Martinez and Weinberg both shook their heads. “Not that simple,” said Martinez. “Sure, it’ll eventually drain the Spectral Energy but that’s going to take days. Weeks, probably.”
“And it doesn’t solve the problem of our friend up there,” said Weinberg, pointing upwards into the fog. “He’s strong. We’d need to get him actually touching the spike for it to work. Reckon we can convince him to do that?”
“No,” said Denzel. An idea came at him, like a ghost out of the mist. It was a silly idea. No, it was an insane idea. The others would almost certainly never go along with it. He tried to push it away but it kept coming back. A bit like a Sea-Monkey. Emphasis on that last part.
Denzel smiled. “But I think I might know someone who can.”
Weinberg flew in front, the blue glow of her drone-pack leading the way through the pale white mist that hung like a cloud above the ocean of fog. Denzel and Martinez floated behind in a big magic bubble. That wasn’t the technical name for it, of course – Martinez had called it the Sacred Sphere of something-or-other – but it was a pretty fitting description, all the same.
Smithy trailed along behind, flying under his own steam. Denzel waved to him through the bubble’s transparent walls, and Smithy grinned as he waved back.
It had barely been a week since Denzel had discovered his best friend was a ghost, and he was surprised how quickly he’d got used to the idea. The fact he was flying seemed like the most normal thing in the world.
Then again, Smithy had never been even close to normal.
“OK, we go in hard.” Weinberg’s voice crackled over the walkie-talkie. “Denzel, you and Smithy stay back; let Martinez and me handle things. I don’t have a lot of workable equipment left after someone – naming no names, Smithy – lost most of my guns, but we’ve got enough to take him out, then the spike will eventually take care of whatever’s left.”
“What about—”
“Last resort,” said Weinberg, cutting him off. “Seriously, do not use that thing unless you have no other choice. I can’t believe I even let you bring it.”
Denzel adjusted the strap of the satchel he had slung across his chest. The contents felt heavy. He wasn’t sure if he should find that reassuring or worrying. He settled on a bit of both.
“Got it,” he said. “Stay out of your way; only use this if all else fails.”
Martinez shot the bag a sideways glance, then turned his gaze to Denzel. “You know you’re crazy, right?”
Denzel smiled. “Maybe.”
“OK, picking him up dead ahead,” said Weinberg. She slowed, and Martinez waved his hand to stop the bubble. There was a thonk as Smithy crashed into it from behind.
“Sorry,” he said, his face squished against the bubble like a short-sighted bird against a window pane. “My fault.”
A blast of energy spat at them through the fog. Weinberg dodged sideways but the energy tore through Martinez’s bubble.
Denzel experienced a worrying split-second of weightlessness again, before the bubble sealed itself.
“He’s seen us!” said Weinberg.
“Oh, you think?” cried Martinez.
Weinberg’s pack flared brightly. “Going in. Martinez, follow up with everything you’ve got. Let’s do this!”
With a flash, she rocketed through the mist in the direction the shot had come from. Martinez took a deep breath, then gave a determined nod. He chanted something, made a gesture with his hands, then the bubble they were standing in became two. Denzel found his bubble slowing down as Martinez, now in his own sphere, pulled ahead.
“Hey! Where are you going?” Denzel demanded.
“Hang back here!” Martinez called, his voice sounding far away, and getting more so with every word. “We’ll call you in if we need you!”
He disappeared into the mist, just as several flaring energy blasts illuminated it in a range of exciting colours.
Denzel rocked backwards and forwards, trying to propel the bubble on, but only succeeded in falling over.
Smithy caught up again. “All right?”
“They’ve gone into battle without us,” Denzel pointed out.
“Oh. Right,” said Smithy. He sniffed. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Yes!” said Denzel. He thought about this for a moment. “I mean… Well, I suppose they do know what they’re doing. And we’re just—”
“Loveable idiots.”
“Trainees,” said Denzel. He shuffled around so he was sitting on the bubble’s curved bottom. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s better if we do just hang back here and— Whooooaaa!”
The bubble rocketed forwards at alarming speed, throwing Denzel against the back wall. The Viking longship loomed into view just ahead. There seemed to be a lot of activity taking place on the deck. Magic sparkled, energy blasts crackled, and … Denzel squinted. Something was coming towards him. Something bright and—
A flaming arrow tore through the bubble, popping it. Denzel’s momentum carried him the rest of the way over the railing before he hit the floor of the ship with a crunch. He sat up, just as a skeleton swung at him with a rusty metal sword. Denzel kicked back and the blade embedded deep into the wooden deck.
Using both hands, the skeleton tried to pull the sword free. He was just giving it an extra-hard tug when Smithy slammed into him. The skeleton’s arms stayed behind as Smithy and the rest of it went tumbling along the deck.
Just beyond them, Martinez and Weinberg were frantically battling a dozen more of the things.
“I thought you’d only call us if you needed us?” Denzel yelped.
“We need you!” Martinez replied.
As Denzel watched, several flapping white ghosts emerged from the fog, transforming into skeletal henchmen as they alighted on the ship. Martinez and Weinberg were surrounded, and for every one they took down, five more joined the fight.
“OK, not good,” Denzel whispered.
A hand caught him by the back of the neck. This one didn’t feel bony. Just the opposite, in fact. It was a hand made of solid muscle.
“Well now, what have we here?” boomed Ragnarok. He hoisted Denzel into the air and pulled him close, so Denzel could see virtually nothing but yellow beard and yellower teeth. “I thought I took care of you earlier. You are a resourceful one.”
“You d-don’t know the half of it,” said Denzel.
The Viking’s mouth pulled into a sneer and Denzel was hoisted towards the ship’s edge. “Wait!” Denzel yelped. “I brought you something. Treasure!”
Ragnarok hesitated. “Treasure? You mean loot?” He gestured around them. “I own your entire village. I have everything I want.”
“No, you don’t,” said Denzel. He patted the bag. “You don’t have this.”
Rok’s eyes narrowed behind his faceplate. “Show me.”
Denzel glanced along the deck. Weinberg and Martinez were still holding their own, but only just. Smithy had pulled one of the legs off the skeleton he’d been fighting. He was chasing the skeleton round and round the mast with it. The skeleton, it turned out, was surprisingly good at hopping.
“OK, check it out,” said Denzel. He reached into his bag. Ragnarok’s eyes sparkled when Denzel pulled out an enormous red gemstone. A faint glow tossed and tumbled in the middle of it, as if the stone were somehow alive.
Or something inside it was.
“Well now,” said Rok. “That is a fine treasure, indeed.”
“I know, right?” said Denzel. “And you know what’s great about it?”
“No. Pray tell, what might that be?”
With a jerk of one arm, Denzel knocked Rok’s helmet off, letting the Viking’s long blond hair tumble free, just as Denzel had hoped it would.
“It has a surprise inside!”
With a roar, Denzel threw the stone at the deck. He’d hoped it would shatter dramatically on impact, but instead it just sort of went clunk and lay still.
Denzel sighed. “Well, that’s disappointing.”
Ragnarok frowned. “Well, I’m sure I’ll figure out the surprise in good time,” he said. He took two big paces towards the edge, holding Denzel out in front of him. “Still, thank you for the loot. I shall very much enjoy—”
“Hey, Denzel.”
Rok stopped and turned. Smithy stood holding the gem in one hand and a skeleton’s leg bone in the other. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the gem a metre or so into the air.
“Ready for that game of baseball?” he asked, then he swung with the leg bone.
Denzel watched it all unfold as if the world had gone into slow motion just for his benefit. The gem reached the top of his flight, then began to tumble back down again. Smithy chewed his tongue in concentration as his borrowed leg bone came around in a wide, sweeping arc.
As the bone met the gem, there was a brief flash, a slightly less brief breaking noise, and then Denzel could see nothing but coarse, dark hair.
The longship lurched violently under the sudden weight of the monstrously huge gorilla that had suddenly materialised on the deck. King Kong looked around in surprise, then threw back his head and thudded his fists against his chest. The sound rolled like thunder across the skies, and the skeletons who had been attacking Weinberg and Martinez all scattered, becoming vapour again as they hurled themselves overboard.
“Odin’s beard! What is that?” cried Ragnarok in a voice so sharp and sudden it caught even Kong’s attention. The towering beast’s head lowered. When it spotted the Viking standing before it, the fury on its face seemed to soften. The monster’s eyes widened as it spotted Rok’s head.
“That’s Kongraueri, although we mostly just call him Kong for short,” said Denzel. “And I should probably warn you – he really likes blond hair.”
Kong’s hand swiped at Ragnarok, snatching him up. Denzel tumbled free of the Viking’s grip and rolled to a stop on the deck. He watched as Kong rubbed an enormous fingertip across the top of Rok’s head, messing up the Viking’s mane of yellow hair.
“Unhand me, beast!” Ragnarok raged, but his arms were pinned to his sides by giant gorilla fingers and no amount of squirming was going to break him free. “Release me, or face the wrath of Ragnarok.”
“Hey, big guy!” said Weinberg, as Martinez waved his fingers in the air. He pulled his hands apart and the fog parted too, revealing a clear view of the Empire State Building and the shiny spike fixed to its roof. Weinberg smirked. “You know you want to.”
With a screech, Kong launched himself off the ship. The force of the jump sent the longship into a spin, and by the time it had steadied, the monster was lost in the mist below.
“Where is he?” Denzel asked, peering down. “Where did he go?”
“Is that him?” asked Smithy, pointing to the upper floors of the Empire State Building, where an enormous gorilla was scaling the walls.
“Oh, yeah, that’s probably him,” said Denzel.
“He’s going for it,” Weinberg whispered. “I don’t believe it. He’s actually going for it!”
“Come on,” Martinez urged. “Just a little further.”
The mist was drifting back in, but they could still clearly make out the shape of Kongraueri as he scrambled up the side of the building, just like he’d done all those years before. If Denzel strained his hearing, he could just make out Ragnarok’s shouted demands to be set free. Kong, though, was having none of it. He’d lost his shiny-headed prize once before and seemed determined not to let that happen again.
With a clamber, a swing and a final leap, the beast’s fingers wrapped around the spike. Lightning crackled from the pointed tip. A high-pitched whine screamed through the fog. Kong let out a low, guttural grunt of confusion and then he was gone, taking Ragnarok with him.
Weinberg whipped out a little handheld screen and hurriedly tapped it. She looked concerned for a moment, but then she threw her arms in the air and jumped up and down with delight. “Spectral Energy successfully crystallised!” she announced. “We got them both!”
Denzel and Smithy decided to get in on the jumping-up-and-down act too. They bounced on the spot, jiggling their arms in the air.
“We did it, we did it, we did it!” said Denzel.
“The famous ‘use a famous giant movie monkey to catch an evil Viking ghost’ technique,” said Smithy. “Oldest trick in the book!”
“Uh, guys,” said Martinez.
Something about the way he said it made everyone stop bouncing. They followed his gaze to the spike. Fog was swirling around it now, spiralling into a little tornado before being sucked into the tall metal prong.
“What is it?” asked Denzel. “What’s wrong?”
“Uh, maybe nothing,” said Martinez. “It’s just…”
“It’s draining the Spectral fog,” said Weinberg. “It’s sucking it all up.”
“Of course!” said Martinez, slapping himself on the forehead. “It all makes sense. It’s designed to be self-sustaining. It relies on Spectral Energy to power itself, that’s why it stopped working in the first place, once the energy ran out. That’s why the magic fixed it.”
“And we just gave it a massive jumpstart,” said Weinberg.
Denzel looked between them both. “Well, that’s good, right? It’ll get rid of all the fog and the ghosts and—” His eyes widened. “Oh, no!” he yelped.
“What?” asked Smithy. “Why’s everyone looking at me like—”
Smithy was wrenched off his feet with such ferocity that it made Denzel jump in fright. One moment he was there, the next he was hurtling through the churning fog.
And hurtling towards the spike.
“Weinberg, Martinez! Do something!” Denzel cried.
Martinez raised his hands in Smithy’s direction, but immediately lowered them again. “He’s too far.”
Denzel began to run. “Fine. He might be, but I’m not!” he said. Then, before Martinez could argue, he hurled himself over the edge of the ship, his arms stretched out in front of him like a superhero in flight.
He plummeted several metres, screaming, before Martinez managed to catch him. Denzel’s stomach lurched as the fog became a blur around him. The wind tore at him, stealing his breath away. His eyes tried to close but he forced them open, blinking through the tears as he streaked across the sky after his friend.
“Hold on, Smithy!” he tried to shout, but the moment he opened his mouth the words were forced back down into his throat.
Smithy was a dozen metres ahead now, the spike just a dozen more beyond. He spun and flipped and rolled, the fog swirling around him as it was sucked in by the towering mast. Denzel could see the panic on his friend’s face as he fought with everything he had to battle his way free of the spike’s pull.
Denzel’s hand caught Smithy’s ankle and they both jerked to a sudden, eye-watering stop. Martinez was zipping through the air behind them in one of his flying bubbles, his fingers weaving whatever magic was holding Denzel in place.
The fog whistled past them. Limp white shapes flapped around like sheets drying on a washing line, before being consumed by the spike. Denzel tightened his grip as the pull on Smithy became even greater. The Spectral fog was making the spike even more powerful with every moment that passed.
“Turn it off!” Denzel cried.
“I … can’t. Too many … protective incantations,” hissed Martinez, and Denzel realised the spike was draining his magic too. It was taking everything he had just to keep them afloat.
The whistle became a roar around them, like pouring sand. Smithy twisted violently in Denzel’s grip as the spike wrenched him away. Denzel made another grab for him but it was too late. Smithy hurtled, out of control, towards the spike.
He hit it with a loud THWANG, just as the roaring stopped.
Weinberg stepped out from behind the spike, holding two ends of a power cable. “It might have a lot of protection spells,” she said. “But it’s only got one power socket.” One of the cables made a low whumming sound as she spun it around. “Gotta love tech
nology.”
Smithy pulled himself free of the spike. There was a perfect Smithy-shaped imprint on the side. “Hey,” he said, turning to face the city. “Look!”
Denzel and the others turned. Well, technically Martinez turned Denzel, but the effect was much the same.
New York shone in the sunlight, the blue sky reflecting off its shining glass towers. The fog, the longship and everything else were gone. The city was a ghost-free zone once again.
Denzel glanced up at Smithy. Well, almost.
“They look happy, don’t they,” said Smithy, indicating the thousands of faces lining the windows of the buildings below. They clapped and waved and cheered behind the glass.
Denzel noticed hundreds of people flooding out of the buildings on the streets.
Then he noticed how small they were.
Then he noticed that, without all that fog blocking the view, he was really very high up indeed, supported only by magic.
“P-p-put m-m—” was all he managed to say, but Martinez got the idea and gently lowered him on to the one-hundred-and-third floor beside Smithy and Weinberg.
Denzel immediately flattened himself against the wall and took several deep breaths. After a few seconds, though, he managed to force himself to approach the ledge and join the others in looking down.
The streets were filled with people jumping around, hugging one another, and dancing. From up here, they looked like ants. Thousands upon thousands of ants.
“Well, guys,” said Denzel, looking from Martinez to Weinberg and back again. “I hope you have a lot of memory dust!”
Two days later, Denzel and Smithy stood outside the airport security check, saying their goodbyes. Weinberg and Martinez were dressed in their respective uniforms but, in true New York fashion, no one batted an eyelid.
There hadn’t been enough memory dust, not even close, but the Elders had promised “to intervene” and everyone had immediately stopped talking about King Kong, Vikings and giant octopuses (or octopi, depending on who you asked). Denzel had found that a little disconcerting but decided it was something to worry about later.
A New York Nightmare! Page 13