Skullenia

by Tony Lewis

  In an instant, Noggin calmed down, retracted his claws, leaving a fair few puncture wounds in Mandrake's flesh, bounded over to Jocular like he didn't have a care in the world and started rubbing around the vampire Lord's legs.

  “How did you do that?” said Mandrake, noting the blood seeping through his trousers. “I haven't seen him that docile since…Well, I haven't actually. He bites me when he's asleep.”

  Jocular bent down and stroked Noggin with an enormous hand.

  “It is very simple,” he said as Noggin purred and dribbled everywhere. “Your feline is off a very rare breed. I have only ever seen vun off his kind before. Noggin here is a vampire cat.”

  “I've heard it all now,” said Stitches. He was sat on the floor as Egon worked on his shoulder joint. “What next? A zombie hamster. A wereguineapig?”

  Ollie cast him a `shut the hell up or Jocular will turn you into a sofa' look.

  “You may haf noticed,” continued Jocular, “zat Noggin's hunting and eating habits are slightly more unusual zan vat you might expect.”

  “I'll say,” concurred Mandrake. “One time I found him chewing on a leg.”

  “That doesn't sound too weird,” said Ethan, who wasn't averse to chewing on the odd bone or three.

  “Maybe not, but this one was still attached to the postman. He wasn't very amused, I can tell you. So, My Lord, what do I do with him?”

  “Just alter his diet a smidge. Make it high in rich, gamey meats and, rather zan milk or vater, give him fresh blood to drink.”

  Unconsciously Mandrake covered the gouges in his legs just in case Noggin decided it was time for a snack.

  “Thank you, Sir that's very helpful.”

  At that point Kilo came back inside closely followed by a very depressed looking Flug.

  “Any sign?” asked Ollie, sort of knowing the answer.

  “None at all,” said the scientist. “There's a few footprints out there by the door but after that, nothing.”

  Excalibur Cross, who had been busily writing away furiously in his notebook, piped up.

  “Seems like some sort of search is in order. Might I suggest we split up?”

  “It seems zat Stitches has already done zat yes. Ha ha ha,” said Jocular. He was met by an absence of noise only matched by the audiences reaction to the first ever showing of the controversial, Taliban funded comedy film, `Planes, Trains and Kill the Infidels', during which a couple of Islamic misfits have hilarious adventures trying to find a suitable mode of transport to destroy a building owned by the western capitalist devils.

  “Very droll, Sir,” said Ollie. “Anyway, I think Mr. Cross makes a good point. Stitches, you Flug and Mandrake come with me. Ethan, you go with Professor Crumble and Kilo.”

  “Egon and I vill stay here in case ze lady decides to return yes.”

  “That's fine, Sir. Well then, people. Let's get going.”

  * * *

  Oboe wandered through the dark, oppressive forest. She didn't know who Oboe was, or that she was actually in a forest. The reanimation process was peculiar in that those brought back to life were more or less like new born babies. It took time, teaching, and patience to bring them up to being a fully functional and sentient individual (What had happened to Flug was anybody's guess though. Either he'd been hit in the head with a seven tonne mallet or his creator got his brain from a bin at the back of an abattoir).

  On the whole, though, reanimates usually became reasonably normal members of society. Obviously not to the point that you wouldn't stop and stare if you saw one pushing a shopping trolley round the local supermarket of course, but enough that they could go out at night without scaring Mr. and Mrs. Average out of several years of life. None of them could ever claim to be geniuses either, but at least the majority were self-aware enough to know how their legs worked and which way was up. Next time you're out have a look at the vacant eyed chap standing outside the toy store proudly showing passersby how to use a hoola hoop, or the slack jawed entity holding up a sign promoting a golf sale. If you study them closely enough you'll see the stitches and slightly mismatched body-parts.

  When she had initially gained consciousness at the laboratory it was only pure, motorised instinct that had gotten her upright, and it was only when one of the creatures there said something to her that the word `hello' had been dredged up from the deepest recesses of her mind. And then she was falling, falling amongst a torrent of metal and wooden debris, down and down until she had landed with a colossal thump. Although she didn't know it her fall had been broken by half a dozen leather harnesses that had been vacated by escaping vampire bats. She hadn't lost consciousness, but when she landed, a large chunk of stone had dealt her a hefty blow on the head, rendering her newly activated brain somewhat dazed and confused.

  She stumbled onwards unaware of what she was doing or where she was going, just driven on by some mysterious inner force. Tough sinewy branches whipped the exposed flesh of her arms, raising welts and scratches, some of which dripped blood onto the forest floor.

  Strange noises came out of the darkness that made her jump, and eerie shadows cast by the light of the moon shifted like ghostly apparitions on the periphery of her vision.

  On and on she went, unaware of the passage of time. At one point she plunged into a small stream that came up to her chest. As she waded through the water a strange sensation crawled over her skin. At first it was extremely unpleasant as the cold began to bite, but it quickly became soothing as the frigid fluid salved her wounds.

  Once onto the bank on the other side, Oboe collapsed in an exhausted, sodden heap. The gnawing, bitter cold of the fast flowing water had seeped into her leg muscles, seizing them to the point that they locked up in protest, refusing to carry her any further. She didn't know what was going on. Confusion reigned as the automatic internal systems, that a short while ago had propelled her along, no longer obeyed her commands. Her stiff fingers clawed ineffectually at the leaf strewn ground, desperately trying to gain purchase, but it was no use. The encroaching chill had laid waste to her deepest muscle fibres and sinews, rendering her virtually immobile.

  “Mmmm,” was the only sound that she was able to produce, and that was more from natural exhalation than conscious effort.

  “Who's there?” came a voice from the gloomy, bleak wilderness (actually it was more like twenty feet if we're being accurate, but it just doesn't sound as good. Surely an author must be allowed to get a bit flowery from time to time. Think of all those literary masterpieces and how they might have turned out if the writers hadn't got a bit wordy. Would you have remembered `It was awesome for a bit and then it got a bit crap?' No, because Mr. Dickens used his imagination and came up with `It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.' And who would have been moved by `Hiya, my name's Bernard' instead of `Call me Ishmael.')

  Again, all that Oboe could summon was a dispirited moan into the loamy earth.

  “I can hear you,” came the voice again, closer now.

  Oboe could just about make out shuffling footsteps and a strange tapping sound. Then hands were on her shoulders and neck, probing her arms, legs and back, checking for any sign of injury.

  “You seem to be fine on the whole,” said the man's voice. It was soothing and friendly, almost grandfatherly, “but those cuts and bumps are going to need seeing to. Are you able to stand up?”

  Oboe craned her neck and looked up into the good Samaritans face. He was old, bearded, and wrinkled and had crooked, yellowing teeth behind a warm, welcoming smile. His nose was contorted and out of shape, indicating that it been badly broken at some point. His breath smelt vaguely of mint and coffee but it was his eyes that drew her attention. They were as white and sightless as marble. As she stared at him, dormant synapses began to fire in her brain. Cells in her language centre sparked into activity as they deciphered the sounds entering her ears.

  “I…I…I think so,” she said quietly, “but I am a bit… stiff.”

  “Let me help you,�
� said the man, putting his hands underneath her arms and heaving. Slowly he got her upright. She wobbled at first as wave after wave of dizziness washed over her bringing on a rush of nausea. If she'd had any food in her stomach it would have made a very swift and messy exit. As her balance returned, the sick feeling passed and she began to feel better.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You're welcome,” responded her benefactor. “I'm Royston, but my friends call me No See Norman. I've never figured out why. There's never been a Norman in my family. What's your name, my dear?” He held out a gnarled, thick fingered hand, the type that had spent most of its time working the earth.

  “I don't know,” said Oboe. “I can't seem to remember anything at the moment.”

  “Ah well, never mind,” said No See Norman, taking her by the arm. “My goodness, you're as cold as the grave. We need to get you warmed up. I would imagine that you're famished as well.”

  “What is famished?” said Oboe, as No See Norman led her away from the stream and further into the forest.

  “Hungry, my dear. Do you want something to eat?”

  “Food,” she said. The mere mention of the word set her long out of use digestive system rumbling like an angry ogre. Her tummy gurgled and groaned with a life of its own.

  “The benefit of being blind is the enhancement of the other senses,” said No See Norman, tapping away with his stick as he moved effortlessly passed, around, and over any obstacle in his path. “And judging by the noises your stomach is making, I would say that the answer to my question is a resounding yes.”

  Whoever this person was Oboe felt no fear in his presence. Her overriding impression was that he would look after her no matter what. She was already holding his hand because she had taken a couple of stumbles, but now she squeezed it. It felt warm.

  * * *

  Mrs. Ladle stopped what she was doing and stared off into the distance, which in this case was the wall behind her stove. She put the wooden spoon she'd been holding down and plonked herself into a chair. She was in the middle of making a batch of strawberry jelly and was about to weigh up the pro's and con's of replacing the hundreds and thousands (werewolf ticks dried out and ground into a fine powder) with Tincture of Daggerwort, when a strange feeling had overwhelmed her. It was like a shift in the fabric of space as if something had just happened. We're not talking full-on Jedi here, just a little niggle at the back of her mind.

  “Must be old age creeping up on me,” she muttered to herself as she lit a cigarette (the ash was a vital ingredient to the jelly). She sat quietly for a few moments carefully collecting the ash in the palm of her hand. When she finished she dropped it into the mixture and then, for good measure, threw the fag butt in as well. After all, you can't have too much of a good thing (This statement is actually rather silly, isn't it? Fire is quite a good thing but too much of it and you won't have anything else left to have too much of. Socks. Too many of those can be disastrous. Not only are they a nightmare to pair up but when you lose one, oh the humanity. About the only thing you can't have too much of is money. Unfortunately, because this story isn't about a witheringly dull boy wizard and his dreary adventures, or written by some Z list celebrity famous for absolutely sod all, this is not something that the author of this fine narrative is going to experience any time soon. NB. There's a fine line between plugging and begging but, whichever way you look at it, you bought this book, so thanks!)

  Whilst she squashed the spent butt of the cigarette with her spoon to squeeze all of the tar out of it, a fluttering at the window caught her attention. At first she thought that some joker had hung a pair of curtains to the outside of the window, but she quickly realised that it was one of Jocular's vampire bats. Huge, leathery blood fiends that were relentless in their pursuit of prey.

  “Aw, how sweet,” said Mrs. Ladle, opening the window. Said bat flew in and settled on her kitchen table, taking up the whole of its expansive surface.

  “SQUEAKY SQUEAKY SQUEAK SQUEAK.”

  “Come again,” said the witch.

  “SQUEAKY SQUEAKY SQUEAK SQUEAK!”

  “Little Johnny's fallen down the well and broken his leg?”

  “SQUEAK!!!”

  “Alright, calm down. That's what it usually means. Go on but just a bit slower.”

  “SQUEAK…SQUEAK…SQUEAKITY…”

  “Not that slow, you furry little imp. I'm old not senile.”

  The next set of squeaks implied that Mrs. Ladle was playing it fast and loose with the term `not senile' but she didn't pick up on it.

  “SQUEAKITY SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAKY SQUEAK.”

  “Oh I see. Is there a lot of damage?”

  “SQUEAK.”

  “So what does he want me to do?”

  “SQUEAK SQUEAKY SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK.”

  “Well, I'll have a look but I haven't used that spell since I remodelled the bathroom.” (The result of an unfortunate exploding amphibian incident. She had been making toad in the hole, but the toad had escaped from the oven and finished cooking in the bathroom. Sadly its sticky and rather violent expansion hadn't been contained by batter, which left the walls dripping with ichor, and her toilet three doors down).

  “SQUEAK.”

  “Fine, I'll find it. Tell His Royal Bossiness I'll be there as soon as I can.”

  “SQUEAKITY SQUEAK SQUEAKITY SQUEAKY.”

  “Oh, does he now? Well, he's in luck. I made a fresh batch this morning. Go on then. Off you go.”

  The bat hopped to the windowsill and took off.

  “Now,” said Mrs. Ladle, tapping her crinkled lips with an index finger. “Where did I put that bloody spell book?”

  * * *

  Oboe sat quietly on a small, three legged wooden stool in No See Norman's hut. It was a simple, open plan affair with a rudimentary kitchen in one corner, a table and chair in the middle, and a cot-like bed in another corner. Not so much open plan actually, more no space for any more than one room.

  On their arrival, No See Norman had told Oboe that he had a hearty vegetable stew on the go and a fresh loaf of bread that was just the thing for mopping up all the juices. If he had been able to see Oboe's face, he would have realised that she didn't have the slightest idea what he was talking about other than it was regarding food.

  She watched No See Norman as he pottered around his shack. Something deep in the recesses of her mind marvelled at how adept he was despite his disability. It was no surprise though. After living here for more than sixty years he could have told you where everything was and how to get around it with his eyes shut (I know. But it's only a little joke).

  He deftly ladled the thick broth into two wooden bowls and carried them to the table without spilling a drop.

  “There you go, my dear. Tuck in. We don't stand on ceremony round here. I'll cut you a thick slice of bread.”

  The gorgeous aroma from the cooked food assailed her nostrils and aroused her sense of smell, giving it a much needed kick start. In response her stomach growled louder than ever as if urging her to partake of the sustenance offered. She wasn't quite sure what to do at first, confused as to how to get the fragrant, lumpy liquid into her mouth. She waited until No See Norman had sliced two large hunks of bread and watched as he picked up a spoon and used it to eat.

  With a hand still trembling from cold and hunger, Oboe copied what he was doing. The soup was hot but not uncomfortably so, but it wouldn't have mattered if it had been molten lava. To Oboe's underused senses it was the most amazing experience that she had been a part of thus far. The textures, tastes and smells were almost overwhelming. She downed one mouthful after another barely pausing for breath.

  “How is it, my dear?” asked No See Norman, only halfway through his own repast when Oboe was swallowing her last piece of bread.

  “It is, um, lovely. Thank you.”

  “You're very welcome. Would you like something to drink? A refreshing brew to wash the food down with. I have water, coffee or tea. Actually I have ra
ther a nice beer as well. That would do the trick even on such a cold night as this.”

  Oboe didn't know the difference between any of the drinks that he had mentioned so she opted for beer, mainly because her host had alluded to the fact that it would warm her up, and that was what he was having.

  Once the drink was placed in front of her she again waited to see what No See Norman would do with it. Understanding, she lifted the tankard to her lips and drank. The bubbles tickled her nose and throat and once she had finished swallowing she issued forth with rather an impressive belch.

  “Better out than in I always say,” said No See Norman. “Unless the werewolves are out hunting of course.” He chuckled to himself. “Then it's much better to be in because if you do go out you'll end up in a wolf's tummy. More beer, my dear?”

  “Please,” said Oboe, proffering her empty vessel. Whatever it was, she liked it and he was right, it was making her warm, especially on the inside.

  No See Norman refilled her tankard to the brim with the dark, frothy beverage.

  “So what's your story, my dear? Where do you come from and how did you manage to end up in the forest. We tend not to get too many wanderers out this far.”

  “I don't know,” replied Oboe, the alcohol rapidly relaxing her. Strangely, it allowed her struggling brain to process the information it was receiving and offer a response (Obviously, this isn't the normal effect of alcohol, but then your average Friday night binge drinker, staggering around a town centre with a traffic cone on his head, has an IQ far lower than any reanimated corpse. Or an inanimate one for that matter).

  “I remember waking up and it felt as if I had been asleep for a very long time,” said Oboe. “I was in a big room with open windows.”

  “Was anybody else there?”

  Oboe took another long draught of beer.

  “Yes, there were others, but I don't know who they were.”

  “Perhaps they're your friends. Maybe they'll be looking for you because they're worried about you.”

  “What are `friends'?” asked Oboe.