Why the hell didn’t you say so in the first place, you useless column of dust?”
“I’ve got a bag for that,” interjected Crumble.
“Shut up,” growled Ollie, pushing past Stitches and heading quickly for the stairs.
“Sorry, Boss! But there’s no need to get your cape in a twist!” He followed Ollie up the stairs back to the office.
Ollie lowered his voice as he neared his desk, lest the noise carried to the phone.
“Don’t get my cape in a twist? As far as vampires go he’s God. Well, the Devil, or… put it this way, he’s right up there, and anyone who doesn’t treat him as such had better watch out. Now sit there, be quiet and sew your hand back on.”
“Okay,” mumbled the zombie and dropped into a chair.
Without realising what he was doing, Ollie straightened his jacket and smoothed his hair before picking up the phone.
“Hello.”
“Ah, Mr. Splint. Vot kept you?”
The voice was deep and menacing, and sent a shiver down Ollie’s spine. If all the evil in the world was collected and turned into audio, it would sound like Jocular. A thousand clawed hands tapped their fingers on his flesh. He sounded like someone who had failed an audition for the next Saw movie because he was too scary.
“Sorry, Sir,” Ollie squeaked, “bit of trouble with the staff, but you know how it is with underlings.”
“Try hanging a few. It vorks for me.”
“I’ll consider it, sir,” he replied, casting a glance at Stitches.
The phone felt cold and clammy in his hand, as if the creature on the other end of the line were sucking all the heat from it. Ollie was sure he could see tendrils of ice beginning to form on the dial, clouding the numbers.
“What can I do for you, sir?” asked Ollie trying not to sound like a schoolboy up in front of the Headmaster.
“I vont you to come up to ze castle. I have some business to discuss viz you.”
“Ah, right you are. When should I be there?”
“Come tonight at tvelve. And bring your friend along, the vun who keeps falling apart.”
“Stitches?”
“Zat’s him. And now I must fly.”
“Very good, sir,” Ollie said, trying to suppress a giggle.
“Vot is very good?” replied Jocular, sounding perplexed.
“Vampire, I must fl… until tonight, sir,” Ollie hung up the phone.
“What did he want then?” asked Stitches whilst in the midst of reattaching his hand.
“He wants me to go and see him up at the castle. I reckon he’s got some business for us by the sound of things.”
“Such as?”
“He didn’t say, but he asked for you to come with me.”
Stitches dropped a stitch.
“As long as it’s not another fancy dress party. Last time I went as a zombie and came third.”
Ollie laughed. “That’s not b
ad.”
“Indeed, but that Frankenstein clone that you employ went as Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz and won! How’s that fair?”
“Well, he did look the part.”
“He ate two munchkins,” the zombie protested incredulously, “and their little dog too.”
Ollie gazed at Stitches. “Trying not to laugh at Jocular is the hardest part.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, you know. Those one liners that he throws into a conversation. The only trouble is that he doesn’t realise he’s doing it. The last time I was there he said ‘Ven I vas at school, ze only sing that I vas any good at vas cricket. Ze sports teacher always said I had ze makings off a good bat’.”
Stitches gave a derisory chuckle, the sort reserved for desperately unfunny people, who think they’re hilarious when they are, in fact, about as funny as a power cut in an intensive care ward.
“That was my reaction,” said Ollie, “but all the big guy did was glare at me and say ‘Vot are you laughing at?’ ”
“How did you get out of that?”
Ollie raised an eyebrow. “I told him that joke about the dwarf and the nun. I said I’d heard it earlier that day.”
“And?”
“He didn’t get it. He said the undead community was no place for levity.”
Stitches tied off a loop of cotton on his wrist. “He obviously hasn’t been to a summer season show in Eastbourne, then,” he said around the pin clamped between his teeth.
“Exactly. Right, meet me back here at eleven, okay? And don’t be late.”
“Gotcha.”
* * *
“I hate this, everybody stares. Why can’t we use a bus like everyone else?”
Ollie looked at the disgruntled zombie. They were standing in the street outside the office, waiting for their ride.
“Because firstly, buses are for tourists and undercover monster hunters, and their talking dog. Secondly, there aren’t any buses to Jocular’s Castle anyway, and thirdly, even if there were, His Royal Darkness can be a bit of an old traditionalist. He likes certain things done the old fashioned way. I think he’s gone one station too far on the crazy train, personally, but there it is.”
At that moment, the thunderous clatter of horses’ hooves pounding on cobble stones assaulted their ears. A black carriage was being pulled along by four massive beasts. The wheels bounced and juddered along the uneven stone, making the cab sway from side to side so much that it looked like it was going to tip over. The driver was a mysterious hooded figure, perched high on the front seat. As the horses neared he reined them in, his white skeletal hands gripping the leather straps and pulling them back, bringing the vehicle to a standstill. The creature turned to face them, regarding them with a pair of deep red eyes that glowed from the depths of the hood. A bony, bleached finger pointed to the cab, indicating that they should get on board.
“Evening, Bill,” said Ollie, “how’s business?”
“Ansome,” came the reply, “bin really busy lately, rushed off me feet, know wot I mean?”
“I wish I did,” Ollie said wistfully. “Haven’t had so much as a nibble for ages.”
“Never mind me ole mucker, sumfink’ll turn up. You mark my words and no mistake, cor blimey, guvnor an all ‘at.”
Ollie and Stitches clambered into the carriage.
“Where did Jocular find him?” asked the zombie. “Cockney Stereotypes R Us?”
“I don’t know,” came the reply, as Bill got the horses moving. “I think he’s new. I’ve only met him once before. Probably some hapless traveller lured into the clutches of Evil….”
“Whoa there! I got the message.”
The carriage suddenly came to a shrieking halt, the wheels skidding on the slick cobble stone surface. Bill pulled back a small hatch situated in the roof panel of the carriage and peered down at them.
“Awright, who’s the comedian who said whoa?”
Stitches raised a guilty hand. “Sorry, fellah, won’t happen again.”
“Fanx, Guv. Don’t wanna go flying off them bends now, do we?”
The hatch slid shut and they resumed their journey.
* * *
The laboratory looked a bit like the one Professor Crumble pottered around in, except that this one was more modern, cleaner, had state of the art equipment and trained staff that were capable of using it for its intended purpose. It was also quiet, with no Hiroshima sized blasts going off for no apparent reason every ten minutes. It was into this serene area of research that Major Cowan entered, interested to see what, if any, progress had been made.
“How goes it, Meredith, you got anything for me?”
Dr Paul Meredith smiled weakly at the soldier and shrugged his thin shoulders.
“Slowly. We can isolate and remove the specific gene we’re after, but once it’s free of the host organism it immediately begins to break down. Within thirty seconds it’s totally corrupted and useless to us.”
Cowan looked pensive, annoyed at the apparent delay. Those above him wanted results, and he’d been chosen specially to lead the mission to deliver them. This wouldn’t look good, and Cowan was not a man to tolerate failure of any description, no matter what the excuse.
“So what do you suggest, Doctor?”
Meredith took off his glasses and began to polish them with a handkerchief. “I need to retrieve the gene sample from living tissue. You’ll have to capture me a live specimen, Major.”
Cowan bristled at this arrogant display of disrespect. “That sounded like an order to me, Doctor,” he growled.
“Take it as you will, but if this experiment has any chance of success, that’s what I need.”
“You do realise what you’re asking me to do, don’t you?”
Meredith finished cleaning his glasses before wiping a thin sheen of sweat from his brow and popping them back on. He wasn’t accustomed to confrontation, but he couldn’t afford to let this uniformed dictator rattle him. He needed to project an image of control.
“I’m sure you’ll manage to give the orders to your men without coming to too much harm. I mean, what possible dangers could there be lurking in that plush office of yours?”
Cowan was starting to boil. He needed to remove himself from this situation fast, otherwise this upstart scientist was going to push him too far. Cowan could take many things, but sarcasm and disrespect from his alleged subordinates was guaranteed to upset him.
“And don’t try and pull rank on me, Major,” Meredith continued, undaunted by Cowan’s obvious displeasure at his attitude. “I’m not military. I work for the Government. Basically, you’ll do what I ask.”
Cowan swallowed hard and counted to ten. He leaned in toward the diminutive Doctor and spoke in a hushed voice. “You’ll get your specimen and then, when we’re finished here, I’ll feed you to it. Good day, Doctor.”
* * *
The carriage bumped and shuddered its way along the mountain track, the wooden wheels flirting with the edge of the precipice as if the cab were playing a deadly game of chicken with the abyssal depths. Coachman Bill was whipping the horses into a frenzy, urging them ever faster as if their very lives depended on reaching their destination as quickly as possible. Bill opened the hatch again and peered inside.
“Won’t be long now, Guv. We’ve made good time tonight.”
Stitches looked up nervously at the skeletal cabbie. “We won’t make it at all if you don’t pay attention to the road.”
Bill grinned, impossible for a skull, but he grinned nonetheless. “Don’t worry, son, I’ve got eyes in the back of me ed.”
“Mmmm, I’m sure.”
With that, Bill whipped down his hood and turned back to face the front and there, in two recesses at the base of his bony bonce, was another pair of eyes as red and fearsome as the ones above his cheek bones.
Stitches rolled his eyes skywards and let out a sigh. “I should have known. That’s weird, even for these parts.”
Ollie smirk
ed. “Well, it takes all sorts I suppose.”
“So does British Immigration, but I bet even they wouldn’t let a four eyed walking Yoric into the country.”
Ollie reached into a pocket and pulled out a small foil wrapped bundle. He carefully opened it and took out one of the Marmite sandwiches he’d made for the trip.
“Wonderful,” he said around a mouthful of sticky bread.
“I don’t know how you can eat that stuff. It looks like it belongs in a pathology lab.”
“Mmmmph,” and a sneer was the only reply Stitches got.
“Still,” the dusty one continued, “if we ever need to get rid of anyone we’ll just get some of those revolting things, lace them with strychnine and voilà!”
“What?”
“A suicide pact lunch.”
Ollie swallowed his mouthful and glared at his companion with a wry, somewhat tortured grin on his face. “Stitches, you are without a shadow of a doubt the funniest zombie I know.”
“But I’m the only zombie you know.”
“I know!”
Despite the light hearted exchanges going on inside the cab they both noticed the air had suddenly become heavier, almost tangible, making it harder to draw a breath. You could feel the oppressive atmosphere bearing down on your shoulders and squeezing your chest. Although it didn’t bother Stitches, on account of his being rather dead, it made Ollie feel decidedly uncomfortable physically, and it was a feeling he would never get used to no matter how many times he visited Jocular’s Castle. He opened the window, not to let in the fresh air, but to let the air that they had move about a bit. A stiff, dewy branch caught him on the chin as he leaned further out.