Brian Helsing: The World's Unlikeliest Vampire Hunter Box Set 1 - Missions 1-3

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Brian Helsing: The World's Unlikeliest Vampire Hunter Box Set 1 - Missions 1-3 Page 9

by Gareth K Pengelly


  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.

  Vampire.

  He slowly, haltingly, read the description. A demon of the night, feeding upon the blood of the living. If they leave their victims alive, which is rare, the victim then shares the curse, becoming such a creature themselves, doomed to live forever, with a hunger in their bellies that can only be sated by still-warm human blood. Weaknesses: sunlight, impalement through the heart with wood. Total decapitation. Strengths: supernatural speed, strength and hypnotic charm. Almost invulnerable to harm bar the previous methods described. Rating: Speed 4/5, Durability 4/5, Strength 4/5, Magic 4/5, Overall 4/5. Considered extremely dangerous. Exterminate upon sight.

  Brian blinked. Four out of five? Four? He slumped back into his sofa. If a vampire was a four, what the hell constituted a five? And how big was the jump between ratings? Was a five merely slightly strong
er than a common or garden vampire? Or was it Cthulu? He hoped that whatever a five might be, he would never have to bump into it. However, some cynical part of him knew that, given his luck, he inevitably would.

  A buzzing from his pocket took him by surprise and he fumbled for his phone. Unknown Number. He frowned and answered, almost spitting into his phone.

  “Look,” he growled, exasperated. “I’ve had enough of these calls. I don’t have and never will have PPI. So stop wasting your time.”

  The voice on the other end of the line laughed.

  “Good morning to you, too, Helsing.” It was Heimlich, his voice as ever rich and full of mirth. “I trust you’ve been reading the Welcome Pack as I told you? And you’ve not been getting into any trouble with your new wheels?”

  “I… err… yes, I’ve been reading the Pack. Got it in front of me right now. And no, no trouble.”

  “Good. Because I heard tell of an incident near Sainsbury’s last night. Sounds like a car lost control, smashed through a barrier. Caused quite the scene, or so I’ve been told. I’m glad I can relax, knowing that you had nothing to do with it.” Brian could feel the sarcasm like a wet finger in his ear. “Anyway, if you’ve nothing better to do – and I’m sure you haven’t – then now would be a good time to make your way to the Mount. There’s more training to do, and no time to waste; your first mission is waiting for your attention.”

  Brian gulped, face paling, as his mind recalled the myriad and terrible entries he’d just read in that bestiary of things that shouldn’t be.

  “Already?” he croaked out.

  “Time and duty wait for no man, a Helsing no exception. And if you don’t want to end your first mission dead, then a tad more training should be top of your list of priorities. Don’t you agree?”

  Once more, the island of his imagination called. He could be sat on a beach, strawberry daiquiri to hand, a beautiful maid ready to massage away his troubles beneath the tropical sun. But he knew that was but a pipe-dream; no doubt the Order would track him down, bring him back by force, ring or no. Maybe Helsings got holiday entitlement, he thought hopefully? He’d have to read further into the Welcome Pack.

  “I’ll be leaving in ten,” he squeaked, defeated.

  “Make it five.”

  Chapter Thirteen: Once More Unto The Breach

  Half an hour later, after a painstakingly slow and careful drive through the morning rush hour, all the while keeping an eye out for blue flashing lights in his rear view mirror, Brian was nearly back at the Mount. As the Long Rock garage door closed behind him, he drove down the tunnel that led to the Sanctum garage, the burble of Bertha’s V8 echoing loudly from the concrete walls and causing his hung-over brain to rattle in his skull. After a less than a minute, he’d arrived at the garage itself, figures already waiting to greet him.

  “Good morning,” Heimlich said cheerfully, eyeing with amusement the bags under Brian’s eyes and the way he winced at the loudness of slam as he closed the car door behind him. “Glad to see you looking so refreshed.”

  “Had a restful night’s sleep,” he mumbled in return.

  “Too restful if you ask me.” It was Friedrick, eyeing him with a whirr and a click from his hissing chair. “You been up all night drinking? Knowing full well you had training today?” He took a great swig from his bottle, a curious glint in his eye. “You need to get your priorities straight, lad.”

  “It was a long day,” Brian retorted. And no doubt it would prove just as much so today. “I needed a couple to get me off to sleep.”

  “Indeed,” Heimlich mused. “Either way, you’re here, and that’s more than some of us expected. Now come; we’ve matters to attend to.”

  Brian followed them from the garage, up through the corridor to the Sanctum beyond. As usual, the central chamber was busy with workers. This time, looks of surprise greeted him. Surprise, mixed with a tinge of respect. They nodded to him as he passed and he nodded in return, not sure what to make of this strange change in mood, before following the two Masters towards the Snug. There, Gertie and Otto waited, already sat, eyes widening in something akin to happiness as he shuffled into the room.

  “Morning, Helsing. Pleased to see you’ve returned willingly,” Otto told him.

  “Never doubted you for a second, brave warrior,” Gertie said, wry smile wide on her face.

  “Hi,” he replied, watching the girl warily and remembering the bruises and cuts of yesterday, suddenly wondering what on earth had possessed him to return once more.

  “Our Scryers have gleaned some information,” Heimlich announced, gesturing for Brian to sit on a couch. “A creature has surfaced in Bodmin. A demon long-thought banished from England and confined now only to Ireland and the Isle of Man. A Banshee.”

  A banshee? Brian had of course heard the name before, but couldn’t quite picture them in his mind, or even recall what they did. He didn’t have to wonder for long, as Heimlich nodded to Otto, who pressed a button on a remote, a projector screen whining its way down the wall before flickering with images.

  “Banshees are demonic spirits,” he explained, pressing his button and displaying various images on the screen; bedraggled women, all long, untamed hair, windswept dresses and, perhaps somewhat unsurprisingly, ample cleavages. “Usually the spirits of women who’ve been spurned by lovers and killed themselves; bound to Earth by unrequited love and a sense of shame, banshees often appear in Ireland to herald impending deaths. They do this by howling blue murder through the night, keeping people awake and generally proving a bloody nuisance. It appears one such creature has somehow found its way to Cornwall. And it’s scaring the shit out of the people on the outskirts of Bodmin.”

  Once upon a time, Brian would have raised an eyebrow, maybe even snorted in derision, dismissing the man as a loon. After all he’d already seen, however, he merely nodded, numb, not wanting to yet perfectly able to believe what he was being told.

  “Understandably,” Heimlich spoke now, “our benefactors are keen to downplay the existence of the paranormal to the general public. Too much evidence of ghostly goings on can cause unrest. And so we need to dispose of this banshee, and swiftly. The sanity and general productivity of the people of Bodmin depends upon it.”

  Brian held a hand up at this.

  “Wait, so let’s get this straight; when you keep saying benefactors, you mean the government, right? The people that fund us, that pay my stipend, it’s the British government, isn’t it? So what, we’re like a supernatural Rentokil at her majesty’s beck and call?”

  The Masters all glanced at each other, before Heimlich shrugged.

  “Yeah. Kind of.”

  “Fair enough, just thought I’d get it clear in my own head. So right, I’ve got to kill a banshee. Got it. But how? You said it’s a ghost? How do you kill something that’s already dead? What are we talking; salt? Iron? Exorcism?”

  Something didn’t feel right, Brian thought. He was too coherent, a distinct lack of passing out going on, asking questions where usually he’d be a gibbering wreck. Where were his nerves? Where was the insistent urge to run, leaving a trail of urine from his fear-loosened bladder behind him? He suddenly realised the truth; the fear was still there, running like a current beneath the surface. It was merely buried beneath an overwhelming sense of grinding inevitability. He knew, despite everything, that it was his destiny to go out and face this monster, and the next one, and the one after that. Nothing could alter that now.

  And being scared wouldn’t change that. And so, when Gertie spoke, he paid attention, knowing that his life now depended upon listening to and learning from these strange folk and all their bizarre wisdom.

  “You’re right, you can’t kill a ghost,” she told him, a strange glimmer of anticipation in her eyes, as though ready to unleash some joke, of which no doubt he’d be the butt. “But you can placate them.”

  Brian sighed, closing his eyes, before reopening them and fixing her with a tired gaze.

  “Go on
then… how?”

  “The banshees are women,” she said. “And like all women, they don’t take kindly to being scorned. They see it as meaning that they’re not beautiful enough, not worthy of love. That’s why they’re not able to pass over to the hereafter; they still haven’t forgiven the men who spurned them.”

  Brian stared for a moment, suddenly realising where this was headed.

  “Wait… you want me to flirt with them, don’t you?” Her amused grin was the only answer he needed. “You can’t be serious? I’ve got to flirt with a ghost? What, bring her flowers, tell her she’s pretty?”

  Heimlich nodded, face serious.

  “It’s true, Helsing. A ghost such as a banshee can’t be harmed through physical means, but if you can help her forget the pain of rejection, if you can convince her that she truly is beautiful and worthy of love, then her ties to this world will be broken; and she – and the people of Bodmin – can finally get the rest they deserve.”

  “Flirt? Have you met me? Jesus, a stunning vampiress threw herself at me and all I could do was freeze up. I’ve had one serious girlfriend and I suspect she was part of some outreach to the neckbeard program.” He had a sudden thought. “Send Neil, he’s got a way with the ladies. He’d have her buttered up and packed off to heaven with one bat of his dreamy blue eyes.”

  “They were dreamy,” Gertie nodded.

  “See?”

  Heimlich shook his head.

  “No, he would be killed in short order. Banshees are dangerous foes until calmed down.”

  “Wait, how can she be both immune to harm and still able to harm the living? That doesn’t sound fair, she can’t have it both ways.”

 

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