The Fathom Flies Again

by James Walley

  “Are we off then?” Timbers chimed, mirroring Marty’s sentiments, as a toy who had been with him since childhood rightly should. Light one koala, the remaining crew hunkered down against the walls of the nearest building, and skirted across to where they last saw the blinking blue lights. Although they weren’t there anymore, sounds of muted mayhem snaked out from the nearest side street. Sounds that drew simultaneous dread and hand rubbing, depending on whether you were a gung-ho toy pirate, or nervous human, intent on surviving the night.

  Forming a cautious line, the crew crept along the walls of what appeared to be a slumbering office block, to an intersection of alleyways. Somewhere off to their left, something that had previously been intact, boomed explosively and, in all probability, lost its intactness. “Over there,” Timbers barked, clambering over a clump of shrubs and into an adjourning alleyway. There was no time to raise the calming hand of reason, and the group followed into the darkness, which gave way into a street that appeared to have been touched by the dainty hand of utter carnage.

  Kate had vacated The Pickled Judge less than two hours ago, and yet the crumbling booze fortress which stood before them as they sneaked out of the alley bore no resemblance to the shabby local she and Marty knew only too well.

  Huge holes in the main facade dripped masonry and plaster, and flames still murmured amidst the rubble that had once been the main entrance of the stricken pub.

  “Wow, the clowns really did a number on the Judge.” Marty sighed, wondering if there was any chance the pumps remained undamaged.

  “Did? Looks like the siege is still in progress,” Timbers warned, pointing at the sea of bobbing shapes which closed on the blasted doors. Marty squinted into the darkness, which was being punctuated by the flickering blue and white lights they had been following. They darted in and out of focus as dozens of silhouettes crept towards The Pickled Judge. Scampering into one of the few remaining intact streetlights, a smartly dressed monkey paused, turning to urge his comrades onwards, and pressed on to where figures still hunched in the depths of the Judge.

  “Bar’s still open!” Whipstaff crowed excitedly, and a little too loudly for comfort, sending several shushes rasping in his direction. It appeared, however, that the first mate was correct, the bar was indeed open, and although the doors hung on their shattered hinges, Old Mad Bill seemed to be in the mood for a lock in. The disheveled publican stood atop the sign of his beloved watering hole, bracing himself on the roof with a delicious array of flammable liquor lined up at his feet. He grimaced as the first line of monkeys presented themselves on the other side of the street and let out a roar which stopped them in their scampering tracks.

  “Keep your hands off my patrons, you damned, dirty beer monkeys!” he bellowed, launching a flaming bottle of Hawkins Mind Scrambler Rum into the mass of strobing beacon-headed simians.

  Whipstaff lurched forward, barely restrained by his captain as the forty percent proof bomb exploded impressively, sending whooping apes leaping for cover. “That’s quality grog, the fella’s a madman!” he shrieked, clearly upset at the spillage of perfectly good happy juice.

  As rattled as the first mate was, it paled in comparison to the encroaching monkey horde, which parted to avoid the boozy napalm’s blast radius, hopping across car bonnets and street signs, and screeching with manic, but clearly well-organized intent. “Want some more, do you?” Bill hollered from his perch atop the Judge. He scanned the bottles at his disposal, evidently looking for something befitting of the occasion, although Marty couldn’t see what difference a really good year would make.

  Another, much less intelligible battle cry rang out, as two equally fiery bottles of Crimson Death Chihuahua Tequila sailed end over end towards the pub’s assailants. One plumed in pools of Mexican immolation only a few feet from where Marty hid, whilst the other dropped over the fence at the opposite side of the street. Someone screamed, glass shattered, and the unexpected sound of an alarmed sheep rang out from behind the fence, and still the monkeys advanced.

  “Perhaps we should help him,” Kate offered, her willingness to jump into a fight impressing both Marty and Timbers, albeit for markedly different reasons. Marty glanced from the attacking throng to the stricken building, it was a big ask, and although the beer monkeys had obviously come through the portal, their presence and agenda wasn’t high on their list of priorities right now.

  The squealing sobriety patrol had reached the pub when he looked up again, and were scaling the walls, darting in through caved in windows, and generally pouring across the road like an endless tidal wave of uniformed, shrieking nuisances. As they flashed through the glow of the streetlights, Marty could see in each of their hands, the same miniature polo mallets that he had received a first-hand introduction to upon waking up dreamside. They meant business, they had their quota, and they weren’t going to stop until every dribbling alky in The Pickled Judge was suitably hangover laden.

  “This isn’t going to be pretty,” Marty muttered. “We should go.”

  “Hold on,” Timbers interjected, clearly reveling in the carnage. “The nutter on the roof’s not finished yet.”

  Old Mad Bill was indeed far from beaten. He had taken over stewardship of The Pickled Judge untold years ago, and had been its proprietor through rough times and smooth. Mainly rough. Even from across the street, Marty could see a fire in his eyes, and a solidity in his stance, but more specifically, he saw the giant wooden gavel which usually hung over the bar, resting in Bill’s mighty paws. The sturdy barman lofted the makeshift bat over his head in a show of aggression, and barked at the apes which were scurrying up the walls of his beloved pub.

  “Let’s be havin’ ya then. Old Justice is waiting!” he cried, bringing the gavel down hard on the first head that appeared at the edge of the roof. More appeared, and Marty thought he could almost hear Bill laughing as he brought down the hammer again and again, engaging in a demented game of Whack-A-Monkey.

  “This is brilliant.” Timbers chuckled, peering at the bedlam and hopping up and down on the spot. “Has anyone got any popcorn?”

  Kate edged towards the door, the intent to rush in and assist still being held at bay by good sense. “No, it isn’t, Timbers. This is serious.”

  Timbers, turned and held out a calming hand. “Stay your blade, lass. They’re just hangover technicians. There’ll be no plank walking tonight. They just want to get in there and tap some drunken heads. It’s all very official.” He smiled reassuringly. “They’ve dropped in on all of us before. No harm, no foul.” He stopped, considering his words. “Well, actually, it isn’t that harmless, and it is pretty foul, but the swillers will live to buy another round, mark my words.”

  The little captain seemed to be right, as the hangover technicians swarmed through the smashed entrance of The Pickled Judge, brandishing their mini mallets high and strobing their little blue lights.

  Above them, his rooftop perch now bereft of monkey targets, Old Mad Bill craned to view the interior of his decimated establishment, and the wholesale head knocking that was occurring within. He dropped the giant gavel and fell to his knees, aiming a rebuke up into the sky.

  “You maniacs! You’re sobering them up! Damn you…damn you all to hell!”

  On the other side of the street, Timbers jumped down from his vantage point at the window, straightening his coat and regarding his companions.

  “Well, that was all very theatrical. Shall we go?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Somewhere amongst the rubble left by giant leprechaun footfalls, in and about the clownish forays through dark alleyways, and what can only be described as a unicorn stampede through the center of town, officer Michael O’Riley made the decision that police work was not for him.

  He had seen many things in his day. Admittedly, most of them were about as close to his beloved TV cop shows as the ad breaks which punctuated them, but such was the noble legacy of protecting and serving the trouser end of nowhere.

  There we
re no heists, or high speed pursuits in shiny and totally impractical sporty numbers. No drug deals going down at the docks. There weren’t even any docks, if you didn’t count the sleepy harbor over by Stellar Island. The only drugs you were likely to find over there came in little child proof bottles and gave the blessed high of mild headache relief. It was hum drum, it was boring, but dammit, you could at least walk your beat without worrying about mythical uni-horned steeds, or the grim prospect of being juggled to death.

  This was the problem with fantasy, O’Riley mused from beneath his squad car hiding place. It presented a world which seemed fanciful and exciting, but gave you no tools to deal with its resplendent horrors once they came tumbling in a magical tidal wave into your back yard.

  Daydreams were a nice place to visit, but you stood no chance of living more than twenty-four hours there.

  O’Riley watched from his vantage point, for who knows how long, as a procession of innocent bystanders illustrated his point. A group of wayward partygoers found themselves the unwitting cattle in a clown rodeo which had ended in a way that he had not been willing to witness. Something malevolent and unseen had gathered up into the shadows a young couple, who had perhaps started the evening with romantic intent, but had ended up wishing they had stayed home with a bottle of wine and a machine gun. Worst of all had been the troupe of cub scouts who had barreled down the road beside him, pursued by a gang of heavily armed, and murderously driven cartoon woodland creatures. That sure as hell hadn’t ended with a sing-a-long around a camp fire. At least one pixelated deer, minus its mother appeared to have gotten some form of revenge, though.

  Something way off in the land of wonder and joy had apparently broken, come loose of its moorings and spilled forth its unfettered mayhem into the world. O’Riley didn’t hope to understand it, and why would he? The best he could hope for would be to survive the night without being amazed into tiny pieces.

  Somewhere off to his right, something plumed with Molotov splendor. “At least the locals are fighting back,” he muttered, immediately regretting the words that might give away his position. A voice behind him confirmed once again the age-old discretion and valor argument. “Look who it is,” it purred horridly. “Officer Hide and Seek here to read us more rights.” The face craning under the car behind him was ghostly white and grinning, and precisely not what a person would prefer to see tugging at their feet whilst hiding beneath a police car.

  “Come and play with us, officer.” The clown shrieked, a gloved hand already invading some serious personal space. “Hiding is boring, and so much fun at the same time.”

  Hiding was fun. He had been very good at it as a child, not that there had been any awards for it in the mercifully clown free days of his youth. Right now, he had been rumbled, and the thought that he who fights and runs away doesn’t get something unspeakable done to him with a balloon animal flew into O’Riley’s mind.

  In an instant, he was up and away from the probing jester. He had faced down his fantasies back in the horror show at the police department, and aside from a few mystifying eruptions of confetti, being the tough guy hadn’t gotten him very far. Maybe this wasn’t the time for glib one-liners and unlimited ammo. The fantasy world had arrived in town tonight, and it was not the penny in the well, or the wish upon a star kind. It was the clown in your closet, and the reason you kept the light on at night variety.

  “If it’s all the same to you guys, I think I’ll let you be ‘it’ this time,” O’Riley gibbered, the last remnants of his wish to deliver clever comebacks still throwing possibilities.

  The clown under the car righted itself, and loped towards O’Riley playfully. “How delightful. Shall I count to ten?” it leered. “One. Two. Three.” Like moths to a countdown, three of its cohorts appeared from somewhere within the night, joining in the gleeful head start declaration. “Four. Five,” they chanted, as more devilish harlequins appeared.

  Tonight, the stuff that dreams were made of appeared to want to know what O’Riley’s insides were made of.

  With that in mind, he boldly turned tail and sprinted off down the street, the sight of an impressively moored pirate ship looming large in his frantically darting line of vision.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Dammit, I wish there were some clowns here.”

  It was a statement that felt unusual and redundant as Marty gave voice to it, and with good reason. It was probably the first time in the history of the spoken word that such a sentence had been uttered. Nobody wanted more clowns, or in all honesty any clowns at all. On the face of it, it was a shame, since the merry jesters seemed singularly happy and carefree, with laughter and mirth their only mission in life, who could begrudge them that? There were probably genuine examples out there, happy to amuse and entertain, and turn up jarringly at children’s parties. All completely harmless and fun, until the lights went out. Once they got into your dreams, these benevolent circus fools became unstoppable, giggling psychopaths, and inherent self-preservation took over. For this reason, unless you were a hand wringing child who would one day turn into a serial killer, nobody wished for the presence of more clowns, until now.

  In Marty’s albeit brief experience of encountering, escaping from, and now hunting clowns, he had never openly welcomed their presence. And yet here, walking through decimated streets, he felt like he was out on safari with an invitingly bloody slab of steak tied around his neck.

  “Is it always like this, Marty?” Timbers muttered, prodding with his boot at a section of curb that had recently lost a fight with carnage. “I can see why you come over onto our side every night.” The little pirate continued with ill regard on his face.

  Marty was busy scanning for areas of his town that hadn’t been touched by the ka-boom fairy, and quickly decided to end that particular train of thought. If you could think it, you could dream it, and he really didn’t want a run in with a tutu wearing, bazooka wielding soldier sprite. “It’s usually less horrifically mangled than this,” he absently replied, picking through a pile of what he dearly hoped were skittled mannequins at the side of the road. “You’ve kind of caught us at a bad time. Usually when the circus comes to town, they don’t try to set fire to the patrons.” He kicked what was mercifully a very plastic shop dummy head and turned back to regard the empty street. The plan was not going, well, to plan.

  “This isn’t really going to plan, is it?” Timbers echoed. Pirates could be so damned intuitive sometimes. “Don’t worry about it.” The little buccaneer delivered a supportive pat to Marty’s kneecap, and smiled up at his friend. “The night is young, and the unfathomable possibilities are multiplying by the hour.” Timbers’ good eye shone in the flickering glow of a burning chunk of Marty’s town, he may have been on the real side of the fence tonight, but that glint had faced off against rampant despair before, and no amount of moping would dampen it. Marty had seen it before, and although a fair degree of running, shrieking, and hiding had followed it, the day had ultimately been won, and that was no small comfort.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Timbers.” Marty smiled down at his unswervable comrade. “Over here, I’m just a guy in a space dog suit, and that’s on a good day.”

  Timbers’ face caught a frown for the briefest of moments. “Have you gone soft, matey? Look around you.” The little pirate waved a pointing cloth hand towards Whipstaff. The cackling first mate chased Oaf across the street, holding out a wooden pole with a disembodied mannequin head upon it, much to the hand flapping disapproval of his lumbering companion. Marty eyed Timbers quizzically, as the captain closed his fist, and plunged a thumb back over his shoulder. The hazy shape of Zephyr sat amongst galleon rigging in the haphazard light of the randomly toppled streetlights. The mighty bird stood motionless, a faint whistling melody dancing out of the night as the Fathom’s metallic courier sang itself a steam-driven lullaby. “All this came from inside your head, lad.” Timbers’ pointing finger was now trained firmly on Marty. “You’re the maker of worlds, the
thinker of long thoughts, and the leader of tiny cloth men.” The little squeak gravel voice grew quieter, but seemed to boom through Marty’s head like an angelic fanfare. “Over here, over there, doesn’t seem to matter too much tonight, does it? I don’t care what suit you wear when the sun’s up. The moon’s hanging high tonight, and there’s a bucket load of trouble to be gotten into. If memory serves, you’re not too shabby at getting into, and out of that. What say you?” A gold flecked toothy grin punctuated the speech, and Marty realized that there was only one answer he could give, and that answer could neither be spoken, nor needed to be. A broad smile delivered a wordless high five to the nodding Timbers, and Marty turned again to view the beleaguered street, the flickering glow beginning to shine in his eyes.

  Timbers arrived back at his side, a tiny sentinel, a beacon of barefaced, reckless lunacy in a world full of what ifs and yes buts. “Think big, do bigger” the little maniac chuckled. He leapt up to slap Marty’s back, managing only an awkwardly impromptu low five. It was more than good enough.

  “Anyway, what else are we gonna do tonight?”

  Marty knew exactly what else they were going to do tonight. Fueled by pirate gusto, and no small percentage of captainly goading, the plan had roused from its listless meandering and was dancing around in front of him like an excited child. “Follow me,” he sang, almost vaulting into the street before them. Timbers was at his heels in an instant, beckoning for Kate and the crew to follow. “The plan. THE PLAN,” he crowed, as though he had seen Marty’s intent, and sought to give it wings.

  Whipstaff cornered Oaf, and advanced with his mannequin headed poking stick, whilst Kate looked on with the look of a jaded, but amused babysitter. All eyes (even those belonging to a sadly decapitated and be-poled shop dummy) shot to where Marty and Timbers were galloping off into the distance, and they gave chase, unaware of where they were going, but happy enough to follow in the knowledge that the caper was back in full, glaringly dashing and possibly perilous effect.