Max Helsing and the Beast of Bone Creek

by Curtis Jobling

  “We prefer to call them Sasquatch,” said Kimble, glaring at the big Brit as he strode through the mist and debris.

  “Whatever. That’ll do me.”

  Jed seized the young man by a massive bicep. “You can stop right there. You’re not laying a finger on that Sasquatch.”

  Nose-to-nose, Jed and Archer missed what followed. The satyr rose out of the mist behind Max, roaring, his one good arm reaching for the exhausted monster hunter. There was a whooshing sound as something heavy sailed through the air, followed by a resounding crack. The Woodsman’s Ax, Archer’s favorite toy, was buried in the satyr’s skull, splitting it like a ripe melon. Syd released her grip on the ax haft and let Gideon topple. He went down again, this time for good. Abel Archer shrugged.

  “I’ll take the satyr, then. That’s worth just as much on the open market.”

  Syd reached a hand down to Max. He seized it tight, allowing his friend to haul him to his feet. The two hugged. Jed was next over, as Kimble hopped across to Syd’s shoulder. She stood aside while the old man gave Max a squeeze that almost rearranged his vertebrae.

  “You had me worried there for a while, knucklehead,” he murmured quietly, his breath warm and comforting against Max’s scalp.

  “I can’t believe you gate-crashed my vacation,” said Max with a grin. “Soooo embarrassing.” He turned to the others. “And you brought Wing, too? What were you thinking?”

  “Trust me, he didn’t come with my blessing.” Jed scratched his head. “I have to admit, though, he was more than a little helpful. Kid’s got skills. Got us a rookie monster hunter there, I reckon.”

  Max put a hand on Wing’s shoulder. “Are you okay, Wing? This must have all been pretty traumatic, yeah?”

  Wing’s face was pale as Archer strode past them, bending to retrieve his ax from the slain satyr. “This . . . was . . . epic!”

  Then Wing was off, yammering excitedly about all that he’d experienced and done on this most amazing of nights. Max felt something bang into his leg, almost bowling him over. Eightball was leaping up into his arms, giving him a great, slobbering lick. Max hugged the hellhound back, wiping the spittle off his face in the process.

  “You haven’t been giving him his dental sticks, have you?” asked Max.

  “Why?” said Jed.

  “His breath smells like brimstone,” he said, placing the excited puppy back down. “And ass.”

  “Dental sticks are hard to come by in the wilds of Bone Creek.”

  Max turned to Boyle and the pair from Minnesota.

  “Max,” said Sissy. “What you and Syd did back there, for me, Frank, and Kenny here. Well . . . it was just so neat.”

  Max grinned.

  “Think nothing of it. It’s what we do.”

  “Think nothing of it?” Frank gasped. “You’ve got to be crazy. You guys are honest-to-goodness heroes. We can’t thank you enough.”

  Max blushed and looked at Boyle. The bully seemed to have been injected with a triple shot of espresso.

  “Helsing, I’m gonna level with you. I had you so wrong. You’re one of the good guys. Scratch that—you’re like a rock star, a freakin’ superhero. What you did back there, it’s just . . . just . . . unbelievable. Like, mind-blowing! I’ve got your back now, pal. Whatever you’re doing, count me in. I owe you my life, buddy.”

  Max smiled. “Don’t sweat it, Kenny.”

  Jed put an arm around the boy and led him to one side with Wing as Max was left with Syd and Kimble.

  “Is it just me,” whispered Max, “or has Boyle completely lost it?”

  “Totally bananas,” agreed Syd, watching the bully as he enthused with Jed and Wing animatedly. The pair from Minnesota stood apart, hugging each other, more than a little shell-shocked. “Frank and Sissy, too. They seem all right now, but it’s going hit them hard when it all comes back to them. The abduction? The imprisonment? The monster? They’ll go crazy.”

  Max nodded. “And the whole New Best Friend thing, that can never work. This could be the end of everything that we’re doing. The whole monster hunting thing, everything we’ve struggled to keep hidden from the norms, all my family’s work for centuries—ruined by some well-meaning but big-mouthed reformed school bully blabbing my secrets to the world.”

  “What about the bigfoot?” asked Syd, looking across to where it lay in the mist, Jed already kneeling over its body.

  “There must be something we can do,” said Max, setting off toward the fallen giant. Kimble reached across from Syd’s shoulder and seized the boy by his hoodie.

  “You do nothing, Maxwell,” said the little man. “Bone Creek will take care of its fallen.”

  Before Max could ask any questions, Kimble gave a nod toward the trees. Max turned, and his jaw dropped. They were no longer alone. Slowly, the forest around the camp came to life. To their right, a shape peeled away from the nearest tree, a great hairy arm swinging down to the figure’s side. Another loomed forward from between the mist-shrouded pines, making no sound at all on those broad and mighty feet. A third emerged from around the boulders on the creek, pacing forward across the grass, its huge, sloping forehead bowed as it approached its fallen kin.

  Max pulled Syd close in anticipation, as the other humans drew together. Jed retreated, hands raised peaceably, bumping into a stunned Abel Archer as he backed away. He dragged the Brit with him, back to the others, as their eyes searched the forest for more of the Sasquatches. The three figures bent down, lifting their brother between them. They held him lovingly, one big arm trailing limp to the ground. Their faces were lost in the darkness, but their eyes, golden amber, fixed upon Max. His breath caught in his chest. Then the trio turned, setting off toward the safety of their forest.

  Max spied a tear rolling down Syd’s cheek. She smiled and squeezed his hand.

  “You did some real good here, Max Helsing,” she said with a sniff.

  Max didn’t reply. He was watching the trio of norms, who stood staring at the bigfoot show, stunned into disbelief. Their lives would never be the same. Boyle turned around and caught Max looking. Max smiled and Boyle gave him a thumbs-up.

  “Crapsacks,” said Max.

  “Not to worry, Max Helsing,” said Kimble, from his vantage point on Syd’s shoulder. He beckoned the two of them in close and ran his fingers across the reeds of his panpipes. “I may be able to help you with that.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  HOMEWARD BOUND

  The last of the bags were being loaded into the luggage compartments on the side of the bus by Mrs. Loomis, Mr. Mayhew, and Ms. Golden. Max, however, was keeping a firm hold on his messenger bag, which strained with oddly shaped contents. He ached all over thanks to the injuries he’d sustained the previous night, and although Mrs. Loomis had tended the worst of his wounds, a trip to the ER in Gallows Hill wouldn’t go amiss. Principal Whedon was making himself as useful as possible to his colleagues, by chatting with the Greenwoods, the guesthouse owners. The school party had stayed there for only one night. The vacation week had been cut short by all the ghastly goings-on in Bone Creek. Jed stood a ways down the street beside his station wagon, speaking with Frank and Sissy. The woman glanced Max’s way, giving him a big cheery wave, which Max returned.

  “Well, Max,” said Abel Archer, coming up from behind and clapping a shoulder-dislocating hand onto Max’s back. “It’s been emotional, chum.”

  “For you, perhaps. It’s been exhausting for me.”

  He couldn’t believe he still had to endure a four-hour road trip aboard a rickety school bus, accompanied by the shrieks of his schoolmates, all to the tune of Mrs. Loomis’s awful radio station selections. There were fiery pits in the depths of the Undercity that were more appealing right now.

  Archer straddled his Harley, the panniers loaded down with two enormous bundles covered with tarpaulin. A dark stain had spread on one of them, whil
e the other seemed to be concealing the curved edge of an enormous goat horn.

  “Is he . . . all there?” asked Max, pointing at the bloody packages.

  “Most of him, all the bits I could find anyway, and those that I’ve got buyers for. The rest I fed to the bears.”

  Max shivered. “You got everything you need?” he asked, out of politeness more than anything. A trio of girls was hammering on the bus windows above, trying to catch Archer’s attention, but the Brit ignored them. Instead, he looked down the street at Jed, then whispered to the younger boy.

  “Remember, you know where I am. When you’re done playing sidekick to that old fart, and you want to embark on some real monster hunting, you give me a call, capisce?”

  “Don’t break any speed limits on the way out of town, Archer.”

  “I’ll see you around, chum,” said the Brit, hoofing his kickstand as his bike growled into life. Then he was away, waving at the kids on the bus as he tore up the road and sped out of town.

  “What a colossal buttmunch,” muttered Max, as Mrs. Loomis marched past him into the bus.

  “Language, young man.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Loomis.”

  He set off toward Jed, passing Whedon coming the other way.

  “No lollygagging, Helsing,” said the principal, pointing at the passing boy. “I’ve got my eye on you.”

  Max shook his head. Great to know that his saving Whedon’s bacon had brought about a thaw in their relationship. He may have been in pieces twenty-four hours earlier, but thanks to Jed and Max, the principal was back to his irritable and impatient best.

  “Max,” said Jed as the boy walked up to the old man and the young couple. “You’ve met Mr. Gunderson and Ms. Peterson already, I believe?”

  “Sure,” said Max. “At the general store the other day. Have you had a nice time in Bone Creek?”

  “It’s been neat!” Sissy grinned as Frank threw an arm around her shoulder.

  “Beautiful part of the world,” he added. “We must come back. You guys have a pleasant journey back to Boston, now.”

  The couple shook hands with Jed and set off up the road, the tin cups and plates clanking from the bottom of their backpacks. Thanks to Kimble, the Minnesotans were blissfully unaware of what they’d actually endured. Their memories had been rebuilt by fairy magic. Imprisonment in a dungeon had been replaced by skinny-dipping in the creek and camping under the stars. Max hoped the brownie charms remained in place for an eternity and then some.

  When they were out of earshot, Max whispered to Jed. “About the deaths, Jed . . .”

  “Don’t worry. They caught the animal that killed Mr. Cooper, the reporter. It also killed poor Mr. Gideon as well: a big-ass timber wolf with black fur.”

  Max smiled as the old man continued.

  “That should satisfy everyone’s search for answers. Then the woods and mountains can return to normal, for the natural inhabitants . . . and Kimble’s friends.”

  Wing sat in the front seat of Jed’s station wagon, Eightball on his lap like a bloated black beach ball. Max made the sign to wind down the window, and the ten-year-old obliged.

  “I meant to say,” said Max, fishing around in his battered messenger bag. “I got you a souvenir.” He pulled out the cracked base of a shattered snow globe and passed it through, dodging a lick from Eightball in the process.

  “You shouldn’t have,” said Wing, nose curling in disgust as he spotted the flecks of gore that still stained its edge.

  “It was all I could find in the store,” said Max with a shrug. “However, I did manage to grab something a bit better last night.” He reached back into the satchel and pulled out a large, curving parcel, wrapped up in ancient animal hide, the kind one might find on an antique kayak. “If your folks ask, just tell them it came from a ram, okay, Wing?”

  The kid’s eyes went like dinner plates as Eightball growled at the package.

  “Epic!” he shouted, as he wound the window back up.

  Max turned back to Jed. “You sure I can’t ride back with you?”

  “What do I look like? A taxi service? You came with your friends, you can head back with your friends.”

  “Fine,” Max grumbled, staring at the big yellow bus. Yellow. It came back to him. “Jed,” he called before the old man could get in his car. “Back at the hermit’s shack, the suckers that Gideon sent there to kill me—one of them said something strange.”

  Jed arched a bushy eyebrow. “Yeah?”

  “He said the King in Yellow was coming for me. I’ve heard that name before. The business with Udo Vendemeier last year; he was a high priest of the King in Yellow, right?”

  Jed said the name quietly, as if uttering it might summon a storm or worse. “Hastur.”

  “Should I be worried?”

  “Max.” Jed sighed, opening the station wagon door. “You’re a Van Helsing. You should always be worried.”

  Max nodded, not entirely pleased with the answer. “See you back at Helsing House.”

  “Not if I see you first,” replied Jed, clambering into his car as Max climbed into the bus.

  The kids of Gallows Hill jeered as he boarded, the last person to take his seat. He walked down the aisle, past a scowling Whedon who did the quick one-two with his fingers, pointing them at his own eyes and then Max. He passed JB, who looked up and smiled. Max was left wondering just how much JB was aware of the monstrous happenings in Gallows Hill and beyond. He plonked himself down next to Syd.

  “I didn’t see you screaming and blowing kisses at Boyband as he left,” he said, relieved that Syd hadn’t been drawn into the wave of Archermania that had swept through the female members of the bus. Even Mrs. Loomis had remarked upon what a handsome young man he was.

  “I’ve never been one to follow the crowd,” said Syd.

  Max smiled.

  She leaned close and whispered, “Besides, I said my good-byes to him earlier.”

  Max didn’t smile.

  He flinched as he felt a finger flick his earlobe. As he looked back at the seat behind, the freckled, grinning mug of Kenny Boyle loomed between the headrests.

  “If it isn’t Max Smellsing,” he said, as Ripley and Shipley laughed hysterically from the rear seat of the bus. “Thought I got a whiff of something nasty.”

  “Your nose must be too near your ass, Kenny.”

  Max flinched again as the red-haired imbecile gave him a slap across the top of his head before lurching back to his sycophantic fan club, triumphant.

  “Remind me again why we had Kimble erase Boyle’s memory?” whispered Max. “The idea of that nugget being kept awake by night terrors for the rest of his livelong life is growing more appealing by the minute.”

  “Too late, Smellsing.” Syd grinned as Mrs. Loomis gunned the bus engine. “The piper has piped; the deed is done.”

  “Well.” Max yawned. “I am beyond wiped out. If I ever suggest we go on a nature vacation, you have my permission to punch me. Repeatedly.” He rolled his bomber jacket up into a makeshift cushion and propped it against Syd’s shoulder. “Mind if I take a nap?”

  She let him settle, just as Mrs. Loomis cranked up the stereo and the bus pulled away, bouncing down the street.

  “You can try, Max,” she muttered, as Bone Creek rolled past beyond the dirty window. “You can try.”

  EPILOGUE

  Marseille, France

  The man in black looked hard into the dark liquid, watched it slosh around in swirling circles. As the motion slowed, his face stared back, pale as a ghost, rippling across the ever-changing surface. It could have been blood, that precious, powerful commodity that was the key to everything. His eyes remained fixed upon it as he felt the heat rise and inhaled the heady aroma. Placing both hands around the cup, he lifted it to his lips and took a long, savoring sip of his black coffee.

 
Brother Guillaume looked up from the drink and glanced about the truck stop café. He was the only customer at this late hour, perched on a stool at the counter. The café owner was banging around in the kitchen, washing pots at the end of a long busy day. A newspaper lay abandoned beside the cash register. Guillaume reached over and dragged it across the counter. He spun it around: La Provence, the local rag. It was dated April third. Had he really been traveling that long? The days had turned into weeks, had blurred into months. It had been a long, slow road from Buzau in Romania. Long and eventful.

  The man in black let his eyes drift across the paper, skipping from one article to the next. A piece caught his eye: the ongoing police investigation into some deaths at a travelers’ camp on the Swiss border, not far from Chamonix. It had been nice to pass by his hometown, albeit fleetingly. Guillaume smiled and pushed the paper away. It was good to be back in France, to see the words of his mother tongue all around him. He looked back at the grimy café interior. The bustling, beautiful heart of Marseille’s old town was only ten miles away, yet Guillaume was stuck in a truck stop shack. Still, this was where he was needed. He couldn’t leave Him alone, unprotected.

  He threw the last of the hot coffee down his throat and let the cup clatter onto the counter. Dropping a couple of Euros into the tip saucer, he slipped out the café door, the bell signaling his departure. He passed an executive Range Rover with blacked-out windows parked outside the entrance. Beyond that, the parking lot was empty. A few big trucks and eighteen-wheelers had taken berths around the stop, their drivers already sleeping in their tiny, cramped cabs. Guillaume’s Forzieri wing tips clicked against the tarmac as he marched through the darkness, his handmade Italian shoes one of many stylish indulgences. Suit from Savile Row, overcoat from Burberry, cuff links from Tiffany—fashion had always been a weakness of Guillaume’s. Well, one of them, anyway.