Dan and Frankie and the End of Everything

by Richard Langridge

  TWELVE

  IT WAS LATE EVENING by the time the first of the helicopters arrived.

  Not the heavily armoured helicopters I was expecting, mind you—you know, with the missiles, and stuff? It was a little compact-looking thing, black as coal, like something you’d expect some rich tycoon to use to get around in. Smooth, sleek glass for a front, giving the whole thing a domed look, with a couple of steel rods for legs. Really, it was a surprise they’d even allowed one up at all, given the state of the weather and all. But then, when you considered the stakes, losing a couple guys by helicopter crash was probably the least of the military’s worries.

  It touched down in the spot right where we were standing, rotor wash kicking up snow and sleet and sending clumps of the stuff flying in our direction—as if we weren’t covered enough already.

  The second the helicopter’s feet were safely on the snow, the sliding door slid back and a man emerged.

  It was the same man who had interviewed us after the whole thing back over at Lake Fairburn—Havisham, if I recalled.

  He extended his hand. ‘Mr Pratt.’

  So I guess here’s the perfect time to tell you some phone calls had been made.

  First, Espinosa had called her boss, who—after demanding to know every detail of the situation—had eventually agreed to put us through to somebody “higher-up”, who may or may not have worked for the CIA.

  Now, I know what you’re thinking, and no we didn’t tell him there were “aliens” trying to instigate the end of the world. I mean, come on. Truthfully, I’m not sure what Espinosa had told the guy to get him to take us seriously. All I know is that, whatever it was, it worked.

  After that, we were put through to somebody over at the NSA, who, after dilly-dallying for a good half an hour, had eventually put us through to somebody at the Pentagon, where, after yet more dilly-dallying, we were eventually put through to somebody at the White House. Or at least, I think it was the White House. To be honest, it was a very long and confusing process, and it wasn’t like I was really paying that much attention anyway.

  Again, I’m not sure what was said, or how exactly Espinosa managed to get them to listen to her—though I did hear both mine and Frankie’s names dropped a couple times, so maybe that had something to do with it, I’m not sure. We’re a pretty big deal.

  After a very long and awkward handshake, Havisham finally released my hand. He squinted up at the snow and sighed. Like Espinosa, he didn’t seem all that bothered by the fact there were a good baker’s dozen of extra-terrestrials currently standing around him being all extra-terrestrial and stuff. I wondered exactly how much he knew, if the whole “aliens living amongst us” thing was common knowledge now.

  ‘Hell of a day for a war,’ he said, eyes still pointed at the falling snow.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  We talked for a while, as we began to go over what he called our “plan of attack”. Emphasis on “our”. Yeah—seriously, don’t even.

  He told me about his team. The “Dead Revenants”, they called themselves, which, apart from sounding like a rejected thrash-metal band from the ’80s, didn’t even make sense. After the whole Belmont Grove incident, the government had supposedly decided to set up a new task force in an attempt to try to cope with the emerging Phony threat. Thus, the “Dead Revenants” had been born—or at least, I think that was how it went. Again, I wasn’t really listening.

  When he was done, I filled him in on Boot and her plan, about Gizmo and this supposed “Neverwas”.

  To his credit, he listened in complete silence, not even raising his eyebrows when I told him the part about the multi-eyed penis monster—which, speaking of penis monsters, we had since locked back up in Uncle Ger’s Emergency Shed, lest he get confused for a baddie and accidentally shot to death or whatever.

  When I had finished, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a little silver case. Inside was a row of expensive-looking cigars.

  He offered one to me.

  I shook my head. ‘No, thanks. I’m, uh... trying to quit.’

  He looked at me strange a moment, then popped one between his lips. More of the army guys had arrived by this point—all, I assumed, from the Pennyfield Air Force Base, what with it being the closest military installation and all. Hummers. Jeeps. Several of those big, six-wheel personnel carriers, green plastic sides flapping furiously in the wind. No tanks, though, which I thought was a bit of an oversight. If you weren’t going to bring out the big guns when the fate of the world was at stake, when were you?

  As we prepared to move out, I went to go find my “crew”.

  They were huddled by the panel van’s open rear doors, using them as shelter from the raging wind and snow. None were talking. Whereas before they had been all gung-ho and eager, now they just looked anxious. Like a gaggle of skydivers might upon just having been informed that only one of the parachutes they’re wearing between them works. Well, all except for Mr G, that was, who I noticed was looking especially calm and composed for somebody who had only hours before been on death’s door. Frankie also seemed pretty nonchalant, what considering the fact that, should we fail, the world was literally going to end—though that might just have been because of the brain damage he so clearly suffered from. I also had a sneaking suspicion he might have been playing Candy Crush, though I couldn’t be sure. And I just didn’t care enough to ask.

  I found a spot next to Mr G and settled in, welcoming the shelter the van’s doors provided.

  I followed his gaze out into the snow.

  ‘So,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘So.’

  ‘Listen, I’m, uh... sorry about the whole “banishing” thing. That’s got to suck. But I’ve got to ask—why’d you help us? I mean, you must have known what the outcome would be. Why’d you stick your neck out for us?’

  There was a moment where he didn’t say a single word, just continued to stare out at the falling snow.

  Finally, he said, ‘Are you familiar with Spider-man?’

  ‘The superhero?’ This took me aback. He just didn’t look like a comic book kind-of-guy.

  ‘There’s this saying Peter Parker uses,’ he continued. ‘ “With great power, comes great responsibility”. Basically, it means that those with the power to help others, have an obligation to do so.’

  I blinked.

  ‘Are you... telling me you’re Spider-man?’

  Holy shit. I knew it.

  He shot a glance at me. ‘What? No. I’m just saying—it’s an apt quote, is all. And unlike our mutual furry-friend, who is apparently happy to sit in his little cabin whilst the walls burn down around him, I, however, am not.’

  There was a moment of uncomfortable silence between us.

  Finally, I said, ‘So just to be absolutely clear—you’re not Spider-man?’

  He squinted at me. ‘You sure you’re the chosen one?’

  I shrugged.

  He stared blankly at me a moment, perhaps wondering if he should comment on this, before turning his attention back to the snow.

  I followed his gaze, my mind turning—as it always did during the quiet moments between monster-attacks—towards Abby. It felt like months since I had last seen her, even though, really, it was less than a week. I didn’t think I had ever wanted to see another human face so bad in my entire life. True, the fact there was a good chance I might never see her again could have had something to do with it. But whatever the case, in that moment, I missed her terribly.

  ‘Here—take this,’ said Mr G, pulling me back into the moment. He reached into his trench coat, pulled out the little wooden, imitation pistol from before. It looked even more ridiculous up close—not least of which because, from this distance, I could see it even had the word GUN written on it in what looked like faded Sharpie.

  ‘That’s okay,’ I said.

  ‘Please,’ he insisted, holding the gun out to me. ‘Take it. Consider it a thank you—for saving my life.’

  Well, if you call shov
ing your unconscious, bullet-riddled body into the trunk of your own car and completely forgetting about you “saving”, then, uh... yeah—you’re welcome.

  I looked at his stupid, handsome face.

  I sighed.

  ‘I mean, I guess I could—’

  He shoved it into my hand.

  ‘There you go. It’s all yours—but be careful with that thing. It’s not a toy.’

  Goddamnit.

  Suddenly, a soldier dressed all in black, with a contraption on his head I thought might have been a set of night-vision goggles, appeared.

  He searched the group, hesitating a moment as his eyes fell on the clearly not human folk amongst us, before eventually turning his gaze upon me.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, with a nod. ‘Time to head out.’

  ‘Uh... okay?’

  He disappeared back off to wherever he’d come from, boots crunching on snow.

  I turned back to the van, surprised to see everyone now up on their feet, eyes all bright and wide.

  Look at them. They think you’re their leader.

  I swallowed dryly.

  I didn’t want to be a leader. Despite what A’doy and his gang might believe, I was not leading-man material. Hell, I was a data key entry operator for an insurance firm—and not even a very good one, if we’re being totally honest here. At best, I was the guy killed in the first act by a tragic twist of fate, offering a heart-felt speech to the others before finally succumbing to his injuries, but whose death would provide ample motivation for the actual heroes with which to continue on their journey. I was filler. I was fucking collateral damage. Really, that was the best I could hope for.

  And yet the way they all looked at me, the way their eyes held my own, it was clear that, for whatever reason, these men trusted me. Trusted me enough to lead them to victory, or at the very least not get them killed—which just goes to prove one very important point, one I’ve been making for years.

  People are fucking stupid.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, not knowing what to say, but feeling as though I had to say something anyway. ‘Who’s ready to go kick some ass?’

  What happened next surprised me.

  They all raised their hands, fists held high, and began to cheer and whoop and laugh. Backs were clapped and palms were slapped; it was like we’d already won—which, if you asked me, was kind of tempting fate. But whatever.

  ‘THE KINGSLAYER!’ one of them cried—a guy in a navy snowsuit with bright red suckers on his hands and face, whose name I didn’t know, but that I decided I would from then on refer to as “Douche”.

  The others quickly followed suit, fists pumping the air, undeterred by the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

  I slowly nodded to myself.

  Yep. We were all going to die.

  PART 3

  A MELEE OF MONSTERS

  Excerpt from Merlot Daily, dated October 10th, 2015, from the article ‘Devil’s Spire sparks concern for locals due to ongoing construction work’:

  ...still unknown exactly what the cause for the ongoing work is, as an official announcement has yet to be issued; however officials for the site have stated that the work being carried out is strictly of a “maintenance” nature, and that no building or expansion work will be taking place.

  Furthermore, when asked exactly when members of the public could expect to see the site reopened, council representative Rickard Blakely stated that “Whilst we do not have an exact date at present, we will of course notify the public as soon as one is determined.”

  End of excerpt.

  INTERLUDE—PART 3

  LAKE STARED AT ME from across the (possibly) oak desk, his face pinched tight in concentration.

  It had been a very long time since he’d last spoken. A good couple hours, in fact. What was more, there was something different about his face now. I don’t mean like aesthetically different, like he’d suffered a catastrophic stroke or whatever. Regardless, there was a look in his eye now that I couldn’t place, and for that reason and that reason alone, I didn’t like it.

  I glanced over towards the window, noticing for the first time that the light had diminished considerably since first beginning my story. I wondered what the time was, if Lake had any other patients sitting outside in the corridor somewhere, patting their knees with their hands, wondering when the hell they were going to get their brains shrunk already.

  Just as I was thinking this, the light on the phone on Lake’s desk began to blink.

  When he made no move to grab it, I said, ‘Uh, do you need to get that...?’

  He blinked, seemed to come back to himself.

  ‘Hmm? Oh, yes. Yes—’ He picked up the receiver, told somebody called “Karen” to cancel his appointments for the rest of the day, before dropping it back into its cradle with a clatter.

  I blinked.

  Okay...

  He settled back in his seat. ‘Please—continue.’

  I noted the eagerness in his voice, the visible change in his posture. Like a kid at story time, only worse, because this was an adult. But there was something else to it, too. Something I couldn’t quite place. I didn’t know what was going on here, or what the sudden change in his manner meant.

  But it was very concerning.

  I looked at my imaginary watch. ‘Actually, it’s getting pretty late. I should probably—’

  Lake suddenly leaned forward. ‘No—don’t leave. We’re making a breakthrough here. Ending the story now could prove significantly detrimental to your recovery.’

  It could?

  I didn’t want to damage my brain any more than it already was.

  I let out a slow breath. ‘Well—okay, doc. I mean, if you’re sure—’

  ‘Oh, I am.’

  That look in his eyes again. That wild look. And was he sweating, too?

  But what was that old saying—in for a penny, in for a pound?

  THIRTEEN

  WE REACHED THE NEIGHBOURING town of Merlot a little over forty minutes later, pulling up at the entrance to the national park in a not-so-angry squeal of brakes.

  It had taken a lot longer getting to Merlot than expected, even when taking into consideration the treacherous conditions inflicted by the unrelenting sleet and snow. With the storm now at full-hurricane levels, we had been forced to abandon the choppers, endeavouring instead to travel to our destination by road.

  And it had been hell.

  Every road we took seemed to have a crash on it somewhere, forcing us to take detour after detour. It was surprising; you’d think the military would have some kind of contingency put in place for just these kinds of situations. But no. Possibly, it was due to the rushed nature of our mission, or the urgency with which we traveled. Really, I like to think they were simply as ill-prepared as the rest of us, because that would have been just my fucking luck.

  For obvious reasons, the ranger station/visitor centre at the entrance was completely deserted, the squat, shack-like little building barely visible through the storm, its lights all off, and not a single other vehicle visible in the small area of snow-blanketed blacktop that made up its lot.

  For whatever reason, I thought we would disembark here, travel the rest of the way on foot. But of course, this was the United States military, and so instead we just ploughed our way through, undeterred by all the landscaping work our doing so probably ruined in the process—not that that should be our top priority or anything. I’m just saying, it was a shame.

  After what felt like a million years, we finally pulled up at the base of Devil’s Spire.

  Almost immediately, soldiers began filing out onto the snow—a good amount of them, though, granted, not nearly as many as I would have liked. They say safety comes in numbers, but really that’s twice as true if those numbers have guns—as these ones did.

  Voices shouted orders as men in body armour and funny-looking helmets rushed into formation.

  I stared up at the mountain. Even with the wind and snow flying everywhere, I cou
ld see that the place was a lot bigger than I remembered. Just sheer, jagged rock, as far as the eye could see, the tip currently concealed by the raging snow. Whilst it had never occurred to me before, sat here now looking up at it, I realised the place looked almost exactly like that mountain from Close Encounters of the Third Kind—which, when you really think about it, was actually kind of fitting. I wondered if Richard Dreyfuss was up there too somewhere, if he was any good with automatic weapons, and if—should all else fail—he’d be accommodating to the idea of allowing himself to be used as a human shield. Hey—you never know.

  We climbed out of the panel van and approached the soldier dudes, wind whipping all around us.

  Frankie stepped forward from the group.

  It was then I noticed the item in his hands—what I was unsurprised to find was a battle-axe, only not the same battle-axe as the one from back at the apartment. It was the one from Two Crests. The one that had been hanging on the wall, in the same room as the Pokémon cards and the weird, exotic armour and whatnot, back in the church/museum that little furry asshole had taken us to before sending us off on this suicide mission.

  Looking at it now, I had to say it looked more futuristic than extra-terrestrial—a distinction you really had to be there to fully appreciate. Sleek. Smooth. Covered in a myriad of buttons and lights, with fancy patterning down the side that looked more than a little like some company or other’s poor attempt at branding.

  Now, I know what you’re thinking, and no I have no idea when he stole it, or how. Or how he managed to keep its presence a secret this whole time without anybody noticing. Seriously, I have no fucking clue.

  But trust me when I tell you that, when you’ve known Frankie for as long as I have, sometimes it’s better just to not ask questions and move on.

  ‘All right, you cowards!’ he shouted, marching in front of the soldiers and, judging by their body language, simultaneously pissing off every single one of them. ‘You want to live forever?!’