They both headed for the lift. Martinez hung back, pacing from foot to foot.
“You need to get above it,” he blurted, just as the lift doors opened. Denzel jammed a foot against the door, then turned. Martinez cleared his throat. “The fog. You should find a high point, try to see what’s happening. Maybe you can attack the shark from above.”
“Like fishing,” said Smithy.
“Yeah. Like fishing,” said Martinez.
“Come with us,” Denzel urged. “If you help, maybe we can still save Weinberg.”
Martinez didn’t even waste a second considering this. He looked down and turned away.
Without a word, Denzel stepped through into the lift. The doors closed and Smithy barely had time to phase through them before the lift began to climb.
“Any idea how we’re going to get back to the van?” Smithy asked.
Denzel took a deep breath. “We’re not going back to the van,” he said. “Not yet.”
The doors opened on the ground floor, revealing a scene of chaos. Men, women and children cowered inside the building’s foyer. Harvey was still sitting behind his desk, trying to calm six different people who all screamed at him at the same time in at least three different languages.
A bearded man with wide, hysterical eyes rushed towards the open lift doors. Denzel quickly jabbed the “door close” button. “I’d probably wait for the next one,” he said as the doors closed and the lift began to climb.
“Where are we going?” asked Smithy.
“Up,” said Denzel, trying to hide the shake in his voice. “We’re going all the way up.”
As the lift continued its ascent, Denzel thought – not for the first time that day – that he probably should’ve gone to the toilet.
The doors opened on the one-hundred-and-second floor. This was the observation deck, a large viewing area with large fences and windows around the edge to prevent anyone falling off. It was more than high enough to give Denzel and Smithy a view out over the city, but there were forty or more people in there, all staring out. Denzel didn’t have any memory dust, so – unfortunate as it was – they had no choice but to sneak into the stairwell, climb the barricade and head for the top floor.
Unlike last time, when the wind had whipped at them, the air was deathly still. Even so, Denzel slid out of the narrow doorway and kept himself pressed flat against the wall.
He had hoped they’d be well above the fog at this height, but no such luck. The fog up here was different though. It was white, like regular, non-supernatural fog. The green stuff stopped abruptly a few metres below them, high enough to cover almost the entire city, aside from the odd skyscraper spire sticking upwards like the masts of old shipwrecks.
Now that he couldn’t see how far away the ground was, Denzel found himself feeling less afraid. He risked taking a step away from the wall and was relieved to find he didn’t immediately trip over the small surrounding wall and plummet to his death.
“It’s like the ocean,” said Smithy. And he was right. The green fog was like a vast flood, covering all of New York. In a way, that made sense. The shark – or Megalodon, if Martinez was right – had swum through the mist as if it were swimming through the sea.
“So is this, like, ghost water?” Denzel wondered.
Smithy sniffed the air. “Do you smell that?”
“Yeah, that was me,” said Denzel. “Sorry. I don’t like heights.”
“No, not that. The other smell. It’s like back when whatshername opened the Spectral Realm last week.” Smithy pointed to the fog. “I think this is Spectrum Density.”
It took a few seconds for Denzel to translate. “Spectral Energy?”
“That’s the one.”
They looked out over the vast ocean of green. “What, all of it?”
“Dunno. Maybe.” Smithy shrugged. “Pity the spike isn’t working. It could have sucked all this right up.”
Denzel nodded. “Yeah, but you heard what Weinberg said. Vulterons have been trying to fix it for…”
The sentence stumbled to a stop as a new thought derailed it. Vulterons had been trying to fix the spike for decades, with no success.
Vulterons.
“Give me a radio, quick,” said Denzel. Smithy still had both hands full, so he angled his hip to Denzel and let him grab a walkie-talkie for himself.
“Martinez,” said Denzel, thumbing the button. “Martinez, come in, over.”
He released the button and waited. It took several seconds, but then the speaker squawked. “Martinez. What do you want, Denzel? I told you, I’m not coming out. Over.”
“The spike,” Denzel blurted. “Weinberg told us that the Vulterons had tried to fix the spike. What about the Oberons?”
He chewed his lip as he waited for an answer.
“You didn’t say ‘over’,” Smithy pointed out.
“Over.”
“It’s tech,” said Martinez. “That’s Vulterons’ department. Over.”
“But the Spectre Collectors – it’s a mix of magic and tech, right? So what if this is the same? What if that’s why no one has ever been able to get it working? Over.”
There was a long silence. Denzel was about to press the button to speak again when Martinez’s voice came crackling out of the earpiece.
“I guess. Maybe.”
Another long pause.
“I suppose I could check it out.” He groaned. “Fine, I’ll head up. Over and out.”
Denzel nodded and clipped the radio on to his belt. It was a long shot, but if they could get the spike working, maybe they could clean this mess up. Of course, the ghost of a prehistoric shark was still out there somewhere, and dealing with that was the main priority.
Denzel was about to suggest heading down when a voice whispered at him through the fog. He couldn’t be sure which direction it had come from. In fact, if pressed, he’d probably have to say it came from all directions at once.
He is coming.
“He is coming,” Denzel said, repeating the words out loud.
Smithy blinked. “Is he?” he asked.
“Apparently,” said Denzel.
Smithy shrugged. “Fair enough,” he said. He sniffed. “Who is?”
It was Denzel’s turn to shrug. “Dunno.”
He is coming.
“So you can’t hear that?” Denzel asked.
Smithy listened. “Hear what?” he said.
HE IS COMING!
“That?”
Smithy listened again. “Was it a sort of creaking, groany noise, like old wood?”
Denzel started to shake his head, but then stopped. He could hear a creaking, groany sort of noise. It came from out in the fog – the white stuff, not the green – somewhere just ahead.
There was a shape out there. It was just a faint outline in the mist right now, but the edges were becoming more defined as the shape grew larger. Whatever it was, it was bigger than the shark, and it was getting closer.
Denzel quietly cleared his throat. “I think, maybe, I should get a gun.”
“Take this,” said Smithy, handing Denzel the Ecto-Thurmoriser. Denzel took it, and was trying to figure out where the trigger was when Smithy pulled something that looked like an old-fashioned bike horn from his waistband. It was a looping curve of metal with a bulbous black ball on one end that looked designed to be squeezed. “Here, you can have this one,” he said, passing it to Denzel and taking the larger weapon back.
Denzel looked longingly at the Ecto-Thurmoriser. “What? I thought I was getting that one?”
“Hmm? Oh, no. Sorry, I just needed you to hold it while I got the other one out. I didn’t have enough hands,” Smithy explained. He rested the butts of both the Thurmoriser and the big water-blaster-like weapon against his hips and pointed them vaguely in the direction of the shape approaching through the fog. “You’ll be fine with that one.”
“What am I meant to do with this, parp the ghosts to death?” Denzel asked.
“They’re alre
ady dead,” Smithy pointed out.
Denzel tutted. “You know what I mean.”
Whatever was out there was almost on them now. With a final creak, a deformed, dragon-like head glided free of the mist, its eyes wide, its mouth open, revealing dozens of teeth and a long, curled tongue.
Yelping in shock, Denzel raised the horn-thing, but stopped himself squeezing the end just in time. The dragon’s head was not, in fact, a dragon’s head. It was a carving of one, done with the same skill and attention to detail as the underwater door had been.
He is coming.
He is coming.
HE IS COMING.
The voices hissed at him from all sides, as if the fog itself was speaking the words.
“He is coming,” Denzel repeated.
Something whistled through the air, passed between Smithy and Denzel, and embedded itself deep into the wall. It was a metal spike, like a harpoon. A length of rope was attached to it, and as Denzel and Smithy watched, a muscle-bound figure with a bristly beard came sliding along the rope towards them.
“Wrong, lad!” boomed a voice. The figure reached the end of the rope and dropped on to the floor beside them. For a moment, Denzel would have sworn the building shook with the impact.
He looked up.
And up.
Eventually, Denzel found the man’s face. Between the enormous blond beard and the helmet the man wore, there wasn’t a lot of face to see – just a pair of piercingly blue eyes, and a lopsided grin.
“He is not ‘coming’. He is here!”
As well as not being an expert on geography, Denzel wasn’t exactly particularly well versed in history either. Despite that, he would be prepared to bet the man towering over him and Smithy was a Viking.
The bristly blond beard was one clue. The helmet, complete with a metal faceplate and two stubby curved horns sticking out of each side, was another.
The fact there was now a stupidly big Viking longship floating in the air just a few metres away had helped make his mind up too. It was around fifteen metres long, with a tall mast and a billowing white sail. It sat almost level with the building’s top floor, and although the fog clinging to the deck made it impossible to see, Denzel was sure he could hear movement from the deck. Whoever this guy was, he hadn’t come alone.
Smithy leaned past the Viking so he could see Denzel. “Friend of yours?” he asked.
“What? No,” said Denzel. He craned his neck again and looked up into the big man’s grinning face. He seemed friendly enough. Or friendlier than a prehistoric shark, at least. “Who are you?”
“The name’s Ragnarok,” the Viking boomed. He took hold of Denzel’s hand and shook it in a way that suggested he couldn’t just crush every bone in it, but rip the whole thing off at the elbow. Then probably eat it. “You shall call me Rok.”
Rok pointed a finger at the top of Denzel’s head. “May I?”
“Uh … may you what?” Denzel asked, but the Viking hadn’t waited for an answer. He leaned down until his nose was right above Denzel’s head and sniffed deeply.
“He can’t help it. He’s scared of heights,” Smithy explained.
“Aha!” cried Rok, leaning back. He tapped himself on the side of the nose. Quite violently, Denzel thought. “Never fails. You’re the one who broke the seal. You opened the doors. Yes?”
Denzel tried to read the Viking’s face, trying to determine what the right answer was. Or, rather, what answer was less likely to make the big man angry. With all that beard and helmet, though, it wasn’t an easy face to read.
“Uh … yes?” he said, then all the air was squeezed out of him when Rok picked him up in a bear hug.
“Do you have any idea how long I had been trapped down there? Frozen like the Frost Giants of Jötunheimr? Too long, my young friend. Far too long!”
Rok released his grip, and Denzel had to grab hold of Smithy to stop himself staggering over the edge.
“Well, I suppose … you’re welcome,” said Denzel.
“Aye,” said Rok, grinning. “I know!”
With a tug, he pulled the harpoon out of the wall. “And now I’m free. I’m back. And that monster of the deep won’t know what hit it!”
Denzel and Smithy exchanged a glance. “Wait,” said Denzel. “Monster of the deep? You know about that thing?”
“Ha! The beast has been my mortal enemy for centuries. I was on the brink of besting it when we were banished. Thanks to you, the chase can finally continue.”
Denzel and Smithy both watched in amazement as Rok bent the end of the metal harpoon into a hook shape.
“Cor, he’s strong, innhe?” said Smithy. He reached up and prodded one of the muscles bulging beneath the Viking’s leather jerkin. “That’s like a baby’s head, that is.”
“So you’re going to catch it?” asked Denzel. This was perfect! If Rok dealt with the Megalodon, Denzel and Smithy might not even have to get involved.
“Aye! I just need you to assist me in one final matter.”
Denzel and Smithy exchanged a glance, then both shrugged. “OK,” said Denzel. “What do you want me to do?”
In one swift move, Rok snagged Denzel’s belt on his metal hook, then stepped up on to the ledge. “I want you to be bait!” he said, then, with a single bounding leap, he threw himself on to the deck of his ship.
It all happened so quickly, Denzel barely had time to react. He had just started to turn to see what Rok had done to his belt when the big Viking tugged on the rope. Denzel’s eyes went wide as he was dragged backwards.
“Smithy!” he yelped. The back of his legs hit the railing. The world lurched. The last thing he saw was Smithy tossing aside the Ecto-Thurmoriser and big water-blaster weapon, and diving towards him. And then Denzel was falling, plunging, plummeting down, down, down through the swirling green fog.
He tried to scream but was far too terrified to actually make any sound beyond a sort of high-pitched wheeze. The hook jerked him as the rope went tight, knocking the wind out of him so he couldn’t even manage the wheeze any more.
With the rope tight, Denzel swung in a swooping arc, spinning around and around as he swooshed through the fog.
“Wheeeeeee!”
Denzel looked down. For the first time, he realised Smithy was holding on to both his wrists.
“All right?” said Smithy, in what Denzel couldn’t help but feel was far too calm a manner, what with the circumstances.
“Not really,” he managed to gasp in return. “Had b-better days.”
Something screamed at them through the fog. A white shape, like a flapping sheet, hurtled towards them, eyes and mouth wide open. The rope twisted, spinning them out of the shape’s path just in time.
“What was that?” Denzel hissed.
“A ghost, I think,” said Smithy.
“It’s coming back!”
Smithy reached for a banana-shaped weapon tucked in his belt, leaving Denzel frantically trying to hold on to him by one arm. As the ghost wailed towards them, Smithy opened fire with the banana gun. A little red blob emerged from the end and tumbled slowly through the air.
As the ghost met the blob, there was a blinding red flash and a surge of energy that sent the rope swinging violently in a wide swooshing curve. The glass front of a building loomed out of the fog. As they swung towards it, Denzel could see dozens of people pressed up against the windows, watching in disbelief. A little girl, around six years old, waved at them as they went spinning by. Smithy smiled and waved back, then he turned and blasted another ghost that came screeching out of the green haze.
“Where are they coming from?” Denzel wailed, as the force of the exploding spook sent them into another out-of-control spin.
He could probably guess the answer. They had to have come from the same place as Rok and the shark had – the undersea doors. That meant them being here was Denzel’s fault. He just wished they were as grateful as Rok had been. Although, as Rok’s gratitude had led to Denzel swinging from a rope a hundred store
ys above the ground, perhaps that might actually be for the best.
The boat was moving now, dragging Denzel and Smithy along behind it. Denzel’s muscles strained with the effort of holding on to Smithy and his belt was cutting painfully into his waist.
When he spun just the right way, Denzel was able to see the underside of the longship. Several sets of oars were moving in harmony, propelling the boat across the surface of the fog ocean.
Another shape came fluttering out of the mist. Smithy opened fire but the ghost banked away and was quickly lost to the mist. Denzel held his breath for a few seconds, waiting to see if it came back, but there was no sign of it.
Smithy smiled up at him. “You know, I’ve never been fishing before,” he said. “It’s quite exciting.”
Denzel had never been fishing before either, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t usually like this. Not unless you were the worm, anyway.
He was about to say as much when he saw the shape looming in the fog beneath them. It had to be ten storeys lower than they were, and most of the detail was hidden by the mist. It had looked big when it was chasing them, but from this angle it somehow managed to appear even larger.
Denzel held his breath. He could almost hear the Jaws theme playing in his head. And then he realised that he could hear it in his ears too. Smithy was humming it.
“Cut it out!” Denzel whispered.
“Sorry,” said Smithy. “Just seemed appropriate.”
The Megalodon flicked its tail, twitched its fins, and then, to Denzel’s horror – although, to be honest, he was kind of expecting it, what with the way his day had been going so far – it began to swim upwards.
“What would you rather, right? Only be able to eat crisps, or never—”
“Seriously? You’re doing this now?”
“What? Oh, yeah. Fair point,” said Smithy. He looked down. “Shark’s coming.”
“I know!”
“Quite quickly too.”
“Yes, thank you, Smithy, I noticed!” said Denzel.
Smithy looked at the banana-shaped ray gun in his hand. He looked down at the shark, which now appeared bigger than ever as it sliced upwards through the fog.
A New York Nightmare! Page 10