Skullenia

by Tony Lewis

  Ollie threw back the vast lid, plumped up his pillow and straightened his duvet. Half vampire or not, there were some home comforts that you definitely couldn’t do without. His father had tried to make him sleep on earth ‘from the old country’ but Ollie just didn’t fancy bedding down for the day on someone’s allotment. Through his formative years he constantly thanked whoever was in the big chair in the sky, for a mother whose chromosome contribution allowed him to bypass the more uncivilised aspects of vampire life without any ill effects. Obviously, that was apart from the blood drinking, which was a constant source of monotonous horror. He had tried going without it when he was about eighteen, out of a sense of genuine interest as well as rebelling against his dad. He had lasted about twelve hours before withdrawal symptoms, worse than any drug addict had ever experienced, had forced him to imbibe once more. Ollie had often wondered where exactly Flug had gotten hold of the wretched liquid, but being blissfully ignorant of the details was more preferable to actually knowing. The lifeblood of a comely young virgin he might, on a really good night, be able to bolt down, but knowing Flug and his rather skewed view of the world it was more likely to be the fluid from some rancid, meth drinking vagrant who spent his days foraging in rubbish bins and eating decaying rats’ decaying nether regions. Ollie shivered at the thought and cast it to the back of his mind to join the other imponderables and things you didn’t need to know, but were so important just as you were drifting off to sleep, like how do blind people know when they’re done wiping, and why are all the spells used by Harry Potter in Latin when everyone is painfully English.

  He needed to rest, so once he had carefully folded his clothes and popped them onto a table he slipped into his jammies, set the alarm and lay down. As he closed the lid he wondered what later today would bring, but the last image that played across his mind as his eyes slowly closed and sleep began to claim him and he entered that strange and wonderful state of semi consciousness where your brain produces drivel of amazing outlandishness and clarity, was of Flug standing behind a bar, looking at him and proffering a glass and saying “Pint of Geldof’s Old Tramp Sir?”

  * * *

  Major Cowan sat down at his desk and lifted the receiver. “Cowan,” he barked abruptly.

  “I think we may have a problem.”

  “Go on.”

  “I heard talk that some associates of one of your guests are looking into the disappearances of our furry friends.”

  “I see. And what do you expect me to do about it, may I ask?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think it’s too much to worry about at the moment, but I thought you should know just in case.”

  “And protecting your end of the deal has nothing to do with it, of course?”

  “Money is no concern of mine, Major. This is a personal issue.”

  “Sure it is. But it is amazing how a personal issue is costing us a couple of million dollars, wouldn’t you say?”

  Cowan sighed. Why was there always someone who had to stick their noses into things when they were going just fine?

  “Okay, thanks for the information. I’ll make sure my personnel are kept up to speed.”

  “Thank you, major. If I hear anymore you’ll be the first to know.”

  The line went dead.

  * * *

  The shrill shriek of the alarm clock dragged Ollie from the comfort of sleep and deposited him firmly back into the land of the unliving, as it were. He quickly washed, dressed and made his way back up to the office, unusually eager to see what the coming night would bring. He felt a bit more enthusiastic and upbeat, and put it down to the fact that he was well rested and all those inane little things that always seemed so important as you’re lying in bed, the annoying niggles that seemed so much worse when it was late and you were tired, had all seemed to lose their urgency and evaporate. Bizarre how even the most insignificant problem, that wouldn’t worry a six year old, became a major issue that even Bruce Willis couldn’t have handled if you thought about it whilst trying to sleep.

  “Afternoon, Professor,” he said as he walked along the corridor.

  “Ah, hello there Ollie. Did you sleep well?”

  “I did, thanks. What are you up to today?” he asked, noticing the tangle of miscellaneous items that Crumble had precariously balanced on a large tray.

  The Professor looked at the collection in his grasp and shrugged his shoulders, very nearly sending half of it crashing to the floor.

  “Oh, nothing specific, just some bits and bobs that I found at the back of a cupboard. Thought I might have a tinker around with them and see what I can conjure up.”

  About £1.73 at a boot fair if you’re lucky, thought Ollie.

  “Well, good luck with that,” he offered encouragingly. “Let me know if you come up with anything useful.”

  What with the chances of anything that Crumble invented being about as much use as a trampoline on the moon, he concluded that it would be a long time before the old man came a knocking on his door, screaming Eureka and claiming to be the next Leonardo Da Vinci. If Crumble had invented the parachute, his material of choice would probably have been marble. A death trap to be sure, but think of the time you would save on the way down. Still, he was happy in his own insane little way and to be honest, if he was happy in anyone else’s way, he’d probably need a straight jacket.

  The Professor entered his lab and shut the door. A few seconds later, reassuring crashes, clanks and bangs began to emanate from within. It was comforting, really, like a tranquil piece of music but played slightly off kilter and marginally out of tune. Imagine Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata being played by a drunken baboon with an attitude problem and all the musical talent of a Eurovision Song Contest performer, and you’ll just about have it.

  It was at this point that Ollie realised his mind was wandering, and that he really did have more important things to think about than a mad monkey abusing the keys of a Steinway with its bulbous red backside. To the office.

  On entering he bade hello to Stitches, who was occupying his usual place opposite Ollie’s desk. The dry, old leather creaked and groaned as the zombie shifted position. The chair winced a bit as well. He returned the greeting with a smile.

  “So, what’s new?” Ollie asked settling in behind his desk.

  Stitches grinned and gestured in the direction of the waiting room with a nod of his head. “We have a visitor.”

  “Anyone interesting?”

  “Oh, I think so. I’ll show her in, shall I?”

  The zombie crossed the room and opened the door, which scraped across the plaster remnants of Flug’s latest exit miscalculation.

  “Would you like to come through?” he called out in what would usually be referred to as a ‘telephone voice’, that irritating characteristic that seems to afflict every sentient being as soon as they get their lips anywhere near the mouthpiece of any communication device. Excepting call centre personnel obviously, because it’s difficult to be self-righteous and boorish to members of the public with a plum in your mouth. Not that there would be room for any variety of fruit in there, their feet would get in the way.

  Stitches held the door as Obsidia swept into the office, all style and grace and two inch long, black painted nails. Stitches showed her to his chair and respectfully held the back of it as she lowered herself onto the cushion.

  “Hello again, Ollie,” she oozed with a voice like liquid velvet. “Did you sleep well?”

  Ollie frowned slightly and wondered why everyone was suddenly so interested in his nocturnal sleeping habits. Maybe he was still looking a bit tired. Or maybe he wasn’t, and people were thinking that he was looking well rested. Or maybe he was just being a bit paranoid and those who asked were perhaps being polite, and couldn’t really give a flying hoo ha whether he’d slept or not. Anyway, he had breakfast to look forward to. A pint of claret was always guaranteed to put a spring in his step, as well as a stain in his toilet.

  “I did. Thank you for as
king.”

  “Slept like the dead, he did,” Stitches threw in, starting the day off as usual.

  Ollie was on the verge of admonishing his colleague for his uncompromising wit, but seeing Obsidia giggling away to herself like a young girl made him change his mind. For whatever reason, there was a definite attraction between the two. The thing was, he could see it from Stitches’ point of view, you’d have to be blind not to. Obsidia was a ravishing creature who could no doubt have her choice of partners, but it was the next ingredient of the emerging relationship where Ollie’s reasoning failed. What on earth did she see in Stitches that he was evidently missing? Ollie liked him a lot but he was basically a walking Hoover bag, only he split more often. It just went to show that ladies placed a great deal in a good old fashioned sense of humour. You can be as old and decrepit as you like, but if you can make ’em laugh then you’d have women falling at your feet.

  “So, Obsidia. To, to what do we owe the pleasure?” Ollie asked.

  She crossed her shapely legs and flicked a length of hair from her face.

  “Business, I’m afraid. James didn’t return last night, so I have a horrible feeling that he’s fallen foul of the same fate as the others.”

  “I see. I take it he wouldn’t normally stay out all night like this?”

  “No. Every member returns to the house after hunting. It’s extremely demanding and leaves us weary and ready for rest.”

  “Puts a whole new twist on getting changed to go out, doesn’t it?” said Stitches.

  My God, it’s relentless.

  “Indeed,” replied Obsidia with a smile. “It takes a lot of energy to shape shift in the first place. Throw in a night in the forest and you feel like you’ve run a couple of marathons.”

  Ollie pondered this new development for a moment before responding.

  “I take it you’ve informed the remainder of your group and told them it would be best to stay put until we’ve had a chance to sort this out?”

  “Oh, yes. It shouldn’t be too much of a problem, for a while at least. We do have some stores at the house that we can delve into if necessary.”

  Ollie didn’t want to begin to think what the inside of a werewolf’s fridge looked like.

  “That’s good,” he continued, “because our next move has to be a careful one.”

  “I’ve got an idea, boss.”

  “Go on, then.”

  “Well, it doesn’t take Einstein to work out that someone or something is hunting the wolves, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So, if you, me and Flug go into the woods tonight, we should be able to sneak around without too much bother. Whatever’s out there won’t be looking for us, will it?”

  “He makes a good point,” offered Obsidia. “No one is going to expect you gentlemen to be there.”

  Ollie leaned forward, put his elbows on the desk and interlaced his fingers.

  “What about Ronnie? He hasn’t come back yet.”

  Stitches walked towards the desk. “You said yourself that he probably got drunk and ended up on someone’s floor. He’ll be back at some point. You never know he may even be half conscious. We’ll leave him a note.”

  “I know what I said, but don’t you think it’s a bit odd that it’s in the midst of all this he chooses to disappear?”

  Obsidia rose from the chair and also approached the desk.

  “I can see why you’re concerned, Ollie, but if Ronnie has indeed become entangled in this plot, then by venturing forth tonight you might very well be coming to his aid.”

  “That’s true enough. Okay, tonight it is then. At least this way if Jocular calls I can give him a progress report of sorts. Obsidia, if it’s okay with you we’ll use your house as a starting point. We’ll be there about nine.”

  “Excellent. Until later, gentlemen.”

  With that she left the office, leaving the two detectives to plan the coming night’s activities.

  “Well,” said Stitches, “we’ve got a couple of hours to kill, why don’t we have a walk round town. See if we can pick up any more information that might help.”

  Ollie thought about it for a moment before deciding that it was a good idea.

  “Okay, but you’ll have to go by yourself for now. It’s still a little early for me, and I have a horrible feeling that Flug is going to show up any minute with my breakfast.”

  Stitches pulled a yuck face. “And we know how much you love that.”

  Ollie raised an eyebrow and made a disgusted noise that sounded like stagnant air rushing out of a punctured tyre.

  “Mmmm. The trouble is, as much as I’m loathe to drink the wretched stuff, I actually need it.”

  Stitches nodded his head and crossed the room to the door. “No worries. You enjoy and I’ll see you later, yeah?”

  “Fine. See you around eightish.”

  Once the zombie had left, Ollie realised that he was alone with no Flug bearing liquid gifts. Quickly he exited the office and rushed back downstairs to his room. He changed and got into his coffin. “Time for a quick nap, I think. It could be a long night.” He was right.

  * * *

  Doctor Paul Meredith knocked on Cowan’s door, but didn’t bother waiting for an invitation to enter before barging into the Major’s office and marching right up to his desk. Cowan looked up impassively from some paperwork that he’d been concentrating on. Seeing that the visitor was a person for whom he had an intense dislike, he blatantly ignored him and returned to his work.

  “I have news.” Meredith spoke with his usual air of arrogance and superiority, but there was an underlying waver in his voice indicating that Cowan’s dismissive attitude towards him had thrown him off slightly.

  After a suitable amount of time, Cowan acknowledged the Doctor’s presence and looked up once more.

  “Could it be that you’ve invented a cure for rudeness and self-importance?”

  “Very droll. I mean news about the project. We’ve finally managed to extract the gene and as of now, it’s still stable. No degradation at all.”

  This was the most enthusiastic that Cowan had seen the little man. Compared to his customary demeanour, he was currently bordering on the ecstatic. He was still an impudent little insect, though.

  “How long has it been?” the soldier asked, leaning back in his chair and forgetting for a moment that he wanted to put a bullet through the man’s skull.

  “Coming up on two hours. It’s looking good this time.”

  “Why this time, when all of the other attempts have failed so early on?”

  Meredith thought for a moment. “Two things, really. Firstly, we altered the temperature that we kept the sample at, and secondly, I think it had a lot to do with the subject himself. He’s by far the most excellent physical specimen we’ve had to work with; young, fit and incredibly strong and resilient.”

  “How long before we know for sure that this is it?”

  Meredith scratched his head and bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. He was confident, but he didn’t want to be definitive in his response in case the worst happened. He was ninety nine percent positive that the sample wouldn’t degrade, but it was just as things were going well that the rug got pulled out from under you. He decided to scale up the time factor by two to give himself some leeway.

  “I think we need to give it at least another eight hours. If it’s still stable by then, I think we can safely move onto Phase 2.”

  The Major allowed himself a diminutive smile.

  “Excellent. Let’s just make sure he stays healthy, because as long as he’s alive we have an inexhaustible supply of product.”

  “Fair enough,” replied the scientist. “What about the other one?”

  Cowan got up from his seat and joined Meredith on the other side of the room.

  “Use the same method, and let’s see if we can isolate the defective gene that activates his particular talent. It’ll be just as valuable as the shapeshifter’s, maybe even more so.”


  “Okay, I’ll get back to it.”

  “You do that.”

  Meredith left the office and headed back to where the captives were being held. Despite having to deal with the overbearing and aggressive Major, he was in a very good mood. A lot of people back home, those whose pay grade and position far exceeded his, were going to be extremely pleased with his research, and of course there were the obvious financial benefits of presenting such ground-breaking work to eager and affluent armed forces across the globe. As far as Cowan was concerned, Meredith put him to the back of his mind. He could take a long walk off a short pier for all he cared. Their relationship had been fractious from the start. Cowan’s disciplined and formal world and the scientist’s experimental, ‘let’s see what happens if we do it this’ way of doing things didn’t mix well. That still didn’t excuse his behaviour towards him and his staff though, leading Meredith to seriously consider reporting him to his superiors. He couldn’t give a stuff what the consequences to Cowan might be. He didn’t like him, plain and simple.

  As he walked along the corridor he saw two orderlies guiding a trolley towards him, but before they crossed paths he noticed that they were returning the lycanthrope to the holding area.

  “Has he been a good boy?” he asked sarcastically.

  One of the porters grunted and shrugged his shoulders before barging the door open with a meaty forearm.

  “Not bad, I suppose,” he replied disinterestedly. “He’s drugged up to the eyeballs, so he’s not gonna get up to much.”

  Meredith held the door for them as they wheeled him in.

  “Fair enough. Put him by the wall over there to sleep it off. I need this one now.”

  This got Ronnie’s attention. He had tried to ignore the men when they came into the room, a kind of childish, if I can’t see you then you can’t see me - mentality but, as any four year old, or Flug, would tell you, it didn’t work. Well, maybe not Flug.

  He briefly considered confusing the hell out of his captors by going invisible but quickly dismissed the idea, because one, he was strapped to a table and two, he knew damn well that that was the very reason why he was strapped to a table. He knew his little DNA quirk was known to them, but that didn’t mean that he was going to give it up without a fight, even if that nutter of a soldier came at him with a whole chest full of medals to threaten him with.