The Fathom Flies Again
Page 19
“They’d better.” Marty glanced up into the heavens, hoping that salvation might be somewhere up there in the ether, and that Whipstaff had listened to at least some of his instructions.
He turned his attention back to the field, backing up as a legion of grasping hands and wicked grins advanced. There was nowhere to run, they were stuck, somewhat implausibly between a clown and a shiny place. Timbers raised his sword, scanning the approaching phalanx intently.
“It’s no good, there’s too many of them to take on,” Marty said.
The little pirate sighed heavily, appearing to be trying his best to squeeze the last vestige of pirate gusto from within his tiny frame. “I know, I’m just picking the ones I’m going to take with me.” The smile arrived, but Marty could tell that resignation lurked behind it, and for the first time since his reunion with his childhood partner in crime, reality tapped him on the shoulder, pointing to its watch impatiently.
This was it, then. Marty reached for Kate’s hand and tried to find a way to look brave without coming across as constipated. Whatever combination of features settled upon his face, it seemed to work, and she half smiled back at him, hefting Oaf’s hammer onto her shoulder. “I’m with Timbers. Let’s go down swinging.”
Marty cursed under his breath. He had been so sure that this would work.
Abruptly, somewhere behind the marching lines of impending doom, and out of the tomb quiet stillness of Harper’s Meadow, all holy Hades was let loose.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Constable O’Riley had come to the horrible conclusion that he was not cut out for the life of the gritty cop, or the one-man army.
As he had wholeheartedly legged it from the gardener’s shed beside the town hall, he had harbored only one thought: Self-preservation.
The clowns that had jerkily charged in from all corners of the night had strengthened his desire to not grab a gun and take them on single handedly, and he had retreated to the closest and safest looking place he could find.
He hunkered down, in the bowels of the Flying Fathom, having stowed away below decks before all the shouting and ruckus had started. He had clung to something heavy and wooden in the ship’s hold as the rollercoaster ride of his life unfolded around him.
He may, or may not have parted company with his breakfast, lunch, and dinner as the vessel pitched and rolled around him, and only he knew if he had quietly wet himself as the solid crash of ground meeting hull signaled his arrival back on sweet terra firma.
Somewhere, in the dark, quiet and possibly now damp confines of the Fathom, Police Officer Michael O’Riley had a good talk with himself, as who knows what went on outside. There had been a good deal of commotion somewhere beyond the wooden hull, also in his trembling gut, as he cautiously poked his head out of the deck hatch. But something else, deep down within O’Riley had also piped up, having been held down for too long beneath the endless layers of cowardice and desire to stay in one, unmolested piece.
It was oppressively dark outside, and the voice within O’Riley had sparked up with some half-remembered speech from a movie, which he was only partly paying attention to. As he crept through the bushes towards the massive tent which had somehow arrived in Harper’s Meadow, something else seemed to be spurring him on. Maybe it was curiosity, or perhaps adrenaline. It could of course be the need to locate a dry pair of trousers. He didn’t know, or care, as something feral and instinctive drove him towards the source of the light, noise and no doubt danger up ahead.
O’Riley’s head swam with all manner of synaptic conflict. What had descended upon his town tonight? Why was he the only cop on the beat? Should a martini be shaken or stirred?
None of it seemed to matter as he approached the front of the tent. From his slightly elevated position on a convenient grassy knoll, O’Riley took in the spectacle before him. Clowns, lots of them. The mystifying presence of a koala, and a couple of kids with what seemed to be their pet dog in a pirate costume.
Not far from where he hid, a tower rose from the ground, and atop it, another of the painted maniacs, not unlike those that he had taken in and singularly failed to keep in custody. It stood, leaning on a wicked looking sentry gun, apparently intent on proceedings down in the clearing.
This was it.
If O’Riley was ever going to seize his destiny, and impart to the world the action hero one liner of a lifetime, it was now. A stealthy dart over to the ladder of the tower caught him almost completely by surprise, and he was at its top before anything inside him could point out how incredibly reckless he was being.
The clown manning the gun was too focused on the apparent main event outside the entrance of the big top to notice the interloper in his nest, and O’Riley hesitated, wondering how best to realize his newfound bravado. A list of quips filed into his head, begging to be used.
“Nice night for a swan dive.”
“About time you flew the nest.”
“Excuse me, would you mind awfully if I pushed you to your death?”
Just as O’Riley discounted the last one for being way too British, the clown turned to face him, baring its teeth and advancing with grasping arms out stretched. Why were clowns always so grabby? Did the hunger for human suffering call out to them in the night, or were they just desperate for a hug?
The constable dropped his head and launched towards the approaching ghoul, sending it tumbling over the side of the tower, to its vibrantly confetti colored end on the ground below.
“Okay, so not particularly cool, but effective,” O’Riley muttered to himself, turning his attention to the gleaming cannon which took prominence at the center of the nest. It sat impressively, with a long barrel, and a sturdy metal box beside it, presumably containing the teeth of this mighty beast. The controls appeared to be mercifully simple, much like your standard point and shoot arcade game. There was a joystick, a satisfyingly red fire button, and a huge metal crosshair, which O’Riley hauled over to train upon the throng of clowns beneath him.
This was too perfect. Not only had O’Riley been visited by the cojone fairy, but he was now in the position to visit paramount justice upon his town’s assailants, from the safety of his own sniper’s nest. He took a deep breath, summoning all the newfound gusto that fate had suddenly chosen to bestow upon him.
It was time for a weapons check. The cannon was undoubtedly awe inspiring, but O’Riley didn’t want to be running out of ammo halfway through his initial volley of incredibly witty taunts. He hauled the lid off the box, which fed the mighty gun, and peered in at its contents.
The smell hit him first. Blueberry, gooseberry, apple, rhubarb. It was the most deliciously scented box of death he’d ever encountered. Within the box’s metal casing sat rows of freshly made pies, all sitting in line, waiting to be delivered into the faces of the unrighteous. O’Riley paused to take in the sight before him, simultaneously fending off the desire to take a bite out of one of these fruity bombs. Why the hell not? Clowns were invading the world, the monster under the bed had come for its quota. It seemed only fitting to send them back whence they came with a volley or two of pie shaped doom.
The constable hopped into the gunnery seat, pivoting it to face the field up ahead.
A giant, hideous jester, much bigger than its cronies fell into his crosshairs, and all at once the life of a gritty vigilante, bestowing rough vengeance on the silver screen seemed to fit O’Riley like a newly purchased suit. A suit made of bullets, fire and piping hot baked goods, apparently.
This was his moment, and he wasn’t about to let a pair of damp trousers, or the rapidly diminishing voice of reason spoil it.
With a bellow, O’Riley announced his presence to those who were about to rock, and pulled the trigger.
“Dinner is canceled, who’s up for dessert?”
Chapter Thirty
The sky surrounding Marty, Kate and Timbers exploded in a torrent of fruity death, and the closest dozen clowns squealed as a pastry apocalypse introduced them to their makers.
> In an instant, Harper’s Meadow was a flurry of frantic activity. Ahead of them, rows of jesters scattered amidst a torrent of cream and jam. Behind them, Peepers sought cover, hissing out orders to his fleeing horde, as Benji tried his best to curl up into the tightest ball possible.
Marty poked his head out from beneath a berry peppered podium that he had hastily dove behind. Somewhere in the tree line, a lone figure launched delicious mortar fire into the field, cackling and spraying out equal amounts of questionable zingers.
“I used to protect, but now I’m serving!”
Timbers tugged at Marty’s shirt as a volley of raspberry tartes darted overhead. “It’s time we were elsewhere, me hearty, before the fat lady stops singing and comes looking for dessert.”
It was hard to pose a counter argument, as more booming reports sounded from the edge of the clearing, fetching down another clutch of shrieking clowns in the process. Marty decided to agree wholeheartedly with Timbers proposal, and ducked back down behind the podium.
“I agree wholeheartedly,” he cried, as if to emphasize his own decision. “But where? There’s nothing but clowns, crust and confetti out there.”
Timbers tapped a cloth finger to his nose. “Trust me, this is all going according to my plan.”
“Your plan?” Marty bellowed, almost inaudible over another volley of bakery blitzing. “You had nothing to do with this! It’s that maniac up on the hill. You were a clown hat two minutes ago.”
“Don’t bother me with details,” Timbers barked over his shoulder as he crawled to the edge of the podium. “Just follow me.”
Various pantalooned legs scurried hither and thither beside their hiding place as Timbers held out a halting hand. Some of the clowns still laughed as they dashed. Perhaps that was all they could do, or maybe they were gleeful in anticipation that the manner of their demise would deliver them to the circus equivalent of Valhalla. Die with a pie in your face, and take a seat beside your balloon huffing ancestors in the clown afterlife. It wasn’t something Marty wanted to think about in any detail, mostly because a giggling clown in its death throes was still terrifying. He was almost relieved when Timbers gave the gesture to move, and the trio made a frantic sprint for the nearest tent pole, still standing wide and fruit spattered in the fray.
“Okay, where now?” Marty panted as a harlequin juddered past them, unsuccessfully dodging a barrage of vanilla trifle.
“I love the smell of strawberry flavored napalm in the morning!” The unknown sniper roared from the tree line.
“This is getting ridiculous.” Marty muttered. “Where the hell is Whipstaff?” He ducked instinctively, as a clown ceased its retreat beside their hiding place. It leered hideously at Marty, grabbing his arm with taloned claws, just as half a dozen shells that smelled distinctly of banana shattered the circus brute into its component streamers. Marty shook the remaining, disembodied hand from his arm, and scanned up ahead for means of getting the hell out of here.
“Over there,” he shouted, pointing over at a large tree which had somehow managed to remain free of confectionary decoration.
“Are you insane?” Kate snapped out of her daze, and pointed to the very swirly, and distinctly shiny portal which hung like a rip in reality beside their would-be hiding place.
Marty pointed at the mad gunman atop his tower. “We’re almost out of his range here. We can make it.”
“Capital idea.” The voice behind them was low, guttural, and bone jarringly familiar. Mr. Peepers loped across to where they were standing, pies skittering and sluicing across his path as he approached. “We were going that way anyway.” He levelled an impossibly long finger at the portal, his grin snaking from ear to ear. “Let’s not dawdle, it seems we’ve outstayed our welcome here.” More thumping cannon fire interjected, the man on the trigger was clearly having fun up there on the hill.
“Delivery for Simple Simon!” Came the cry from above.
Timbers shook his head. “This guy is an amateur. I’d have gone with Stop, Jammer Time.” Pie tins and their innards clattered past as Peepers bore down on the trio. Benji cautiously crept out from behind the towering hellion, glancing warily at the source of the tasty barrage, and fell in alongside his despicable ally. “It comes to this,” he spat theatrically, as both sides formed ranks, facing each other.
Timbers swatted his blade through the night air, as Kate heaved Oaf’s hammer to bear. Marty felt almost naked, with no impressive tool of mayhem to wield, but mustered the best standoff stare he could. Twenty feet lay between them and the daddy of all clowns, his evil mastermind marsupial ally crouching beside him.
All in all, today had been a bit of a headscratcher, Marty thought. Culminating in a face-off with Satan’s jester and his evil koala, amidst a barrage of exploding cake, and equally incendiary circus folk. In hindsight, he wished he’d thought to bring a machine gun.
All thoughts, sane or otherwise, flew chaotically out of the proverbial window, as Peepers launched forward. Benji, being apparently the sort of koala who would prefer to observe battle from a distance was less proactive, but fell in on the shirt tails of attack nonetheless.
Marty darted a glance at his allies, who were already hurtling towards their foes. Timbers arced through the air, his sword raised to meet his clown nemesis, and Kate brought her hammer to bear at the onrushing koala that she’d protected for the best part of the night. Marty momentarily wished he had someone to charge daringly at, if only for the sake of symmetry, before all thoughts of the job, and screaming maniacs at hand dissolved in a whirlwind of noise and movement.
High above them, something plummeted from the heavens. A small, boat shaped something, carrying two pirates who were currently engaged in an ear splitting battle cry. The Fathom’s lifeboat pitched out of its dive, and shot past, a length of rope trailing behind it. Marty forgot what was before him, and threw a fist into the sky as the vessel passed them, the rope jolting and twisting against the giant gold coin that it was carrying. The same oversized nugget that had been purloined from a certain magical, and decidedly cranky leviathan that very evening.
““Whipstaff!” Marty shouted after the lifeboat, as another, much deeper voice bellowed through the trees of Harper’s Meadow. Huge, thumping footfalls followed it, as a thirty story leprechaun galloped across the field, grabbing at the coin at the end of the rope. “That booty’s mine! Give it here, you thieving pirate fleas!”
A gigantic, shiny buckled boot fell into the thick of the circus horde, sending dozens of them to Clown-halla, and Marty just had time to hear the chuckles of the lifeboat crew, as Kate flung herself into him, sending them both out of the imminent footprint which the boot now made in Harper’s Meadow.
Everything stopped. Clownish antics, epic battles, even the gunfire from the hill, as the giant leprechaun landed on the big top, squashing it like a brightly colored paper cup. The colossal sprite surveyed its surroundings, spying the lifeboat which carried its precious cargo, and took off again. “I want me gold back!” It stomped angrily towards the swooping lifeboat, which was now openly fishing for giant fairy folk above the gaping portal. The boat steadied, before gunning towards the advancing mega pixie.
Marty glanced over to where death had been coming for them moments earlier. Peepers and Benji stood, transfixed by the absurd airshow, as Oaf piped more air into the lifeboat’s sails, and threw it plunging upward into the night sky.
It seemed that every set of eyes in the meadow was now trained on this gigantic party crashed, and several of the clowns’ searchlights swept over to converge on the new arrival. The mighty sprite threw an arm up to shield its eyes, and stumbled backwards, trampling a row of bleachers, and a few lines of grinning fiends that had taken up positions along them. The searchlight clowns in their machine gun nests wasted no time, and emptied torrents of sickly sweet vengeance at the towering green blimp, turning its smart waistcoat an alarming shade of everything.
The lifeboat made another pass as two of the clown turret
s were dispatched by angry leprechaun fists the size of pickup trucks. It seemed that Irish eyes were not smiling tonight. Whipstaff leaned over the side as the tiny boat dove in a spiraling arc around its quarry. “Avast, you dung-faced hobgoblin. Come and get your gold before I melt it down and spend it on booze.”
The leprechaun squealed in a manner completely ill-fitting of its enormous stature, and made another swat for its errant treasure. It trailed along behind the lifeboat as Oaf sent them swooping through the giant’s legs, and soaring from its clawing grasp. “Haha, you’re about as graceful as blind humpback in a washing machine,” Whipstaff taunted, clearly having spent most of his journey thinking up ways to enrage the humungous imp. “Not even close, you massive bearded fairy.”
The lifeboat pitched in a tight circuit of the meadow, sailing fast and low to bear on their furious target. It wasted no time in barreling towards them once more, kicking up dirt, clowns and circus paraphernalia as it charged. Whipstaff roared another exultant battle cry, and the boat slewed forward once more, heading straight for the onrushing behemoth.
As an enthralled observer of this unbelievable joust, Marty couldn’t help but recall the story of David and Goliath, although had this been an accurate representation of the biblical fable, he felt sure that he would have paid a lot more attention in Sunday school.
Mere moments before tiny wooden hull, and enormous Gaelic hulk collided, Oaf blasted everything the bellows could offer into the sails, and the lifeboat heaved into a sharp climb, dodging the giant’s jaunty green hat by inches.
The leprechaun screamed, clutching at the dancing coin as it flew into the heavens, and stamped a solid leather boot down firmly on the portal.
Marty hadn’t been certain what would happen, in the unlikely event that everything he had planned had come to pass, but flung a protective arm over Kate and Timbers anyway, as a precaution against something world splitting happening.
In hindsight, the prospect of a skyscraper sized leprechaun careening into a rip in the fabric of reality was always going to result in something cataclysmic, so his fears were well founded as the world and its entire contents turned inward.