Skullenia

by Tony Lewis

  The front of the trolley, and therefore the top of Ronnie’s head, connected with a heavy set of double doors that led into yet another stark, colourless room.

  Although his field of view was limited, Ronnie could see what he could only assume was scientific equipment, the sort you might see on an in depth documentary on the Discovery Channel, though obviously you had to be viewing at the right time, and not the other twenty three hours of the day when all there is to watch is baboons humping. There were a couple of white coated lab assistants that were doing whatever it was that lab assistants do with Petri dishes and test tubes. He was wheeled to the centre of the room and came to a stop under an array of lights so bright that Ronnie reckoned he was in danger of getting a half decent tan. Before his shocked eyes could accustom themselves to the extreme luminosity, a blurry out of focus blob hove into view from above. It crept towards him until finally and thankfully it totally eclipsed the mini stellar glow.

  “Here he is,” said the Doctor’s already familiar voice,

  “My second subject of the day. I do hope you’re going to be a bit more cooperative than your friend.”

  “Why should I?” answered Ronnie.

  “Put it this way. The procedures that I’m going to carry out really don’t hurt and that’s the truth, but your friend chose to fight it. That’s when it got painful for him. So you see, how much discomfort you experience is entirely in your hands.”

  “What a gracious host. But tell me, what’s all this for? You’re not here on a nature study. Someone’s gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to set this up, haven’t they?”

  The right corner of Meredith’s mouth curled upwards, as if his cheek muscles were attempting a smile but failing miserably. When he spoke there was an edge to his voice.

  “This isn’t one of those B movies or second rate novels where the villain suddenly tells the captured hero every detail of his plot for world domination, just before said hero escapes and whacks him. I’m going to do what I need to do, and that’s it. All you need to do is stay still. Got it?”

  Ronnie closed his eyes and shook his head. His emotions were hovering between abject despair and acute anger, neither of which were of any use to him whatsoever in his current situation.

  “I got it.”

  * * *

  Stitches got back to the office just as Ollie returned from his visit to the lab.

  “Oi oi,” he greeted his boss.

  “Hiya. Are we sorted?”

  “We are indeed. Bill’s going to be here shortly, and I’ve told him to pick us up from the same place as yesterday.”

  “Good. I take it he knows we’re going to Obsidia’s address rather than the castle?”

  “Well, I think that’s what I said. Actually, I know that’s what I said, but whether Bill understood me speaking plain and clear English is anybody’s guess.”

  “I’m sure he got it. He may use gibberish as a first language, but he always understands what he’s being told.”

  Stitches made to sit in his usual place opposite Ollie’s desk, but he was stalled by a waving finger half way there.

  “No,” said Ollie, “we haven’t got time for that. We need to get going. Nip down to the kitchen and get Flug, will you please.”

  The zombie huffed moodily and headed for the door.

  “Oh, why is he coming? I thought we were going on a covert, night-time stalking expedition in the woods. How the hell is he going to be any use? We might as well take a pneumatic drill and a steam roller, at least they’ll make slightly less noise then he does.”

  Ollie put his coat on and placed the detection device into a pocket. He then went to pick up the tube of sherbet, but hesitated.

  “What’s that?” asked Stitches.

  Ollie explained briefly about his visit with Crumble and the second unusual offering that he’d been given.

  “I don’t quite know what to make of that. I suppose it could come in handy if we have to win favour with a difficult diabetic,” said Stitches.

  Ollie hummed in agreement but nevertheless, despite his misgivings, he plucked the confection from the desk and put it in another capacious pocket.

  “I tell you what, mate,” offered Stitches, “if you can find a use for that other than getting it all over yourself like everyone else does, I’ll sew my mouth shut for a whole day.”

  “Now that’s a bet worth taking. Come on, go and get Flug.”

  A couple of minutes later the odd looking trio were standing in the street, awaiting the arrival of the carriage.

  “Why are we standing in da street?” asked a bewildered Flug who was still struggling to cope with being wrenched away from his game of Guess Who. For the very first time he had been on the verge of winning. Not that it was a particularly tricky game. It involved Flug sitting in front of a mirror trying to determine whom he was looking at by using a cunning set of elimination questions, which, in essence, meant him shouting “who are you?” over and over and over again until someone told him to stop or they’d put a knife through his throat.

  Ollie turned and spoke to his hulking accomplice.

  “As I’ve already explained about twelve times, we’re meeting up with Obsidia and a couple of her friends because we’re hoping to find out what’s happened to the werewolves that have been going missing.”

  A vacant look passed over the giant’s outsize features, much like the slack jawed expression you’d see on a celebrity contestant who was trying to answer a hundred pound question on Who Wants to be a Millionaire.

  “Oh.” Still the bemused look. “Wot werewolves?”

  “Uh oh. Time to set phasers to stupid,” said Stitches.

  Ollie threw his hands up to the heavens in total exasperation.

  “That’s it, I give up. I’d have more luck trying to teach a rhino to play the flute.”

  Stitches sniggered and pointed at his boss. “Nice one. I think I’ll use that?”

  “What!” It was a rhetorical what, not a what? What.

  “The rhino thing. I think I’ll use it for my game?”

  “Game?”

  “The Useless Gifts Game. A group of friends and me play it on the darknet. We go onto Zombie.com and write ideas for rubbish presents to give people. It’s a great laugh.”

  Ollie rubbed his eyes. “I know I’m going to regret this. Like what?”

  “Well, like a magazine subscription for Blind Arnold, or a slimming club membership for a skeleton.”

  Ollie couldn’t begin to describe how he felt about what Stitches had just said.

  “You are a sick individual. You know that, don’t you?”

  The zombie frowned and looked hurt.

  “I think that’s a bit strong,” he whined.

  “Really. Couldn’t you find something a little more productive to occupy your time?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Write your memoirs, decorate the office, start weight training, anything. It’s only a short hop from trolling websites to starting your very own blog, and feeling the need to update every other sad act out there what you’re up to from one minute to the next.”

  “I need to go to da blog,” rumbled Flug.

  “Tiny misunderstanding there, mate,” noted Stitches, “but you should have posted before we left. Anyway,” he continued, returning to the conversation with Ollie, “you’re talking about Twitter.”

  “Really. How remiss of me. It’s still a bit pathetic though, isn’t it? Putting your whole life on the net for every drooling nobody to gawp at. One letter change would describe it a hell of a lot better.”

  Before Stitches could reply and the whole subject turned into a full blown argument about technology and the state of the modern world in general, Bill and his coach arrived to pick them up.

  The trip to the werehouse took longer than previous ones, thanks in part to Flug’s massive bulk weighing the carriage down to the extent that the underside kept scraping along the trail every time it passed over any
thing not as smooth as a snooker table. Another delay of a quarter of an hour was needed for Stitches to locate his right eyeball, which had inadvertently dropped to the floor when he sneezed heavily. They eventually found it under Ollie’s seat, but when the zombie put it back in its socket he managed to get a piece of dried grass wedged in behind it that poked out the side of his face, and moved about like an antenna every time he looked at anything. Ollie initially thought it very amusing, but after five minutes the spectacle was making him feel rather nauseous so he pointed it out.

  At last they arrived not far from the werehouse. Bill bid them an unintelligible farewell and drove off.

  “I wish we could have got off here last time,” said Stitches. “It would have saved us slogging through the woods with Egon.”

  “True, but you would have missed out on bonding with him. It was a very special time for both of you, and I think you’ve got a friend for life. He’ll stick with you through thick and thin.”

  Stitches look utterly appalled. “So would rising damp. I’d rather bond with a colony of zombie worms, to be honest.”

  “I’m sure. Well here we are again,” announced Ollie as they stepped onto the porch.

  “Where are we den?” asked Flug, “and how did we get to da trees?”

  “He’s worse than usual tonight,” Ollie observed. “Maybe we should get Dr Zoltan to give him the once over.”

  “What for? It’s probably the cold air affecting him. They told me at his last check-up that he’s got a really slow metabolism. His heart rate is only twenty BPM, so you can’t expect too much out of him.”

  “Twenty beats per minute is a bit slow, isn’t it?”

  “Per month.”

  “Per month what?”

  “His heart rate. It’s twenty beats per month,” Stitches explained.

  “Are you shi… how can he possibly survive?”

  “Not sure. The doctor spelled it out using all sorts of medical jargon and surgical technical terms, but what I think he was really saying is that Flug is the almost human equivalent of a cactus that’s been kicked about a bit. There’s not enough going on inside him to instigate any great speed of movement or thought. He’s like a mobile statue.”

  “I still need to go to da blog,” stated Flug matter of factly.

  Ollie knocked on the door, eager to get the monster inside so he could use a toilet. The thought of him depositing what nature had definitely not intended and destroying a few square yards of woodlands and its inhabitants, was something that he didn’t want on his conscience. Or Obsidia’s doorstep for that matter. What Flug produced from his body had a half-life on par with Uranium 238, and was just as potent. A surreptitious anatomical fly tip out in the open had the potential to seriously damage the ozone layer, lay waste to the rainforests and leave polar bears wondering where all the ice had gone. Luckily, Obsidia was quick to answer the door after Ollie’s knock.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” she gushed.

  “Hi there. Look, I’m sorry to be blunt, but can Flug here use your bathroom facilities. He’s desperate, and the bumpy coach ride has probably shaken things up in there that I really don’t want to think about.”

  “Of course. Ethan, could you show our guest to the bathroom please.”

  They entered the building, whereupon Ethan took hold of Flug’s arm and made to guide him in the right direction.

  “Flug,” called Ollie, “have you got your paper?”

  “Oh, it’s alright,” said Obsidia, “there’s plenty of paper in there. We’re not completely uncivilised.”

  “No, I meant his piece of paper with the instructions on it. He gets confused sometimes.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  As if to confirm that very thing, Flug reached into a pocket and pulled out a battered notebook and waved it in the air before being led off.

  “And don’t forget to Febreeze.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  Ollie looked at Obsidia, a vast red look of apology and embarrassment on his face.

  “He’s like a child, “he explained. “If he doesn’t have that book of instructions with him at all times, there’s no telling what might happen.”

  “To him?” she asked.

  “And others.”

  Stitches, who had been surreptitiously making sure that his eye was facing in the right direction, explained further.

  “Even the most basic everyday functions have to be spelled out in detail to him. Well, I say spelled out, it’s more a series of diagrams about how to get things done. It’s basically a book of visual aids to get him through the day.”

  “Interesting. So anyway, how are you today, my little dusty friend?”

  “Oh fine, fine thanks, looking forward to getting stuck into whatever’s going on around here. Or out there, anyway.”

  Between them, Ollie and Stitches spent the next fifteen minutes enlightening Obsidia with what they had discovered thus far.

  “So we still have something of a mystery on our hands,” she noted. “But hopefully tonight, at the very least, we’ll find our missing pack members. I can’t tell you what it means to us what you’re doing.”

  “Well, let’s hope we get a break, hey,” said Stitches encouragingly, “and maybe when this is all over, we could get together or something.”

  “Maybe we could,” she replied coyly. “Or perhaps something first.”

  “Well, quite,” interjected Ollie. It was at that point that they all heard a toilet flushing, a can of air freshener squirting, a door opening and Ethan exclaiming “OH MY GOD!” A few seconds later, both he and a distinctly more relaxed Flug re-joined them.

  “Is that better?” asked Ollie.

  “Yeah. Tummy feel better now,” Flug replied, a satisfied look on his chops.

  “Good. At least there’s no danger of you getting caught short in the forest.”

  “True, all we have to worry about now is the danger to any offshore shipping,” said Stitches.

  “Nice,” complained Ollie. “Right, shall we get off then? No sense in wasting any more time.”

  Obsidia picked up a long black coat that was hanging over the back of a chair, and slipped it on.

  “Very well, gentlemen. Let’s begin.”

  “Is Ethan not joining us?” asked Ollie.

  “No. I think it would be best if he stayed here, in case of any developments.”

  With that decided, Ollie, Stitches, Flug and Obsidia left the confines of the werehouse and headed off into the woods.

  * * *

  Mrs. Ladle popped her pointy hat onto her head, collected her broomstick and checked that the fuel chamber was loaded up with Crumble’s little blue pills, before stepping out of her front door. She then cast a more complicated than usual spell over the small shack that she called home, to protect it from the attention of the local youngsters. The area had been suffering from a bout of disruptive behaviour lately, in that some of the little rascals had cracked the incantations put in place to protect a property resulting in several of them receiving ASBO’s (Anti Spell Breaking Orders).

  She walked a short distance to a small patch of dirt outside her house that she affectionately referred to as the runway. It was about two feet wide and twenty feet long, plenty big enough to get her and her broomstick off the ground. She stood at one end and placed the handle between her legs. This she accomplished with ease, as there was no faffing about with skirts for your modern witch. She usually wore trousers but for flying, a thick pair of woollen leggings was far more comfortable. They also had the added advantage of covering up the road maps that her varicose veins formed. Never ask a witch for directions as they’re liable to casually undress right in front of you to show you the way in bold, lumpy blue detail. It was like studying a sock full of Stilton. They were also nice and warm. There was nothing worse than flying around at five hundred feet on a chilly winter’s night and getting a stiff breeze up your brush every five minutes.

  Poised and ready she began to jog lightly on t
he spot, limbering up and flexing her flying muscles, getting them ready for the task ahead. After thirty seconds or so she moved forward, gaining speed until just before the end of the strip where, with a faint rush of air and a mild KABOOM, she took flight.

  She gained altitude rapidly, quickly getting up to about one hundred feet where she levelled out to monitor her speed. The last thing she needed was to be pulled over by The Flying Squad and given a ticket. She had only just come off a ban for drunk flying and couldn’t afford any more points on her license. She hadn’t gotten tipsy on purpose of course. A colleague at a coven meeting had laced a batch of snail brownies with whisky. She got her own back at the next meeting though. She had turned her acquaintance into an ashtray and spent the evening stubbing out fags on, what she hoped, were delicate parts of her anatomy.

  She turned left and swooped in over the town, just to have a nose at what was going on. There was Hector Lozenge on a late evening stroll, no doubt off to find some booze to throw down his neck. The Stella triplets were out trawling for business and Old Sweaty was flinging himself about all over the place, making vapour trails of his own.

  Passing over the town square, she noticed that Ollie’s office was in complete darkness. That’s unusual, she thought, there was normally a light on somewhere in the building, which would usually be for Flug. He was more scared of the night time than an Olympic Gold Medal winner was of a urine test. Seeing that there was in fact very little going on in town, Mrs. Ladle decided to take her broomstick out for a longer run out over the forest. She did a sharp one hundred and eighty degree turn, ramped up the speed a few notches and climbed another hundred and fifty feet or so.

  Half an hour’s pleasant cruising later, Mrs. Ladle crossed the threshold of the trees. The forest below her was extraordinarily dark, but thanks to a beautifully clear sky the tops of the trees shimmered in silver as they reflected the light being cast down from the stunning full moon. The night was whisper quiet and thanks to her newly serviced and invigorated mode of transport, she could hear the boughs creaking and even the scurrying of creatures across the forest floor.

  Now, you might be surprised that Mrs. Ladle could hear such sounds from over two hundred feet up in the air, but keep in mind that a fluffy, scampering woodland beast in Skullenia would probably be in a zoo, in a cage, on its own and with an armed guard if it was found in the outside world.