We came to the door that led into the Black Forest exhibit, but it looked different somehow. There were odd symbols drawn into the frame, but I didn’t recognize any of them. I put my hand on the knob, and something felt off, like there was something on the other side of the door, and it didn’t like me very much.
“I think you oughta hang back a little, Padre,” I said to Joe, my voice pitched low so as maybe not to piss off whatever was on the other side any more than it already was. I turned the knob and slipped through the smallest opening I could manage. I left the door open behind me for Joe to follow but felt something pull the door out of my hand and slam it shut the second I was completely through it. I heard pounding on the door for a second or two, but then nothing. I turned around, shining my light at the door, but it was gone. The only thing behind me was a brick wall, weeping moisture and covered in thick green moss.
“I reckon I ain’t in Kansas no more, huh, Toto?” I said to the air as I looked around. I was in what looked to be a sewer, at least judging from the smell and the water around my boots. It was mostly dry, at least, with water not even cresting my ankles. The walls were old brick, with decades of moss and fungus and other shit growing on them. There was a dim light coming from the tunnel in front of me, and my flashlight seemed to do better against the darkness down here, for some reason.
I pressed the comm button in my ear. “Hey, Skeeter?” I said. No response. I pushed the button again. Still nothing. So wherever I was, I wasn’t anywhere that Skeeter could find me, and I couldn’t see a way to get back to Joe. I reckoned I was really flying solo on this one. I thought about it for a few seconds, then slipped on my other ceastus, carefully drew Bertha, used both hands to get her situated in my now-gloved hand, and started down the tunnel toward the light.
I’ve never been what anyone would consider stealthy, but I managed to turn the corner and find myself staring at the back of one of the biggest damn werewolves I’d ever seen. He had to be seven and a half feet tall, and easily four hundred pounds. And from what I could see, it was all muscle. It was in its half-shifted state, stuck between man and wolf, and all grumpy badass. I stood in the doorway for a few seconds, trying to find a way past the beastie, but there was only one door leading in and one door leading out. I took a deep breath, steadied Bertha, and squeezed a round at the back of the big furball’s head.
Except the head wasn’t there when the bullet got there. Fuzzy heard something, or smelled something, or just had a premonition or something, because he ducked under my shot and swung around at me, his long claws reaching out to disembowel me as he spun around. I sucked in my gut, and his claws flickered past my midsection, one nail just leaving a razor-thin line across my belly.
“Hey!” I shouted as I stepped back and brought Bertha to bear on the monster’s face. It locked eyes with me over the barrel of a fifty-caliber pistol, and I swear I saw the wolf grin at me. It threw a punch, but the power of the fist was somewhat lessened by getting punched in the chest with a big-ass bullet. I knew the lead round, even blessed as it was, would only provide a few seconds’ pause to the monster, but that was all I needed. By the time the werewolf was back on its feet, the flesh already knitting back together over the gaping hole in its chest, I had dropped the magazine from Bertha’s handle, pulled a spare magazine from my shoulder rig, and slammed it home.
“Last chance, furball,” I muttered, but the wolf couldn’t hear me over its own snarling. It charged, and I squeezed the trigger three times in quick succession. The first bullet, normal lead left over from the last magazine, provided just enough impact to slow the creature down. I side-stepped his charge and put two more in the back of his head as he barreled past. The first round from the new magazine had no effect, but the second one, a fifty-caliber sterling silver bullet landed right above the junction of his skull and spine. Werewolves aren’t renowned for their brains, but I can honestly say that this guy had a head full of ‘em. I know because some of the backspray got on my boots. The wolf dropped like several hundred pounds of ground chuck onto the floor of the sewer with a wet thwack.
I heard a rustle of wings behind me and spun around to see a shadow flicker around a corner. I shrugged and pushed forward into the room, figuring that I may as well follow it, then stopped cold at what was around me. I turned back to look at where I’d come from—yep, still looked like sewer. But the room I was standing in looked enough like the landscape of Eastern Europe that the next thing I did was look up.
There were stars. Not only was I not in Kansas anymore, I wasn’t indoors anymore. I had no idea where that doorway had taken me, but now I was outside, in a deep forest, with a dead werewolf at my feet. I thought about it for a minute and realized that standing there wondering about shit wasn’t going to get me any closer to going home, so I set off through the woods in the direction I’d seen the shadow flicker. I tromped through the darkened forest for what felt like hours before I broke through into a clearing. It wasn’t even really a clearing, just a wide spot at the end of a road leading up to a castle rising up out of the mists high on a hill above me.
“What the ever-loving hell?” I asked the hordes of nobody around me, then dove back into the woods as a horse-drawn carriage roared past me out of nowhere. I turned to see where it had come from, and the forest I’d just walked through was gone, replaced with a long dirt road, a gloomy, rainy thing stretching far off into the night. The road wound down the side of the hill I had just looked up, so it only surprised me a little when I turned around again and saw that I was standing in front of a pair of huge wooden doors.
“This place needs a guest spot by Lon Chaney,” I muttered. I reached out for the demonic-looking knocker on the door, then decided against it. Whatever was running this simulation obviously wanted me indoors, and I didn’t feel like waiting for RiffRaff to limp his skillet-wearing ass down to the front door to let me in. So I tried the knob, which was locked, of course. Fortunately for me, I brought a couple of different style lock picks with me. I reared back with my right lock pick and slammed my foot into the door, just to the right of the lock. The doors shuddered in the frame, and I heard a few small cracks, but the doors held fast. I nodded to myself, drew Bertha, checked the chamber, saw a red-tipped bullet ready to go, and stepped back a safe distance. Like twenty yards.
I leveled Bertha at the door and squeezed off one shot. The white phosphorous round slammed into the wood with a resounding crack, then the doors burst into flames as the phosphorous reacted with the air. I let the doors burn merrily for a minute or two, then walked back up the steps, kicked the lock again, and this time was rewarded with both doors flying inward, showering sparks around the deserted entryway. I shined my flashlight all around, but no one had come to investigate the ruckus. I shrugged and went inside, following the script that was being written for me.
The entryway opened into a small study on the right, but a quick once-over showed it was empty of people—just a desk, a couple of comfy-looking chairs, a huge rug in the center of the room, and a huge fireplace with a few logs crackling merrily in it. There were more books lining the walls than in my high school library, and the place was lit with hurricane lamps and candles. Looked like wherever I was, there wasn’t a whole lot in the way of utilities. So, of course, that’s the moment my bladder decided to remind me that I drank seven beers with dinner and that indoor plumbing was gonna be real important real soon. Or at least a ficus tree or something.
“Welcome to my home,” came a heavily accented voice behind me. So heavy, in fact, that I kinda didn’t understand what he’d said until I turned around to look at him.
“Huh?” I asked. “What’d you…” I trailed off. I couldn’t help it. I had nothing. I’ve quipped with werewolves, engaged in witty repartee with fairies and troll, shot the shit with a love-struck rakshasa, and parried triple entendres with a butt-nekkid Sasquatch, but I just stood there like a beach bluegill when I turned around and Count Friggin’ Dracula was standing in front of me. And I me
an old-school Drac, not looks like a euro-trash omnisexual pansy from Buffy Drac. I mean wearing the cape and the tux and the slicked-back hair and I thought he’d be taller and—
“Is that a girdle?” The words just came out, like Skeeter in seventh grade, with nothing holding them back.
Dracula looked offended. “It is a waist cincher, I’ll have you know.”
“How the hell does a vampire get fat?” I asked. “All the ones I’ve ever met were super-skinny and hot as hell. But dude, no offense, you look kinda like everybody’s weird uncle. You’re not real tall, you got that funky receding hairline thing going on, and now I find out you’re wearing a girdle? Damn, my illusions are shattered all to shit.”
“What are you babbling about, peasant? I am taller than…” He looked up to meet my eyes, since he was almost half a foot shorter than me. “Well, regardless, my hair…” He trailed off again, running his fingers over the encroaching flesh where his forehead was growing rapidly into an eight-head.
“None of that matters, human. I am Vlad Tepes, Count Dracula, and a specimen of your size will make a lovely slave for my wives!” He locked eyes with me, and the room got a little swimmy at the edges. I felt a sudden desire to go visit his wives, to roll around nekkid with three beautiful Eastern European vampires for a decade or two, then a disapproving blonde face swam into my vision, and I realized exactly how pissed off Agent Amy would be if I screwed myself to death in some weird-ass knockoff Dracula’s Florida AdventureTime Castle. I shook my head, and the desire to frolic with fanged chicks vanished (for a little while, if I’m being honest).
“Nah, I got a girlfriend,” I said, and Dracula’s eyes went wide.
“How are you resisting my compulsion? What magic is this?”
“The magic of a man who knows his woman will cut his nuts off if he so much as looks at another woman. I think they call it love. Now look, Drac, pal. I don’t know who conjured your ass here, or what the hell is going on, but I got a museum lady to save, and somehow I gotta figure out how to get your castle out of Orlando and back to Transylvania. And back to fiction, for that matter. So if you could just point me to the exit, I’ll get out of your hair…heh, sorry about that one…and you can go back to doing whatever it is you do here. Alone. In this big, creepy-ass castle.” I turned and headed back toward the door to the study, and that’s when Drac made a tragic error. He grabbed my arm.
Now for a little fella, he was strong. He latched onto my arm, and I wasn’t moving until he let go. Problem for him was, he grabbed onto my left arm, and that meant my right arm was free to reach up over my shoulder and draw Great-Grandpappy’s sword. I drew and spun around, bringing that sword down on Drac’s forearm as I did. The blade cut through muscle and bone just like it was butter. I stepped back, and I took Drac’s lower arm and hand with me. He kept a couple inches past the elbow and a spurting wound.
“What?!? You dare assault the Lord of the Undead?” He stared at his stump for a second, and I watched the wound close, and skin grow back over the cut. I think I even saw new flesh start to grow as the arm regenerated, but Drac was coming at me, so I had to shelve my fascination with his arm to pay attention to his mouth. Said mouth was wide open, with fangs prominently on display, so I did the most logical thing I could think of—I raised my sword and let him run onto it. With his wide-open mouth. The razor-sharp blade combined with his momentum to shove the sword through the back of his skull. Gray stuff splattered onto the rug, and his eyes went really wide.
“You’re still alive?” I asked. His eyes blinked, and he flailed at the blade in his head with his remaining hand.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said, and swatted his hand aside. He moaned a little, then started to walk backward, sliding his head off the sword.
“Oh, that is just nasty,” I said. “You have got to be kidding me.” Drac kept walking backward, but I just walked with him, keeping his melon speared on the blade of my sword. After about ten steps, he walked backward into a bookshelf, burying the blade into a book with a deep thunk. Drac grinned around three feet of steel and reached out with his hands to shove me back. I reckoned he figured if he got me off the hilt of the sword, he could pull it out of his head and kill me. Which is a great idea, unless the dude you’re shoving has a height advantage, a leverage advantage, a hundred pounds or more weight advantage, and is holding the sword buried in your head. His shove was more like a light stroking of my chest, which I found awkward but not particularly terrifying.
“You want this out of your head?” I asked. “Don’t try to nod, just blink twice for yes.” He blinked twice, and I yanked the sword out of his head with a wet, squelching sound. A line of gray matter ran down Drac’s forehead, and he wavered on his feet for a second, then he locked onto me and charged, fangs and claws outstretched.
“Damn, son, that didn’t go so well last time, so what makes you think this is gonna go better?” He answered by turning to mist and reforming behind me, all his wounds healed and his arm regrown.
“I believe my magic is what makes me think such things, peasant. Now prepare to die!” He raised both hands and came at me again, but this time I was ready, or at least a lot more ready. I raised my sword to meet his charge, and he turned to mist again. But this time when Drac turned to mist and flew past me, I spun around and raised Bertha. I put a white phosphorous round right through the middle of the cloud. He solidified about the same time the bullet hit where he should be, and the energy transfer when that white phosphorous bullet hit Drac right in the sternum was like nothing I’d ever seen. The fire started immediately, and it started inside Drac’s chest. He had just about enough time to throw me a confused look, then his chest exploded in flames.
It was pretty impressive, I gotta say. His head flew up about six feet, bounced off the ceiling and landed on the desk. His arms blew off in opposite directions, his chest just blew slap damn to pieces, and his ass and legs stood there for a second like they were expecting the rest of Drac to pull back together. He didn’t. Pull back together, that is. His legs just toppled over, and I spent a couple seconds stomping out fires on the expensive rug. Once I got all the little fires out, I looked around, saw the study door now led into a gray mist, and headed that way. I stepped into the mist, wondering if wherever I came out could possibly be as screwed up as Dracula’s Castle. I should never wonder these things.
Chapter 11
I staggered through the doorway and collapsed on the floor in front of Joe. I lay there for a minute gasping for breath and wishing I’d remembered to stash a flask in my jeans while Joe stared down at me.
“Bubba, are you okay?” he asked, holding out one of those aluminum water bottles that hippies carry so they don’t ruin the environment or something. I didn’t care about his ecological motivations; I just unscrewed the cap and sucked the sides flat on that bottle. I handed it back to Joe, who turned and refilled it from a water fountain on the wall.
I drained the next bottle of water, then waved off a third. “I’m good. You figure anything out about that door while I was gone?”
Joe laughed. “I’m good, Bubba, but even with Skeeter’s help, I’m just the pastor, not the miracle worker.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Be reasonable, Bubba, nobody could have uncovered anything in the few minutes you’ve been gone.”
“Few minutes?” I thought it through. I’d fought a werewolf, got lost in the woods, found Dracula’s castle, whooped Dracula’s ass, and come home. No way could I manage that in less than a couple hours. “Joe, I have to have been gone at least two hours, probably four.”
“Bubba, I swear on the Bible that you stepped through that doorway less than five minutes ago.”
“He’s right Bubba,” Skeeter’s voice rang through my ear, and I almost dropped to my knees I was so happy to see his sorry ass. Or hear. Or not, really, because hearing his ass usually meant something unpleasant was happening. For a little dude, Skeeter can fart with the best of
them.
“So y’all are saying I went through that door less than five minutes ago?”
“Yep,” they said in unison.
“And I’m saying I fought a werewolf and killed Dracula, and that it took me way longer than a few minutes to manage that. I friggin’ hate magic.” I sat there for a second, checking myself for injuries and generally catching my breath. “Hey Joe?”
“Yeah, Bubba?” He gave me the look that said no Jimi Hendrix song lyrics were welcome in this situation, but for once I was not going to follow up my address with “where you going with that gun in your hand?” Instead, I jerked a thumb at the door I’d just come through. “Can you do something about those scribbles on the doorframe? I think they’re magic something-or-others that make the door into a portal through space and time.”
Joe raised one eyebrow at me and said, “Portal through space and time, huh?” But he reclaimed his water bottle and used his handkerchief to start scrubbing the symbols off the door.
“Leave me alone,” I protested. “I know about time-travelly stuff! I’ve watched Doctor Who! I know that it’s all timey-wimey wibbly-wobbly, or whatever the hell that little dude said. I fell asleep halfway through. But I watched some of it, anyhow.”
“I don’t think this is the time to discuss whether or not half an episode of Doctor Who is adequate education on the behavior of the space-time continuum, but regardless, removing these sigils from the doorframe seems to have returned this to a mundane portal once more,” Joe said, opening the door to reveal the Black Forest exhibit I’d expected to find the first time I barged through.
I stood up off the floor, knocked back another big slug of water from Joe’s bottle, checked Bertha’s ammo situation, and stepped through the door. I was almost disappointed when the exhibit stayed all fake around me instead of teleporting me to Germany or someplace cool. But it did stay a normal museum, well, as normal as it can be when the exhibit is dedicated to monsters.
Night at the Museum - A Bubba the Monster Hunter Novella Page 7
