Just Try Not To Die Page 8

  “My… car?”

  “Come,” Heimlich told him, a grin on his face, turning and walking away down yet another corridor. This one, as Brian followed him, ended in a small metal door. “This is the garage,” the leader of the Masters told him. “And it’s where we keep your steed.”

  Brian stepped into the concrete chamber; it was low, wide, lit by flickering strip-lights and ending in what looked like a tunnel that seemed to stretch off to infinity. But it was the shape in the centre, hunched and squat, that immediately seized Brian’s attention and set his legs all-of-a-tremble.

  “That’s mine?” he gulped, unable to believe what he was seeing. “Not another trick?”

  “Not a trick. She’s yours. Looks standard, but obviously Friedrick has made his own modifications.” He clicked his fingers and the welcome pack of before appeared at his hand with a puff of smoke. “Instructions for all the modifications are in the folder. Take care when driving it; it’s pretty highly tuned.”

  Brian nodded, still stunned, regarding the car before him. The Chevrolet Camaro was gunmetal grey and looked ready to start a fight, as though someone had just insulted its mother. Four exhausts poked like cannons from beneath its low rear bumper. On the number plate, HEL51NG.

  “Does she have a name…?” he enquired, his voice a low hushed gasp.

  “Some people call her the Helsing-mobile,” Heimlich replied. “I call her Bertha. She looks like a Bertha.”

  Brian nodded once more, before Heimlich shoved the folder into his grasp.

  “Read,” he told him. “I cannot stress that enough. And come back tomorrow, refreshed. The driveway will take you under the sea, coming out in Long Rock at a secret exit. When you come back tomorrow, it will open for you automatically. Take care. And don’t crash. And for god’s sake, don’t do anything stupid. You’re Helsing now. And like it or not the fate of the world now rests on your skinny, white shoulders.”

  Chapter Eleven:

  All The Zeroes

  Brian was a driving god. That’s how it felt, at least, as he’d pulled out of the tiny, derelict-looking garage in Long Rock, the door closing behind him and the street resounding to the off-beat burble of the enormous V8 that throbbed under the bonnet. Car drivers snapped at the neck to watch him pull out onto the road in a squeal of tyres. Pedestrians’ jaws hit the floor, though whether at the sight of his car, or merely the fact that a skinny, nerdish nobody was at the wheel of such a machine, he didn’t care to guess. As he cruised back towards Penzance through the orange, early evening glow, the merest whiff of throttle wafting him along on a surge of power, he leaned further back into the leather seat, one arm hanging relaxed out of the window, letting the auto-box do all the work, and finally allowed himself a smile.

  The day had been full of terror and humiliation, but at least one good thing had come of it.

  He still couldn’t believe that this beast was his. Granted, it came at the expense of dedicating his life to a scary pursuit of risking life and limb, of hunting gribbly monsters in grim places, but hey – he got a muscle car out of the deal! Never did he think he’d ever get the chance to even drive a car as incredible as this, let alone own one. But then, he thought, it wasn’t really his, but the Order’s. More of a company car, in all honesty. Still, all the gawping pedestrians weren’t to know that. As he pulled up at the traffic lights, a gaggle of young ladies, all dolled up ready for a night out on the lash in town strolled over the pedestrian crossing. He put on his best imitation of a confident grin and blipped the throttle, the car rocking from side to side. One of them said something to the others and they all giggled. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. Often it wasn’t. But then he wasn’t often in a Camaro.

  A sudden noise from beside him, a leather-clad biker pulling up on something plastic, pointy and horrendously loud. The man looked at him, as though sizing up his car, whether it was worthy of his time, before nodding to the road ahead. Did he want a race? It seemed so. Never before had anyone challenged Brian to a street race; it just didn’t happen in Cornwall and it certainly didn’t happen to people riding ancient, asthmatic mopeds. But that was a different Brian, an old Brian, a Camaro-less Brian. He was living in a post-moped world now. He looked ahead at the road before him, wringing the steering wheel as he mused. It was a long straight, maybe half a mile of bend-free, traffic-free tarmac before the roundabout outside Sainsbury’s, plenty of space for Brian to flex his new car’s muscles without risk. With a slowly spreading smile, Brian nodded at the man, holding one foot on the brake as he fed the beast some revs. Nervous butterflies in his stomach, his heart pounding in his chest at the mere thought of the impending race. Should he really be doing this? He should be making his way slowly, safely home, to his bed. He’d only had the car five minutes and Heimlich had warned him not to do anything stupid, but after the day he’d had, he felt he more than deserved a bit of fun. Besides, what harm could it do? He only had to drive in a straight line; even he could manage that, despite the lack of talent he’d been constantly reminded of all day.

  The red lights turned amber, the biker revving his own machine now, then the amber changed to green, and the race was on; Brian lifted his foot from the brake, even as he planted the accelerator to the mat, the sudden unleashed power of the car crushing him hard into the seat and taking his breath away. The noise! The acceleration! He giggled in childish excitement as he felt the auto-box feeding in another gear beneath him. Fifty miles per hour. Sixty. Seventy. He risked a glance out of the window; amazingly the bike hadn’t left him behind; even with umpteen seemingly-random letters in its name and a whole host of zeroes proclaiming its engine size, it wasn’t pulling away! Suddenly, out of the corner off his vision, Brian noticed a red flashing light on the top of the gear-lever, urging him, goading him. Without thought for consequence, lost in the dizzying rush of his own adrenaline he reached over… and pressed it.

  A fresh surge of power, greater than before, pushing him harder into the seat, leaving his stomach behind even as the front of the car, the entire long bonnet, the two front wheels, left the ground and launched skyward; Bertha could wheelie? He laughed, his laughter increasing as he noticed the biker falling behind now, even his screaming Japanese steed conceding defeat in the face of this heavily modified American behemoth. A hundred, one-ten, one-twenty, the numbers climbing as quickly as his eye could follow, the digits flickering like an epileptic’s nightmare on the computerised dash. Brian all-but closed his eyes for a moment, revelling in this totally foreign sensation of power, of superiority over his fellow man. Then out of the side-window, he saw KFC flash past, and fear suddenly gripped his heart. How far past the restaurant was the roundabout? A few hundred yards at most. At a hundred and forty now, he slammed on the brakes, the heavy nose of the car dropping to the ground with a thud.

  Just in time to reveal the roundabout, a mere fifty yards ahead, and closing fast.

  He pressed harder on the brakes, the g-forces threatening to pluck his wide eyes from their sockets, but as potent as the car’s anchors were, even they couldn’t save him from his even more potent mixture of inexperience and stupidity. And so it was that at sixty miles per hour, he hit the roundabout head on, zooming up the grassy hill in the middle and launching the Camaro high into the air. For what felt like an eternity he soared, the roar of the tyres on the tarmac suddenly silenced, before gravity clawed at the car, angling it downwards, the street, the central reservation with its steel barrier, all rising ominously into view. With a gulp and that sudden dread that one always felt when they realised they’d massively and irreversibly fucked up, Brian closed his eyes.

  A horrific jolt, a loud bang, then a smash, that of tearing metal, followed by the squeal of protesting rubber. Finally, all sensation of motion having abated, Brian dared to open his eyes; he was still on the road, just the other side of the roundabout now, the street thankfully empty, no screeching lorries taking the chance to lunge forth and crush him into paste. After a few moments, st
ill breathing heavily, knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel, he noticed the biker pull up beside him once more. The man flicked his visor open.

  “You alright mate?” he called through the open window. “You caught some serious air! And you’ve smashed the reservation to pieces!”

  Brian gulped down his nerves and nodded.

  “I’m… I’m alright… I think.”

  “Proper job.” The biker regarded the Camaro, frowning. “Not a scratch on your car either. God knows how. Anyway, good race. See ya round.”

  With that, the biker sped away once more into dusk’s encroaching gloom, leaving Brian pondering his words; not a scratch? Surely the man must be mistaken, he thought, as he looked about, spying the shattered remains of the metal barrier littering the road. Nearby, a lamppost leaned at an uncomfortable angle, its light flickering on and off. God, he was gonna get in trouble for this. Deciding discretion to be the better part of valour, Brian pressed the throttle, far more gently this time, and continued on his way, cursing his stupidity and shaking with nerves, both from the terrifying crash and the inevitable police-related drama that would no doubt be sure to follow should he linger too long. Through the winding centre of Penzance he drove, slower now, not showing off, still imagining in his mind’s eye the embarrassing amount of damage he must have already inflicted to his pride and joy And yet, people still stopped and stared, suitably impressed as he passed; no laughs, no pointing, no jeers directed his way. Could it really be? No, it was impossible. Finally, nearing the end of the sea-front, just as the tourist town of Penzance began to merge with the fishing port of Newlyn, he turned into his side-road, before veering onto his haphazardly-paved driveway and stopping by his untrusty moped. Killing the engine, he took a deep breath, before climbing out of the car and readying himself to witness the extent of his handiwork.

  He blinked, stunned.

  Bertha was, as the biker had rightly pointed out, completely unharmed; not a scratch befouled her gunmetal paint; not a single dent could he see in any of the sensual lines. But how? Out of what kind of unobtanium had Friedrick crafted this machine to withstand such an impact so unscathed? A sudden flood of relief washed through his form and he all-but collapsed, leaning back against the car with a sigh. He’d expected to have written the machine off, to have had to go grovelling back to the Masters the very next day, explaining his actions. Such was his luck, such had always been his luck. And yet somehow he’d escaped that fate. He needed a drink, he decided, both to celebrate his fortune and to steady his nerves. How much had he spent last night with Neil? Only a tenner in ‘Spoons, but more in the other pubs after they’d been chased out by the mob; he’d needed a drink or five after the whole vampire-slaying escapade, just to get himself to sleep. Was it forty quid he’d spent? He couldn’t remember through the blur. Could have been fifty. That would leave him with either eighty or ninety pounds to last him the rest of the month. Enough, he decided, to get himself a crate of Doom Bar this night at least. What he’d do about bills thereafter, well, he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

  He made his way towards the small Co-Op at the end of his road, an alcoholic moth drawn to a neon green flame. The cash machine blinked, eager and waiting, in the wall outside, and he sauntered up to it, rifling in his pocket for his wallet. He withdrew his battered card, half plastic, half sellotape, feeding it to the hungry machine. He’d best check his balance, he thought. Not something he liked to do often; he followed the bury-your-head-in-the-sand approach to finances, assuming the best and buying until his card said no, but if he had enough left over from last night he resolved to treat himself to two cases of Doom Bar, instead of merely one. He pressed the Display Balance option on the screen, always sensing that strange dread, that of one just knowing he had less money than he hoped. The balance flashed up on the screen. He stared at it for a moment, face impassive, before pressing the button to print a mini-statement. The machine spat his card out, and he retrieved it, stowing it away safely in his wallet, before reaching for the printed slip that unfurled from its slot. He took it, slowly ambling away from the machine and angling the slip into the bright light of the Co-Op window so that he could see it more clearly. He nodded to himself with a pursed lip and a contemplative ‘hmm.’ Before fainting to the concrete pavement.

  Beside him, fluttering slowly to the ground, the printed slip landed face up, revealing a number that certainly ended in an eighty, but before it, had a one and more zeroes than Brian had ever seen in his life.

  Chapter Twelve:

  Laminated Book of Dreams

  His head hurt, but then it had done quite often of late, through one reason or another. This time it was self-inflicted; half a dozen bottles of Doom Bar lay empty on the coffee table before him. He shouldn’t have drunk them on an empty stomach, he knew. In fact, thinking about it, he’d not even had anything to eat the entire previous day, always seemingly too busy either being terrified, humiliated or getting the crap beaten out of him to find time for so much as a sandwich. Come to think of it, the Masters hadn’t even offered anything, not even finger snacks. Rude. But despite the hangover that weighed on his head like a lead hat, he studied the Welcome Pack before him intently, munching on a bowl of Weetabix as the morning sun streamed in through the gap in his living room curtains. Real, proper-brand Weetabix, not cheap imitation.

  He could afford such luxuries these days, it seemed.

  It had been in a state of shock that he’d made his way home from Co-Op that night before, having been woken from his faint by the enthusiastic licks of a border terrier. Only moments after he’d risen unsteadily to his feet, the dog had cocked his leg and pissed where he’d been lying. Good dog, he’d thought to himself, for doing things that way round. Still struck numb by the fact he was now wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice, he’d done the only thing he could think; go into Co-Op and buy beer, before returning home and drinking it in a daze before the TV, watching but not taking in anything on the screen. It was only now, the following morning, that it had finally started to sink in; he was rich, bills now a non-issue, just as the Order had promised.

  He could do anything with that money, he’d thought to himself at first. He could disappear, book a flight, bugger off to some far off sunny island and live the rest of his life in luxury. It would have been so easy. And yet even as he’d through those treacherous thoughts, some small, insistent part of him strangely rebelled at that idea. The very same part of him that he’d resolved not to listen to what felt like a lifetime ago, in that stinky pub bog. The car, the money; the sudden ability to fight, if somewhat temperamentally; the ability to Blink, or whatever Heimlich had called it; all of these things added up, merging to create some strange nagging sense of… longing? Curiosity? He could feel it, despite his still ever-present fear. Some part of him was now almost eager to embrace this new life. Well, no, eager wasn’t the right word; more like he was beginning to warm to the idea, in the same way that one might learn to tolerate brussel sprouts, thanks to the fringe benefits of gravy and meat that came with it. Nigh-limitless money and an indestructible muscle-car were sweet-enough gravy as to make the supernatural terrors he would no doubt face almost tolerable sprouts.

  Almost. It would take further research first.

  And so it was that he spent the morning reading through the Welcome Pack just as Heimlich had told him to do. In the light of day and in the comfort of his own home, not in the strange and fearful Sanctum, beset on all sides by Masters who seemed at once disappointed and annoyed with him, it actually made for quite interesting reading. The Camaro, Bertha, had an entire section devoted solely to her, a section that Brian had ravenously devoured. She could come at his whistle, apparently, like a dog, or KITT from Knight Rider. And not too dissimilar to KITT, her shell was treated with a compound that rendered her all-but invulnerable to harm. There’d been a list of the ingredients in that compound and he’d grimaced in distaste as he’d read such items as unicorn piss and knacker tears. How one
even got a unicorn to piss in a jar, even should such fairytales exist, he hadn’t a clue, and he’d no idea what sort of dread creature a knacker was or what could make such a thing cry, yet he’d seen for himself the proof in the invulnerability of the car the night before. Where another car might have been smashed to oblivion, Bertha had been mercifully untouched.

  The mysterious deposit of a million pounds sterling had been explained too; a stipend, the same amount, paid each year into every Helsing’s bank account, courtesy of the Order’s benefactors and, of course, adjusted for inflation. A million pounds every year, he’d thought as he’d read that passage again. Every year. His mind boggled at the sum, used to living off own-brand food, with the odd beer and a used game purchase his only luxuries. Of course, the document had detailed how he was supposed to spend that money; travel, accommodation, no lavish expenses. Did an Alienware PC to replace his own ageing rig count as lavish, he’d wondered? Probably. He learned that he had to submit his expenses each month, that the Order could keep tabs on his spending and no doubt reprimand him should he start abusing his fortune. A small price to pay, he admitted with a shrug, to know that his recent unemployment wasn’t going to end in bailiffs knocking at his door.

  This new section he was reading, however, dealt with darker matters than the car and money. It was a mini-bestiary, a small encyclopaedia of the various creatures he could expect to face during his tenure as Helsing. It was with a trembling hand and a tinge of hesitation that he turned the page to begin this section, knowing that this part, out of the entire Welcome Pack, might be what caused him to fear more than ever this new career that had been thrust upon him. In alphabetical order the monsters were listed, the entries looking for all-the-world like those in some role-playing game, with drawings, brief descriptions and stats beside each, rating their commonness and abilities out of five. He skimmed through them, his heartbeat growing faster with each new sentence he read. Most of the creatures he didn’t even recognise the names of; what was a Black Annis? A cockatrice for that matter? And wasn’t a Redcap a toadstool? Finally, flicking through the alphabet of doom with greater and greater haste, he reached the entry that made him stop and pause, for he’d already encountered this particular monster twice already in as many days.