“So…?”
“So what?” asked Martinez, briefly looking up from where he was redeploying his army of ghouls.
“So why aren’t there more of you?” said Denzel. “I mean, this place must be full of ghosts.”
Smithy’s eyes darted sideways. Denzel didn’t even need to look to know. “Not this specific room, Smithy,” he clarified. “I meant the city.”
Weinberg shrugged and fished around in a little sink until she’d found the cleanest mug. She ran it under the tap as she talked. “It was. It used to be crazy. You could hardly walk down Lex without something manifesting, and you did not want to be caught in Central Park after dark.”
“You still don’t,” added Martinez. “But for very different reasons.”
“Bears?” said Smithy. “Is it bears? I bet it’s bears.”
Martinez laughed a little too hard, like he was scared of offending Smithy. “Haha! Bears!” he said, then he went back to repositioning his plastic army.
“So what happened?” asked Denzel. “Where did they go?”
Weinberg wiped her mug on her uniform, then inserted it into some kind of machine. Some kind of coffee machine, Denzel supposed, although it wasn’t like any other he’d ever seen. It looked like several drinks machines – and possibly a small vacuum cleaner – were attempting to exist in the same place at the same time, and all of them were losing the fight.
Wires and hoses and angular bits of plastic jutted out in a variety of directions. There were dozens of dials, buttons and switches, as well as a yellow and black lever with a hand-written sign warning “DO NOT TOUCH” taped above it. Another sign below it added: “SERIOUSLY, DON’T!”
Weinberg swivelled her finger above the buttons, as if looking for the right option, then jabbed one and jumped back. Almost immediately, the machine began to rattle, shudder and hiss. Clouds of steam rose from the mouth of one of the pipes, and Martinez had to scramble to catch all his little soldiers as the machine’s vibrations made them dance across the tabletop.
“They went the same place as all ghosts round here,” Weinberg shouted, struggling to make herself heard over the din of the machine.
“AND WHERE’S THAT?” Denzel bellowed back. The machine stopped right after his first word, and his voice boomed out in the sudden silence.
“All right, all right, no need to scream the place down,” Smithy told him.
Weinberg took her mug from the machine, sniffed it, then took a sip. Her face contorted in disgust for a moment, then she shuddered violently. “Want one?” she asked, pointing to the mug.
“Uh, no,” said Denzel. “We’re fine. So where did all the ghosts go?”
Weinberg pointed upwards. Denzel and Smithy both looked at the ceiling.
“Well, I hate to tell you, but they’re not there now,” Smithy said.
“No, not the ceiling,” said Martinez. “The spike.”
Denzel frowned. “The spike?”
“Yeah,” said Weinberg, her mouth curving into a smile. “The spike.”
Smithy looked between them all. “Should I say ‘the spike’ now too? Is that what we’re doing?”
“What’s the spike?” Denzel asked.
“All in good time,” said Weinberg. “But first…” She rummaged in a drawer until she found a folded leaflet. It had a photo of a pizza on the front. “Who’s hungry?”
Denzel stood in the foyer of the Empire State Building, shuffling from foot to foot and clicking his fingers as he waited for the pizzas to arrive. Martinez and Weinberg were tidying a space for them all to sit and eat, and had asked Smithy to stay and help them. Denzel hadn’t been particularly in favour of the idea – Martinez didn’t exactly seem relaxed in Smithy’s company – but Smithy had assured him he’d be fine.
Harvey, the guy behind the desk, flashed Denzel a warm smile and Denzel smiled back. He thought about going over and asking him some questions about the building they were in, but then decided he probably got enough of those all day, every day, and might appreciate the peace.
“He is coming,” Harvey called across to him.
Denzel raised his eyebrows. “Huh? Sorry, what?”
Just then, one of the revolving doors spun and a gangly teenage boy with long hair and braces on his teeth hurried in, a motorcycle helmet under one arm. Balanced on the other hand were two of the largest pizza boxes Denzel had ever seen. They were two of the largest anything boxes he’d ever seen, for that matter.
“Weinberg?” the boy asked.
“No, Denzel.”
The boy tutted, looked around the foyer, then turned away.
“Wait, no, actually I am Weinberg,” said Denzel. “I got confused. I mean, she sent me. I mean…” He thrust out a wad of dollar bills Weinberg had given him. “Here.”
The delivery boy regarded him with suspicion for a moment, then shrugged and – with some clever manoeuvring – swapped the money for the pizzas. Denzel had to use both hands to hold them, and lean back to counter the weight.
The boy rifled through the notes, then met Denzel’s eye. “Uh, what about a tip?”
Denzel hesitated. “Uh, like a sightseeing tip? That’d be great, thanks. The magazine I read on the plane said to try to get some local knowledge on where to go and what to see.”
“No! What you talkin’ about? I mean like a tip that you give me.”
“Oh,” said Denzel. “Oh. Right.” He thought for a moment. “Uh, don’t eat yellow snow?”
He nodded at the stunned-looking delivery boy, then headed for the lift, struggling to see over the enormous pizza boxes. As he neared the doors, Harvey jumped up from his seat and tapped the button to open them.
“Thanks,” said Denzel. He tried to walk through, but the boxes got jammed on either side of the opening. He had to tilt them sideways to fit through.
It was only when he was inside that he remembered the instructions Weinberg had given him on how to send the lift down were still in his back pocket. He tried to think of a way to make them leap out of his pocket and into his hand, but came up blank.
“Allow me,” said Harvey, leaning in. The old man’s withered fingers tapped lightly across the buttons, then he leaned out through the doors and smiled.
“Thanks,” said Denzel.
The old man’s smile fell away. His eyes became glassy and lifeless, like a doll’s, as the doors began to close.
“He is coming,” said Harvey in a low, scratchy whisper. “He. Is. Comi—”
The lift doors closed, and Harvey was replaced by Denzel’s open-mouthed reflection. “OK,” he whispered as the lift began to descend. “What was that about?”
The lift jerked when it reached the bottom, almost making Denzel drop the pizza boxes. He frantically scrambled to hold on to them, and only managed to stop them falling by jamming them between his chest and one of the lift’s walls.
The doors slid aside and – after a few attempts – he made it out. “I got the pizzas,” he announced, in case the two huge boxes with “Pizza” written on the side weren’t enough of a clue.
To Denzel’s surprise, the basement was empty. No Weinberg. No Martinez. No Smithy.
“Uh, hello?”
He noticed a door he hadn’t spotted before. It was tucked into the darkest corner of the basement, half hidden by the gloom. The only reason Denzel had seen it this time was because it stood ajar, showing a strip of the brightly lit room beyond.
From within the room, Denzel heard Smithy’s voice, sharp and sudden and shocked.
“No,” Smithy yelped. “No!”
Denzel hurled the pizzas boxes on to the table, completely failing to notice when they scattered the little plastic armies and slid on to the floor. He should never have left his friend down here alone. A ghost, all by himself with two ghost-hunters. What was he thinking?
“I’m coming, Smithy! I’m coming!” Denzel bellowed, then he clenched his fists, lowered his head and threw himself at the door.
Denzel hurtled through the door wit
h his fists windmilling.
“I’m here, Smithy!” he cried, although midway through the statement he realised his dramatic entrance probably wasn’t necessary. Smithy didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger. Or any danger at all, in fact.
This room was smaller than the other one, but much tidier and more brightly lit. Martinez was “setting” a rectangular metal table that took up a full half of the room. This seemed to involve just dumping three uneven piles of paper napkins down on it, but even that seemed to take a lot of effort on his part.
Smithy and Weinberg stood in front of a tall glass cylinder that had been bound dozens of times with willow-tree branches. A red gem was suspended in the middle of the cylinder, apparently by magic.
Denzel had learned a little bit about the gems from his training. They were used to hold captured ghosts inside, stopping them getting out and wreaking havoc. This one was by far the largest gem Denzel had seen though. The ones back home had been a third of the size, maybe less.
“Hey, Denzel!” said Smithy. He pointed to the gem in the tube. “Check this out!”
Denzel approached the glass. “What is it?”
“That, my friend, is King Kong!” said Smithy.
Denzel shook his head in disbelief. “No. No.”
“That’s just what I said!” Smithy laughed. “But it is!” He nudged Weinberg. “Tell him.”
“It isn’t King Kong,” Weinberg said.
“See!” said Smithy. “Wait, what?”
“That was just the name they gave him in the movie. His real name is Kongraueri.”
“We should probably just call him ‘King Kong’,” Smithy suggested. “Easier, innit?”
Denzel leaned in closer to the glass, but cautiously, as if the gem inside it might explode at any moment. “And the rest of the story? How much was true?”
“Quite a bit, actually,” said Weinberg. “I mean, not the Skull Island or fighting dinosaur stuff, but the bits in New York weren’t far from the truth.”
Denzel was so close his breath fogged the glass. The gem sparkled in the overhead lights, but there seemed to be another light, too, pulsing deep within the stone’s heart. “The Empire State Building? The woman?”
“Yeah, both those,” Weinberg confirmed. “Turns out Kongraueri—”
“King Kong,” Smithy corrected.
“Turns out he’s fascinated by blonde hair. Maybe it makes him think of bananas or something. The woman was one of our agents. She volunteered to be the bait.”
“Nice of her,” said Smithy.
“And a bit mad,” said Denzel.
“Obviously,” Smithy agreed.
Weinberg shrugged. “We do what we have to do to get the job done. Oh, and Kong wasn’t shot down by helicopters. The spike took care of him.”
Denzel placed a hand against the glass. The pulsing light inside the gemstone seemed to sense him. It squirmed and wriggled, as if trying to get free. Denzel lowered his hand and stepped back. “What is this spike, exactly?”
“I told you, all in good time,” Weinberg said. She clapped her hands together, then looked him up and down. “So. Pizza?”
Denzel looked down at his empty arms, as if only just now realising he wasn’t still carrying the boxes. “Oh!” he said, then he spun on his heels and dashed back into the main room. He searched the table for the boxes, then finally found them lying upside down on the floor behind it.
Carefully, he managed to lift the boxes without the lids flopping open. That was the good news. The bad news was that several platoons of zombies, skeletons and other lovingly hand-painted soldiers had been crushed beneath the pizzas’ weight. It looked like the aftermath of a great battle, but one that hadn’t actually been all that great for the people fighting in it. Mind you, he wondered if battles ever were.
“Oh, no,” Denzel whispered.
“Hurry up, we’re starving!” Martinez called.
“Coming!” said Denzel. He straightened up and stepped back. A skeletal horse went crunch beneath his foot. He quickly stepped away in fright, and a pair of troll-like creatures with spears met their untimely ends beneath his heel.
He turned with another two crunches. The pizza boxes made it impossible to see the floor, so he took a couple of big strides, hoping to cut down the chances of crushing anything else.
No such luck. Something small went crick. Something large went crack. But then, to his relief, Denzel made it clear of the debris field. With a tilt of the pizzas, he scurried through the door, not daring to glance back at the floor behind him.
“What kept you?” asked Martinez.
“Yes! Hahaha!” said Denzel. He stopped abruptly when he realised this was a completely nonsensical response, darted his eyes around the room, then held up the slightly bashed boxes. “Pizzas.”
“Now you’re talking,” said Weinberg. The table would barely have been big enough for one of the boxes, so she gestured to the floor beside it. With some difficulty, Denzel managed to set the boxes down on the floor.
Weinberg squatted down and hungrily lifted the lid of one of the boxes. She blinked in surprise when she saw the pizza had almost no topping, before spotting it all clinging to the top layer of cardboard in a congealed mass of cheese and pepperoni.
“What happened?” she asked.
Denzel leaned over and looked down. “Huh,” he said. “Look at that. I have no idea what could have happened.”
“Did you drop it?” asked Martinez.
Denzel just stared at the Oberon boy for a while. “Yep,” he admitted. “That might be it.”
“Maybe the other one’s better,” said Weinberg, flipping open the other box. She closed it immediately. “No, that’s worse. Not to worry.”
She lifted the box containing the less damaged pizza and placed it on the table. Then she fished four big dessert-sized spoons from a little drawer on the table’s underside, and handed them out. “Dig in, I guess!”
They spent the next ten minutes scooping blobs of cheesy mush from the lid of the box and depositing it on to the untopped pizza slices. Even though it wasn’t exactly in perfect condition, it was still one of the best pizzas Denzel had ever tasted. Smithy, however, didn’t look impressed.
“It’s a bit… What’s the word I’m looking for?”
“Squashed?” Weinberg guessed.
“No, it’s a bit…”
“Big?” said Denzel.
“Italian,” said Smithy. “It’s a bit Italian.”
“Well, it should be. Obese Tony is Italian,” said Martinez, smoothing a small mound of mozzarella and sliced meat over his pizza with the back of his spoon.
“Who’s Obese Tony?” Denzel asked.
“The guy who owns the shop,” said Weinberg. “He used to be Fat Tony, but, well … guess he sampled the merchandise one too many times.”
“Why would an Italian open a pizza shop?” asked Smithy.
“Er, because pizzas come from Italy?” said Denzel.
Smithy choked on his mouthful of pizza, then coughed so violently it plastered across the remaining slices with a splat.
“Aw, Smithy, seriously?” said Denzel. “I was going to eat that.”
“Since when were pizzas Italian?” said Smithy.
“Since always,” said Martinez. He flinched slightly when Smithy looked at him. “I mean … I think.”
Smithy’s expression was one of utter disbelief. “Well, what’s the one from India then?”
“Curry?” said Weinberg.
Smithy clicked his fingers. “Right. That’s it. And this is…?”
“Pizza,” said Denzel.
“Gotcha,” said Smithy. “I did wonder why it tasted different. I have very sensitive taste buds.”
“No, you don’t,” said Denzel. “I’ve literally watched you eat cold scrambled egg out of a paper bag.”
“Sensitively,” said Smithy. He gestured down to the rest of the pizza. The mouthful he’d spat out lay in clumps across it. “Mind if I take another slice?�
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“Help yourself,” said Weinberg.
“Yeah, knock yourself out,” said Martinez. They both watched Smithy cram another slice into his mouth. “Uh, by the way – if you don’t mind me asking – how do you eat?”
“Mmmng,” said Smithy, chewing quickly. He pointed to his mouth. “Nn mns.”
Everyone watched him chew. It went on for quite some time. He pointed to his mouth again and raised his eyebrows, then nodded his head as he tried to chew faster.
Then, with a final few chomps, he swallowed. “What?” he said.
Martinez swallowed too, but nervously. “I was just wondering, how do you eat?”
“With my mouth, mostly,” said Smithy. “Sort of, hands first, pop it in the mouth—”
“No, I mean, you’re a ghost. How do you eat? Why do you eat?”
“Because it tastes good,” said Smithy. “I love a good curry.”
“Pizza,” Denzel corrected.
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, they’re not bad either.”
Martinez crossed his arms and leaned back. “It’s just… It’s weird,” he said. “We were taught that ghosts were the bad guys, and now… And now you! There’s a ghost in the Spectre Collectors. An actual ghost!”
“Smithy helped stop the Spectral Realm breaking open,” said Denzel. “Without him, we’d all be dead now. Or undead. Or … I don’t know. Something, anyway.”
Denzel would have been the first to admit his response had fallen apart a bit towards the end, but he reckoned he managed to get his point across, all the same.
Martinez shook his head. “No, I mean, it’s … interesting, that’s all. A ghost. An actual ghost.”
“You’re acting like you haven’t seen one before,” said Denzel.
“Funny you should say that,” said Weinberg. She smiled across the table at Denzel and Smithy. “I think it’s time we showed you guys the spike.”
Denzel pressed himself flat against the smooth stone wall. His eyes were screwed tightly closed, as a wind whistled and wailed around him.
Less than a metre in front of him was a small wall, barely fifty centimetres high, and beyond that…
A New York Nightmare! Page 4