Skullenia

by Tony Lewis

  “The guards from the front of the building,” he said out loud.

  Obsidia smiled, but now accompanying the overt and ever present sexuality, was a smug self-satisfaction.

  “Very observant. You should do this for a living,” she said.

  Ollie’s sense of unease was replaced by a quivering slab of fear as the pieces fell into place.

  Obsidia’s reconnaissance of the compound was, in hindsight, far too quick, and her comment upon her return about it being easy when you know your way around totally passed him by. The handy gap in the fence should have been another dead giveaway. His initial misgivings had proved correct, but there was absolutely nothing that he could do about it now. As one of the soldiers ordered the three of them to their feet, he realised that they had been betrayed.

  Stitches had a forlorn look on his face as he spoke up dejectedly to Obsidia.

  “How could you do this? Not only to us but to your friends. You’ve sold them out and you don’t give a damn about what’s happened to them.”

  Obsidia didn’t look in the least bit bothered. In fact, she appeared rather pleased with herself and the situation that she had created.

  “Well, you know how it is. If someone dangles enough money in front of you, it’s hard to say no. Everybody has their price after all, and no one ever got rich by being true to their morals.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” responded Ollie, an edge to his voice. “None of us could do anything like that. Guaranteed.”

  “If that’s what you think, then I’m happy for you, but I’ll have plenty of time to consider the error of my ways whilst I’m living the life of luxury in some sunny foreign country.”

  “Tell all that to James and the others you’ve deceived. I just hope for your sake that Ronnie’s okay.”

  The soldier who had ordered them to their feet, and who was now pointing his weapon directly at them, spoke up.

  “Ma’am, we need to get inside now.”

  “Of course,” she responded. “After you, private.”

  “Alright, ladies,” he shouted, gesturing toward the building with the barrel of his gun, “let’s go. And no talking.”

  They made their way at gunpoint across the compound towards the mysterious building. Obsidia stayed behind them with the soldiers. As they approached the double doors, they opened up automatically and a rush of warm air from within enveloped them. A long corridor stretched away in front of them. It was starkly white and devoid of any colour, and was lit by bare neon tubes that buzzed and popped intermittently.

  “Which way?” asked Stitches.

  “Just keep going,” replied Obsidia. “We’ll let you know where to go.”

  “I bet you will.”

  “Oh my. Are we a bit upset?” she asked sarcastically.

  “There’s no we about it,” he spat as they carried on walking. “You’ve dumped on us good and proper from a great height. And I’m really ticked off with myself for falling for your rubbish.”

  “Now don’t go blaming yourself. I wouldn’t be able to resist me, and I am me.”

  “Turn right here,” one of the soldiers barked.

  They were met by the expanse of another austere corridor, which, though slightly shorter than the first, was no less Spartan. They hadn’t even seen any other personnel yet.

  One more passage took them to what appeared at first to be a dead end, but which turned out to have a door. It was only because the door was the same bland hue as its surroundings that it proved difficult to see from any distance. The soldier who was closest joined them at the door and pressed a series of numbers on the keypad that was situated to its right. With a loud hiss it opened outwards, and before them a flight of stairs was revealed. At the top they went through another keypad locked door and as they exited they found themselves in, surprise surprise, yet another corridor. This one, however, was a bit more welcoming, if such a thing could be said bearing in mind their current situation. The sides were a soft green and the lights in the ceiling were covered with shades. There was a soft carpet underfoot and even a few landscaped paintings were hanging on the walls. Some of the doors they walked past had glass panels in them, and inside they could see people working feverishly with equipment that none of them had a clue about.

  About two thirds of the way down they were ordered to halt outside a rather fancy oak panelled door. Obsidia leaned forward and knocked lightly.

  “Come on in,” a voice from the other side said.

  She opened the door and led them into Cowan’s office. She crossed the room, passing in front of the Major and giving him a friendly wink in the process, a gesture not missed by Ollie. She stood by the window, indicating to the three captives that they should stand near the large desk. The two guards entered, the last one of whom closed the door.

  Cowan stood up but stayed safely ensconced behind his wooden barricade.

  “My oh my. What do we have here?” he sneered sarcastically. “Did you guys get lost on the way to a Halloween party, or is this the latest fashion trend in swinging Skullenia?”

  “I wouldn’t bang on too much about how we look,” Stitches spat back, a trace of anger in his voice. “At least we’re not dressed like a pre-packaged clone topped off by a haircut that went out of fashion forty years ago.”

  Cowan smiled, but it didn’t get any further than his lips. His eyes remained cold and impassive as he put the stub of one of his ever present cigars into his mouth and lit the end. He took a long draw and blew the smoke over the tip, making it glow like a mini sun.

  “Don’t get too feisty, my crumbling friend, or I’ll be tempted to find out what the combustion rate is for a zombie. I reckon you’ll go up quicker than Dorothy’s scarecrow.”

  “Who Dorothy?” asked Flug.

  “Never mind for now,” said Ollie in a calm voice. “I’ll explain later.”

  “I think you can rule out later, to be honest. In fact, I wouldn’t go making any plans for, let me see, the rest of your lives, such as they are. You must be Ollie Splint. I gather that you’re the leader of this merry band.”

  “I suppose you could say that.”

  “Excellent. Just wanted to let you know that you’ve done a great job. You’ve saved me a hell of a lot of trouble. There’s me thinking that I’d have send out some of my men to bring you in, but you had the good grace to do it for me. I can’t thank you enough.”

  Ollie stared at the man before him, bitter hatred and utter contempt evident on his usually placid face.

  “I’d rather have the softer parts of my body shut in a vice than do anything for you. So what happens now, you egotistical maniac?” he rasped.

  Cowan sat down again and placed his feet onto his desk, casting a knowing glance at Obsidia as he did so. She was still at the window but was now leaning against the sill to take the weight off her feet.

  “What would you suggest, Miss?” he asked her.

  “Well, I think it’s relatively simple, major. Find out what they know, which judging by their efforts so far won’t be too much, and find out who they’ve told. Then get rid of them.”

  Ollie, Stitches and even Flug gasped in unison as the gravity of the situation suddenly increased. Ollie was especially shocked by Obsidia’s dismissive attitude toward them. He normally considered himself a fair judge of character, but she had really pulled the cape over his eyes.

  Cowan had already decided that the three of them would be returning to the States with him and the Doctor, but he didn’t need to let them know that just yet. Fear was a great provider and, if implemented in just the right way, could be extremely beneficial. He decided to play along with Obsidia’s suggestion.

  “Nice to know we’re on the same wavelength. Now, I don’t want to come across like a movie bad guy but, and let me paraphrase the young lady here, if you’re willing to tell me what you know and more importantly who you’ve told, then I promise that none of you will suffer. And don’t be under the mistaken impression that we don’t know how to deal
with your kind.”

  Ollie remained silent for a moment. He needed time to think but that was time he didn’t have, so he needed to stall this lunatic if they stood any chance of getting out of here.

  “How about an exchange of information,” he suggested. “You tell me what’s been going on around here, just to satisfy my idle curiosity, and I’ll reciprocate with the details that you’re after. As you’ve so eloquently hinted, you’re going to get rid of us anyway.”

  It was only Stitches that noticed the intensity with which Ollie was staring at the Major. His eyes were as wide as they could possibly be, and his pupils were dilated to the extent that they appeared to be totally black. He had a focussed look on his face but his features remained relaxed as he continued speaking. Stitches was astonished to note, after watching for a good few seconds, that Ollie wasn’t even blinking.

  Bugger me, thought the zombie, then casting his gaze at their captor who was a tad slack jawed and glassy eyed, he’s only gone and bloody done it, he’s actually put him under.

  This childlike sense of wonder and disbelief also crossed the portion of Ollie’s mind that wasn’t engaged in keeping the Major under his control. Usually anyone with a reasonable amount of intelligence and self-awareness would be impossible for him to ensnare with his rather meagre vampire mind trap but, for whatever reason, the man stood before him was now under his influence. Ollie continued to concentrate as the link was tenuous at best, and any lack of focus on his behalf would shatter it instantly.

  To all intents and purposes, the major looked perfectly normal. It was only when he started to reply in answer to Ollie’s offer of an information exchange, that the soldiers on guard and Obsidia realised that something wasn’t quite right. Flug, however, had returned to his usual happy state of ignorant bliss. He was standing right next to Ollie and had succumbed to passive mesmerising; a not too common and somewhat derided condition that a lot of people thought was nonsense (a lot of countries had banned mesmerising indoors forcing practitioners into outside shelters. Walk along any High Street on a Saturday night and note the dopey, glazed expression on people’s faces as they’re standing outside pubs and clubs and among them you’ll be sure to see a few people who have capitulated to this weird phenomena. Either that or the students from the local college have knocked off early and have already drained the establishment of every drop of cheap alcohol because they’d had a particularly hard day wondering which lessons to skip).

  The major spoke, his voice a grim monotone.

  “We’re conducting gene research. We needed the wolf specimens to harness the DNA that our scientists required.”

  “Major, are you sure about this?” asked Obsidia, a worried edge to her voice. Cowan ignored her completely and carried on, his eyes firmly fixed on Ollie’s.

  “Then we had a lucky break and captured the invisible guy so we got to work on him as well. The whole enterprise has proved incredibly successful.”

  The soldier who had previously barked sharp orders at the group spoke up. “Sir, with respect, you cannot tell these civilians the details of our operations here.”

  The private realised that something was going badly wrong. His superior was usually stoic and not the most talkative of people. He whispered to his colleague to hold his position near the door before walking towards Cowan. He slowed his approach the closer he got though, because he came to see the faraway look on the major’s face and the strange way he looked at the vampire. As he got to within six feet Cowan made a sudden downward motion with his right hand. In a flash it was back up and in it was his service revolver, the barrel of which was pointing directly between the eyes of his encroaching colleague. The private reacted instantaneously and brought his rifle to bear on the major.

  “Sir, put your weapon down or I will be forced to fire.”

  Obsidia had a sudden realisation and admonished herself for not picking up on what was occurring sooner. She glanced at Ollie and at once recognised what was happening. In a flash she was standing next to Cowan where she delivered a powerful, meaty slap to his face.

  “SNAP OUT OF IT,” she screamed.

  Cowan’s head whipped violently to the right and his gun fell from his grasp and bounced off his foot. A large wad of spittle flew from his mouth, such was the force of the blow, and a large red welt in the shape of Obsidia’s hand appeared on his cheek. Cowan shook his head and gazed around the room, a look of puzzlement on his features.

  “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing, private?” he shouted at the soldier who was still stood in front of him, weapon locked and loaded. “I once had a man shot for pointing a weapon at me.”

  “But, sir,” he spluttered, “you were…”

  Obsidia raised a hand to him, as much to stop him babbling as it was to stop the major executing him on the spot. She was just about to open her mouth and explain to Cowan what had happened, when the window exploded inwards sending frame, smoke and lethally sharp shards of glass into the room. The occupants all hit the floor simultaneously, as a searing blue light flared above their heads, blinding them all instantly. The ripples of the staggering sound waves pounded into their heads and each and every one of them lay stunned and disorientated, wondering what the hell had happened.

  After what seemed like an interminable age, Ollie’s senses started to recover. As he lay on the floor he could make out a vague outline hovering above his face. It was head shaped and blurry, and all he could imagine it to be was, well, a blurry head.

  “Oll…are…ight?”

  “Urrrgggh.”

  “Don’t give…that…ap…ing wake up.”

  Although his vision was still swimming and his head felt like it had been given a severe beating by Flug’s big brother, he was starting to regain his faculties. Whoever the figure was tapped him gently on the cheek and snapped their fingers. At least he could hear that.

  “Come on, my lovely. Are you back in the land of the unliving?”

  “Mrs. Ladle?” groaned Ollie, gravel voiced and spitting up a grey ball of phlegm that contained at least fifty percent concrete. He blinked rapidly. His vision was finally clear and the dancing stars and circling bluebirds receded as everything came back into focus.

  “The very same,” she said sympathetically. “How are you, my dear? Feeling better?”

  Ollie raised his head and lifted his shoulders from the floor, propping himself up on an elbow.

  “I think so. What on earth happened? One minute we were all standing over there and the next, BOOM.”

  Mrs. Ladle told Ollie about her late night flight. After seeing the lights deep in the forest she had decided to investigate. Keeping at a safe height she had flown over the building, trying to work out what it was for, but she had given up on that when she saw Ollie and the others being led inside at gun point. Realising that all was probably not well and that there were now no guards outside, she had descended and swooped down low around the perimeter of the building until she saw them in the office.

  “When I saw the three of you standing there with an armed guard behind you, I let off a rather powerful detonation spell. Quite effective, wouldn’t you agree? Of course, I cast a web of protection around you Stitches and Flug first, but I didn’t realise the effect that Crumble’s pills would have on my broomstick. Pepped it up a little, methinks.”

  Ollie, now almost fully recovered, got to his feet, albeit a little unsteadily, and looked around the room which he now could because the dense blue smoke had mostly dissipated. The office had been utterly decimated. There was blast damage everywhere and it seemed that virtually nothing had been left intact, including his nerves.

  “How are others?” he asked nervously.

  “Don’t go worrying yourself. Stitches is over there. He’s fine, just a little dustier than normal, and Flug is sleeping it off in the corridor.”

  Ollie turned round and looked towards the door, or rather where the door had previously been. In its place was a perfectly shaped Flug sized hole.
Surely that only happens in Tom and Jerry cartoons, he thought randomly. He could hear Flug groaning quietly, which was a relief.

  “Where are the soldiers?” he asked.

  “Oh, I took care of them,” replied Mrs. Ladle, a wicked look on her face, which was in keeping with her witch status.

  “I don’t want to know, do I?”

  “Not if you ever want to eat again, no.”

  It was then that Ollie noticed a hand sticking out from underneath the remnants of the desk. He cautiously approached and knelt down next to the shattered piece of furniture.

  “Oh no,” he said to himself.

  He carefully moved enough pieces and uncovered the hidden figure that lay below. Obsidia lay on her back, her eyes closed and barely a scratch on her beautiful face. If it wasn’t for the fact that her chest wasn’t moving up and down, anyone looking at her would have been forgiven for thinking that she was fast asleep.

  He knew it was a futile gesture at best, but he reached out his hand and placed it gently against her neck. As he touched her flesh he noticed that it was still warm, however, there was no blood coursing through her veins. Obsidia was dead. As he moved his hand away her head fell to the right, giving away the cause of her demise. A sliver of wood no thicker than a pencil, either from the desk or more probably the window frame, had punctured the back of her neck and severed her spinal column. A thin trickle of blood had run along its length to the exposed end where it had dripped off to form a small, coagulating pool on the carpet. Mixed in with the darkening red liquor, he could see vague traces of a straw coloured liquid which he knew to be spinal fluid. In spite of how he should be feeling, Ollie couldn’t help but be upset at the sight of the rapidly cooling corpse before him. When all was said and done, no matter what she had done and no doubt planned to do, and how despicably she had behaved, Obsidia didn’t deserve to end up like this. No doubt the others would have a right go at him for being so soft, but he couldn’t help it. Compassion of an extreme nature was something that he was blessed with, or cursed with depending on your point of view and general outlook on life. He didn’t even feel any animosity towards Mrs. Ladle, who was ultimately responsible for Obsidia’s death. She had only been affecting a rescue attempt. He felt the insistent prick of salty tears threaten to break free, but was shaken from his reverie when he heard movement behind him. He stood slowly and quickly, and wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his coat before turning round.