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

by Gareth K Pengelly

  In the windshield of the Camaro, lit by the silvery light of the full moon, XII regarded him with sad and knowing eyes that sent a shiver down his spine.

  Chapter Twelve: To Kill Or Not To Kill

  Between the unseasonably warm rays of the spring sun overhead and the pungent haze of marijuana smoke that hung over the little group, Brian’s head was swimming. Neil and Scylla seemed cheerful, but then they almost always were, especially here and now in the midst of a music festival, with partygoers streaming on either side of the little circle, and banjos and drums blaring out from the stage at the far end of the field. The mood, despite the heavy mud that clung to everyone and everything, was light, the small group of werewolves and Brian’s two companions laughing as they sat on logs, chatting and passing around the blunt. And yet Brian didn’t laugh. He scowled. For once more he was struck by how normal and human his ‘prey’ were.

  And that made his job all the more difficult.

  Craig, the new ‘alpha’ of the pack, following the untimely departure of Barry outside the barn the night before, took a sup of cloudy cider and regaled the group with yet another humorous anecdote of his life on the road. Full of long-haired hippy charm, with a large, pink tattoo of a love-heart on his right cheek, not an inch of him looked like a killer. Then again, neither did any of the others in the little group of werewolves; men, women, all various ages, shapes, backgrounds, yet all chilled and hippyfied, seemingly simply happy to be in the company of like-minded people who all knew what the other was going through. A shared burden of guilt, lessened by good humour, good weed and good company. It was hard to dislike any of them, let alone ponder how to go about killing them, should the need arise.

  “And so Barry told me,” Craig continued, “if you don’t get in that bloody Biffa bin and let me chain it behind you, I’ll blow this dog-whistle. And he did. You should have seen the look on his face as he clasped his ears and fell to the ground. I told him, it’s a whistle, not a fucking water-pistol; it doesn’t just aim in one direction.”

  The little group chuckled at the story, one they’d no doubt heard a million times before. Neil dried his eyes, and asked the hippy.

  “So even when you’re in normal human form, you can still hear a dog-whistle?”

  Craig nodded.

  “Oh aye, mate. The longer you’re a werewolf, the more werewolf characteristics you carry over into your normal form. Look at these bad boys.”

  He used a finger to lift his upper lip, a pair of long canines visible beneath his wispy moustache. Neil nodded and whistled. Scylla rolled her eyes.

  “You call them teeth? Witness the fangs of a true apex predator of the sea.”

  She bared her teeth and willed her mouth back into its true shape, revealing a row of needle-like teeth, perfect for tearing flesh. The hippies gasped in wonder.

  “Amazing,” Aaron breathed.

  “And ironic,” Scylla laughed, resuming her human disguise once more. “Given that I’m a vegan.”

  “Then you’re in good company,” Craig laughed. “Because we all are too!” Brian blinked, and Craig noticed his disbelieving stare, before adding. “Well, obviously when we’re in human form.”

  “Obviously.”

  Neil elbowed Brian in the ribs and leaned over, whispering quietly into his ear.

  “Scylla’s teeth,” he breathed. “You’ve had them…?”

  “Yes,” Brian quickly interrupted. “She’s very careful. Also, shut up. You make me incredibly uncomfortable at times.”

  A voice came over the tannoy, announcing the next act; Mumford and Sons. The small group sat up at attention, smiles abounding.

  “Shall we?” Aaron asked the group at large, as, with a chorus of nods, they all began to rise.

  As they did, Brian made his way over to Craig and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Can I have a quick word, mate?”

  “Sure.”

  The two left the rest of the group to stream towards the stage, Brian heading over to a burger stand and ordering himself a double cheese and bacon burger. His stomach growled at him in anticipation; it had been a long and tiring night on far too little food. He ignored the hippy’s disapproving and quasi-hypocritical look as he took his first bite into the wide, flat catering burger.

  “What can I help you with, Helsing? We owe you a great deal for not just burning us alive in the barn whilst we were trapped. I doubt very much your predecessor would have dealt with us so humanely.”

  Indeed, Brian thought darkly. But then XII was quite possibly a wiser man than he.

  “Where are you off to after this full moon?” Brian asked the man.

  “Not sure yet,” the hippy shrugged. “There’s a pagan festival in France in a couple of weeks. We were thinking of taking a coach down there; the French know how to party. And their wine goes very well with some dank ganja.”

  “I’m sure it does.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  Brian took another bite of his burger and chewed as he pondered how to phrase his next words.

  “Someone told me that my helping keep you contained this full moon is just a sticking plaster. Just delaying the inevitable. And I can’t help thinking that they’re right. Who’s going to keep an eye on you guys when you’re in France?”

  “We will,” Craig told him, eyes quite unreadable. “Same as we always do. We’ll find somewhere to hole up, limit the numbers that go out on the prowl each night. There’s boar and deer aplenty in French forests.”

  “I don’t doubt that. But what if the worst comes to the worst? What if some poor French bugger winds up getting eaten? I mean, it was seals, a deer and a sheep this time. Hopefully just another sheep tonight. But what if next time it’s a Frenchman? Or even a French child?”

  “It won’t happen. We’re careful.”

  Brian stared into the man’s eyes as he took another bite of his burger. Slowly, he allowed the man’s subconscious thoughts to fill his mind’s eye. Visions of death, of carnage, of blood and pain all-but rocked him back on his feet. He could smell the coppery-tang of blood, feel the glistening sliminess of organs running through his fingers. Not all of them animal in origin. Could the man himself even recall these memories, with them being those of the beast within? Maybe, maybe not.

  “It’s happened before,” Brian told him.

  The hippy visibly paled, before replying.

  “Accidents happen,” he admitted.

  “Some accidents shouldn’t ever be allowed to happen.”

  “We know that even more than you do, Helsing, trust me. But what would you have us do? Roll over and let you kill us, here and now? We love life, as everyone does. And we’re trapped by a curse not of our own making. We have to live with the guilt of these occasional accidents, yet we can’t stop living. We instead just keep on going, distracting ourselves, making merry and hoping beyond hope that one day there’s a cure. There’s nothing more we can do. We’re not evil people for wanting to live, my friend.”

  Brian’s stony face softened for a moment.

  “I know you’re not.”

  And he meant it; so far, out of all the supernatural creatures he’d encountered, only the vampires had been truly evil. The banshee had been a creature trapped by betrayal and not allowed to move on to the hereafter. The Nymphs, merely misguided, not knowing that humans had far more virtues than simply being a source of protein. And these werewolves, as Craig had rightly pointed out, were afflicted by a curse that they’d done nothing to bring upon themselves. Vampires, on the other hand, regardless of whether they’d once started off as ordinary humans, over the course of their immortal lives grew to see humans as nothing more than playthings, their lives of no consequence, theirs to be toyed with and snuffed out on a whim.

  “Good. Now come on, Helsing,” Craig suddenly told him, face breaking out in a warm smile that swept away the melancholy of before. “Mumford and Sons are about to start.”

  With that, the alpha werewolf turned and skipped merril
y away through the crowd, to join their companions by the stage, leaving Brian alone with his thoughts. The brief conversation with the man had left Brian more conflicted than ever. The lycans were truly trying their best to not cause harm to the human populations wherever they travelled. And yet, just a brief glimpse into Craig’s mind had shown Brian all he needed to see; mistakes happened, people getting too near to the wolves’ nightly patrols and finding themselves devoured. Devoured with remorse, perhaps, but that was no doubt small comfort to those unfortunate innocents who found themselves being flushed down the toilet the very next day. What to do? He needed advice. And there was only one, extremely smelly, place he could find it.

  Luckily, with the band about to start, the queues for the portaloos were short. Brian strode up to one of the tall, blue plastic sheds, the toilet looking for all the world like a Tardis. Or Turdis, more like. He gulped, having always hated these things at every outdoor concert he’d been to in the past. With a deep intake of air, he reached for the handle and opened it, stepping inside and immediately regretting it as his foot squelched upon something soft and unnameable. Closing the door behind him and locking it, he turned, eyes stinging from ammonia, and looked into the tiny square mirror above the plastic sink.

  “XII? You there mate? I could use some advice.”

  His reflection in the stained and scratched mirror flickered, becoming older, and, these days at least, even more familiar than his own.

  “I’m always… for fuck’s sake, lad. A portaloo?”

  “I’m at a music festival. Closest mirror to hand.”

  “What the hell is that on the wall? Is that shit? How the hell do you get shit on a wall?”

  “God knows. I sometimes wonder if humans are worse than the monsters I’m supposed to protect them from.”

  “Good, then you’re beginning to learn. Anyway, what can I do you for?”

  Brian went to take a deep breath before answering, then thought better of it.

  “The werewolves. I’m torn, XII. I really don’t know what to do.”

  “Let me guess?” the old man ventured, his eyes twinkling with something halfway between amusement and fatherly concern. “You find them quite likeable?”

  “I do.”

  “Starting to become a habit of yours, this. First, the Nymph. Now, the lycans.”

  “I know. They’re extremely nice when they’re in their human form. Just ordinary people, if a bit smelly and perpetually stoned. But they wouldn’t harm a fly. They’re vegan.”

  “Seems to be catching, this veganism.”

  “Indeed. But at the same time, I’ve been thinking on your words from last night. You’re right; if I keep them alive this time, it’s only pushing the danger on a community elsewhere. They’re talking about going to France. There’s no way I can follow them everywhere and make sure they’re always fed and secured every full moon.”

  “Then you know what you have to do, Brian,” the shade told him sadly.

  “I know. But I really don’t want to.”

  The spectre of his predecessor stared off into space for a moment, as though sensing something that Brian couldn’t.

  “I don’t think you’ve much choice, I’m afraid, lad. I very much suspect your hand is about to be forced.”

  Before Brian could even ponder the meaning of the ghost’s words, a sharp rap at the door, followed by a voice that chilled Brian to the bone, far more so than even Cassandra’s.

  “Yo, Helsing. You in there?”

  Gertie.

  Chapter Thirteen: MDM Eh?

  “They’re still alive?”

  Gertie’s voice was incredulous, and rightly so. Brian shifted and squirmed uncomfortably beneath her gaze. Beneath was probably the wrong word, towering over a foot above her as he was, though Gertie, as with the other Masters, had a way of making him feel far smaller than his six foot seven.

  “Erm. Well, we kind of came up with an alternative plan.”

  “Let me guess, you’re going to try to feed them and keep them contained?”

  “How did you…?”

  Gertie shook her head, her twin pigtails of rainbow hair flapping about, lending her the appearance of a disapproving pixie albeit one in a tight leather biker jacket and even tighter leather jeans. It was a look at once amusing, sexy and, to Brian at least, deeply perturbing.

  “You’re not the first Helsing to think of it. IX tried it, back in the day. Guess what? It didn’t work. He saved the population of one village, for which the people were no doubt very grateful, but only a month later several poor bastards up in the Pennines got eaten. By the very same wolf pack, no less, who had promised IX that they would be able to control themselves. Same old story, repeating itself again. You need to learn from your predecessors’ mistakes, Helsing. Each incarnation of the Hunter should be better equipped than the last, not doomed to repeat their errors.”

  “Yes, I understand that. And I’ve been having second thoughts about the whole thing myself.” He daren’t speak to her of his conversations with XII; thus far, none of the Masters had shown any indication that they were able to see the spectre, not even Heimlich, the Master of Magic himself. He didn’t want them to think he was losing his marbles, even though he strongly suspected at times that he was. “I like them, as people. They’re nice, normal – insofar as hippies can be – and perfectly reasonable. But I’ve glanced into their leader’s mind and this pack has killed people in the past. I know it’s not their fault, not really, but I won’t have any future bloodshed on my hands, not if I can help it.”

  “Good,” Gertie told him, nodding as if satisfied. “So you’re going to finish the job? What’s your plan?”

  “I’ve not really thought that far yet,” he admitted. “Fairly certain I’m high from second-hand weed smoke at the moment. Plus, it’s hard to concentrate with that folksy racket coming from the stage. But we’re supposed to be barricading the pack in the barn again tonight, then feeding them a sheep. I’m thinking if we set the barn on fire after they’ve changed…”

  The words hurt him even to say, for he couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that he was somehow planning the wholesale murder of innocent people. But what choice did he have? If Gertie saw his inner conflict, she paid it no heed.

  “Good. Sounds like a plan.”

  “Why are you here anyway?”

  “Heimlich sent me. GPS tracker showed your car parked up near the Festival and he thought Neil might have convinced you to skive off.”

  “Skive off?” It was Brian’s turn to be incredulous now. “I’m lazy when I can get away with it, I’ll grant you. Who isn’t? But skiving off when there’s a pack of fucking werewolves roaming about the place? Is the man an idiot? Does he have that little respect for me? I’ve half a mind to slap his shiny, bald head when I get back.”

  “If you get back,” she told him. “There’s the small matter of a werewolf pack to deal with first. Anyway, now I’m here and I’m satisfied you’re not just bunking off, I might as well enjoy the fact I’m at a music festival. Now where can a girl get some ecstasy around here?”

  Brian stared at her, lost for words. One moment she was lecturing him about duty, the next ready to get her rave on. He’d long suspected the Masters were all mad as a box of frogs, and Gertie, it seemed, was no exception.

  “You… I… what?”

  “Well, I’m not gonna be enjoying this folksy, hipster noise whilst sober, am I? It’s hardly Megadeth.”

  “Well, quite. And if you’re really intent on getting high, I’m sure Neil has his stash on him. He’s with Scylla over near the stage.”

  Brian cringed, even as he spoke the name.

  “Oh, Scylla’s here too?”

  As the Master of Combat left him, swishing her way through the crowd towards the stage, Brian slapped himself on the forehead. Things were going from bad to worse, it seemed. At first he’d been worried that werewolves, with all their size, strength and speed, would be too tough a foe to face. Then, having finall
y found them, he’d suddenly realised he didn’t really want to kill them after all, though it seemed that he didn’t really have a choice in the matter. And now, to top it off, Gertie was here to stick her beak in. Not only was he about to betray the trust of those who thought he was there to help, but when the shit finally hit the fan, Scylla wouldn’t even be able to help him, not with Gertie in tow.

  Not for the first time, and no doubt not for the last, Brian sighed at how complicated his life always seemed to turn out, before making his way through the crowd after Gertie, ready to intervene before she caused too much drama.

  He found his group there at the very foot of the stage, on the other side of the barriers, amidst the security guards, bouncing up and down in reckless abandon as the band blasted out a faux-country limerick, all tin-whistles and cow-bell, that for some reason the crowd lapped up. Brian moved through the crowd to the front, then made to pass the barriers to join his friends, but a burly security guard stepped in front of him, barring his way.

  “No-one past this barrier, mate.”

  “But my friends are over there.”

  The guard glanced over at Neil, Scylla and Gertie, with a handful of other festival-goers, all moshing at the foot of the stage, then back to Brian, then pointedly back to his friends again. Suddenly, it clicked; only the best looking of party-goers were allowed up front, where the cameras would zoom low over the stage and take in the sea of eager faces. His three friends were each, in their own way, stupendously good looking to any eye. Brian, on the other hand, was more of an acquired taste. A Picasso, compared to their Rembrandts.

  “How much?” Brian asked the man, reaching for the wallet he’d thankfully had the foresight to stock chock-full of twenties before coming on this mission.