The Last Days

by Andy Dickenson

  “And Giles?” Tucker nodded.

  “Well, what else was I to do with him? Al here is a little upset to lose his cook but right or no’, the man’s in shock and has to stay somewhere,” Sir Justice winked. “I thought it best he stay somewhere safe.”

  The sheriff took a large gulp of the murky brown draft that Al had set before him. He seemed incredibly chipper for someone who had recently been beaten within an inch of his life. “Are you all right, Sir Justice?” Tucker asked.

  “Oh please boy,” the sheriff smacked his lips, “donnae call me Sir Justice. It’s just my job, ken? Keeping the city safe by weeding out the diseased, the liars and the cheats and bringing them to swift atonement.”

  With another swallow half of the pint had gone. “But only folks like Al, here, call me Sir Justice, and that’s to keep me sweet. You can call me Wilfred.”

  With another glug the pint was gone. “I’ll have another,” the sheriff motioned to Al, sheepishly.

  Despite the damage, the business end of the bar was already beginning to look quite homely. Horse chestnuts were roasting in a small machine on the counter, their sweet scent mingling with sticks of incense. Such perfumes were incredibly rare nowadays and could only have come from Al’s private supply. Tucker grinned wryly at the barman, who, having poured another pint, was now watching the pair in the mirror as he placed fresh glasses on shelves.

  “Now, what could Al be up to that he would ever need to worry about the long arms of the law, Sir Wilfred?”

  The sheriff’s leather jacket creaked as he gingerly picked up his new drink, “Ha!”

  Tucker smiled and regarded his new friend. As well as his broken leg and the dozen bandages Tucker presumed were holding his chest together, the sheriff’s face was littered with band-aids. The boy took a sip from his own rusty coloured ale. It tasted awful.

  “So?” he asked tentatively. “Is there any news on Six?”

  “Not yet, but I might need some more help working on that trail of ours,” the sheriff said, just as Carol Lee entered through the bar, Professor Chandler steering his wheelchair behind her.

  “There is no trail, sheriff,” the Captain of the King’s Guards said abruptly, her bowler hat resting on a thick wave of her short, blonde hair. “Just this.”

  She tossed a severed hand into the sheriff’s lap. A human hand. Sir Justice stared at it. “What the f...”

  “Lycanthropes,” the Professor said simply. “Or a werewolf to be exact.”

  “Well tie my bollocks to a chair and call me a cow, if I didn’t know that already, Professor!” the sheriff said gruffly. “The thing only ripped me to shreds last night. What else do you know?”

  But the Professor ignored the comment and stared at the bar. “Ah, are we back serving beer, Al?” the old man asked.

  “Of course, Professor,” Al answered grimly, pulling once again on the ale pump.

  Professor Chandler then said nothing but re-arranged the pink blanket that covered most of his frail body. It’s almost as though he likes these awkward silences, Tucker thought, before passing the fresh drink from the barkeep to the professor, who took three small sips before speaking.

  “Now, where was I?” he pondered.

  A waitress placed a plate of sausages, bacon, scrambled eggs and beans on the counter. Tucker’s stomach rumbled in anticipation. “Excuse me,” the knight’s apprentice began and started eating. He was ravenous.

  “Of course,” Professor Chandler waved his hand.

  “You were saying, Professor?” Sir Justice sighed.

  “Sorry?” the Professor smiled. “Oh yes, well it seems that a belief in werewolves once existed in every continent in the world. They are traditionally associated with cannibalism and blood lust, as witnessed by the first attack, but may also prey on animals such as sheep or goats, as witnessed in the second. Though generally they prefer humans, as I believe, Sheriff, you can attest to.”

  “Aye, I can also vouch for the fact it’s hairy with big teeth. What else?”

  “Well, how about you guys weren’t the only ones he attacked last night,” Carol Lee said. “We found the farmer soon after we found you, or what was left of him.”

  “Pa Coven?” Tucker asked, his mouth full of the farmer’s bacon. “He’s dead?”

  Carol frowned. “And I’m afraid that’s not all. We’ve just discovered another body in Market Street. Terry Callier...”

  “Terry ‘Timex’, the watchmaker?” Tucker started, half choking on a mouth full of beans.

  Carol nodded. “Killed in his workshop, we figure just before dawn.”

  “And that, dear Sheriff, is important you see?” the Professor wagged his finger. “Because legend has it that these demons will only attack at night and they are at their peak during the full moon’s three-day cycle. Now,” the Professor took another sip of his beer, “according to my calculations our visitor’s initial strike was during the full moon’s first appearance, so tonight could be its last rampage during its prime, at least for another month.”

  “Could be?” Sir Justice questioned. “And how does that explain this?” he added, fingering the rubbery hand on his lap, grey with a shard of bone poking out of its severed wrist.

  Tucker stared at it, chunks of scrambled egg falling from his gaping lips.

  The Professor shrugged. “These beings are immensely savage and strong, but if wounded will generally revert to human shape. Hence what was a paw is now the bloody grotesque hand of the man you first shot two days ago.”

  Tucker thought twice before biting into his sausage.

  “That’s how he survived?” Sir Justice pondered.

  The Professor nodded. “During the phase of the full moon it seems werewolves are liable to survive anything.”

  “Great. So how do we kill it?” Carol asked bluntly.

  “Well,” the Professor chuckled, “there are, of course, no bearings in science for any of this but, according to the texts I’ve read, it seems a silver bullet to the head would do the trick. Mister Tucker’s brave parry with a silver cutlass has shown that the beast has an aversion to the metal. Target the brain, or indeed the heart, and you should prove his downfall!”

  Sir Justice was already regarding Tucker’s bacon as the apprentice knight clenched his stomach. “What if we waited until after this ‘full moon cycle’,” the sheriff mumbled. “What would happen then?”

  The Professor shrugged. “I dare say the beast would still have the ability to transform, though he may not be as ferocious. But certainly it is in daylight that he’s most vulnerable.”

  Carol Lee shook her head vehemently. “So we can’t wait another day, we need to strike now. Who knows how many he could kill tonight if we don’t?”

  “And what about Six?” Tucker pleaded. “He still has her, doesn’t he?”

  The Professor looked momentarily uncertain as Sir Justice buried his face in his pint. “He may,” the old man said finally.

  “We need silver then,” Carol said. “I saw two candlesticks at the farmhouse this morning, maybe they’ll do. I’ll get one of my guards to fetch them.”

  “I could, erm, I could perhaps find you something upstairs,” Al interrupted from behind the counter.

  The others turned, shocked at his sudden charity. “What?” he snapped, pulling on a toothpick clenched between his jaws. “Are you not seeing what this thing did to my bar? The head of one of my best customers is in the jukebox for God’s sakes!”

  Tucker finally pushed the remains of his breakfast aside.

  “You not eating that?” Sir Justice started before tucking in.

  “We’ll get the iron monger to make up some ammo and then try to catch him in the sewers,” Carol said quickly. “All the tracks we’ve found lead to the tunnels so that has to be where he’s hiding.”

  “You make it sound so easy,” Sir Justice paused to survey his own broken body, before chomping on a slice of Tucker’s bacon. “I’m telling you captain, it isn’t.”

  “
And those tunnels go on for miles,” the Professor added, between sips of his pint.

  Carol sighed, her face reddening. “Well, I just hope we can get to him before sundown.”

  “Alright,” Sir Justice nodded, chewing.

  The captain took off her bowler hat and scratched her head. Tucker had known her for a long time. She was, after all, the knights’ first sergeant. Still, he had rarely seen her so flustered and he noticed, again, that one of the pins in her insignia was missing.

  “So, what about you, Sheriff,” she continued. “Will you check out the watchmaker’s? I’ve left the cadaver there and told my guards to keep out until you’ve inspected it. It’s your crime scene, if you want it.”

  “No, I’ll be sending my new deputy for that,” Sir Justice spoke from within his pint of ale. “Mister Tucker?”

  “Deputy? What?” Tucker was startled. “No, I wanna help the guards! I’m a knight, I should go with them.”

  Sir Justice shook his head and grinned. “You have to follow the trail, Mister Tucker, if you want to find your young miss. Besides, you’re only a wee Apprentice.”

  “How the freakin’ hell can checking out a dead man’s crib help Six?” Tucker fumed.

  “The Sheriff’s right, my boy,” Tucker felt the Professor’s sharp fingers tapping his hand. “Why would the werewolf single out the watchmaker? It’s certainly an odd choice, much like his decision to kidnap Knight Six. Maybe the two events are linked, eh? We must investigate all possibilities if we’re going to find your friend.”

  Tucker’s shoulders relaxed, but just a little. “What about you?” he nodded glumly towards the sheriff. “What are you going to do, keep drinking?”

  Sir Justice looked insulted for a moment, and then began taking another gulp of his beer. “I,” he finished the pint, “am going to go out for a nice relaxing game of golf.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  THE PIRATE Prince was snoring, fast asleep on his sofa in the Other Worlds, when Neon crept into the forest clearing. She was meant to be adding the final touches to the enormous sandcastle they had constructed further down the beach.

  “It’ll be just like Albion’s,” she had said as she etched brick marks into its turrets with a twig, the hummingbird fluttering back and forth between the balustrades.

  “Hmmm,” the prince replied before yawning, “and like every good citadel it will need a royal flag. If you’ll excuse me, princess, I shall retire to my workshop and prepare one for you.”

  The prince had bowed, his black eyes sparkling. Neon had forced herself to giggle, trying not to fall into the moat as she curtseyed. “Why, of course, my good man.”

  It wasn’t until she had finished cutting out the drawbridge that she went looking for him. Only to find him here, sprawled over the leather chair, one leg dangling over its side.

  “Quick, now’s our chance!” Neon whispered.

  “Yes, he’s exhausted. Probably all the emotional pressure,” the hummingbird replied.

  Neon scowled at her. “If you’re going to be deliberately stupid, I think you should buzz off,” she said.

  The bird dropped, her wings momentarily static. “Sorry,” she said simply.

  “That’s alright,” Neon decided, sniffing back a tear as the wind rustled the vines around them. She still couldn’t believe that she too had been stupid enough to trust the prince. Ever since overhearing his conversation with the wolf she had been pretending, of course, that they were still friends. But it was hard, and she dimly wondered just how much time she had left.

  “Just remember,” Neon admonished the bird, “we don’t have to let him manipulate us. We can make our own decisions!”

  “Yes, I guess you’re right,” the bird replied a little unconvincingly.

  The princess then tip-toed over to the picnic blanket and the hummingbird followed, flitting over half-eaten chicken legs and sandwiches as Neon opened a tasteless bottle of pop. Sitting under wide, tall palms the clearing had been protected from much of the storm, though the food, or what was left of it, had been scattered. Neon picked up a rather squidgy handful of spaghetti bolognaise and peered underneath, the little hummingbird evicting insects to better inspect a pile of sausages in trifle.

  “It’s here,” the bird squeaked. “I’ve found it!”

  “Well done,” Neon hissed, retrieving the chunky remote controller from a splatter of wobbling jelly. She turned on the television set and watched as the picture settled on the form of Knight Six, hanging from a spiral of chains. She shook her wet hair and opened her eyes.

  “No, dammit! I’m remembering,” she shouted.

  Neon quickly turned down the volume on the controller and plucked the headphones from a tray of pizza. Placing them over her ears she could now hear what the knight was thinking, almost taste the grey waves of nausea breaking out over the girl’s throat.

  It’s just like my powers, Neon thought excitedly.

  Knight Six flinched with the realisation that she was back in the sewers, the lair of the werewolf, tangled in his web. Must’ve blacked out, she thought.

  She felt the cold metal biting into her feet and wrists, her head pounding in time to the dripping water, her body shaking as she looked around the tunnel. It was only then she noticed the man lying on the floor below her, naked but for the rubber tape wrapped around his torso and a thick brown beard.

  He was covered with scars, many of them fresh and leaking blood and puss, his whole body trembling and stinking of urine. He was whimpering in his sleep.

  And beside him was a knife.

  If I could just reach it? the knight thought, trying not to move too quickly, fearing each link of the chains was like an alarm bell waiting to go off. She was right. She had only reached out an inch when a whole phalanx of the metal slipped from the pipes above, waking her captor.

  Klaus Gravenstein jumped from the floor and, instantly aware of his nudity, he stepped back into the shadows of the cavern.

  Six peered through the gloom, trying to place him. “Hello,” she muttered. “Are you still there?”

  “Hello, yes?” the man’s face re-appeared, caught in a shaft of light from the drain, metres above.

  “Gosh darling, you’re not looking any prettier are you?” Six swallowed, forcing herself to be brave. “Although maybe a little better than you did last night. Is there any chance you could let me down?” she struggled once again to shift her weight in the chains. “It’s awfully uncomfortable up here.”

  Klaus’s head disappeared back into the blackness.

  “Oh, thanks a whole...” Six started, before the chains loosened above her, the steel scraping backwards over the rusting pipes, lowering her gently to the floor. “Thank you,” she finished.

  The man’s face returned to the spotlight, his eyes weary amid puffy folds of skin. “My name is Klaus, Klaus Gravenstein,” he said, still trembling with the cold.

  “Well, um, pleased to meet you, I suppose,” Six was gingerly trying to stand, testing whatever strength she had left in her legs. “Although I guess we’ve kind of done this dance already, haven’t we?”

  “I guess so, yes,” Klaus snickered. However, in his human form his mind was far clearer. I am different, he thought.

  Back at the television, Neon frowned and glanced back at the prince still dozing in his chair, the sword attached to his belt digging a hole in the sand.

  Six examined her jailer. “Isn’t it about time you turned back into a frog or something? Or has the wind not yet changed direction?”

  Klaus shook his head. “I do not expect you to understand the intricacies of my kind, child, or appreciate them.”

  “Why not enlighten me?” Satisfied she could balance herself, Six began rubbing the blood flow back into her arms, the manacles still hanging heavy around her wrists.

  “No, it’s too late for that,” Klaus stroked his beard. “Besides, to do so would be to ask for your forgiveness because I’ve already hurt you. And I’ll only do it again, if I have t
o.”

  “Well, um, that’s alright,” Six stuttered. “I’m going to kill you when I get out of here anyway.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps death would be a blessing,” Klaus said quietly, the pain of his wounds more acute without the fury of the beast to contain them.

  Six took a sip of the filthy water spewing over her body from the cracked pipe above. Maybe I could break it? she thought desperately. Use my weight to break that pipe and get these blasted chains off?

  But she knew the idea was futile. The pipe was far too strong. Six stared at the drain metres above her and grit her teeth. “What do you want?” she suddenly exploded.

  Klaus Gravenstein raised his right arm into the light. Its stump had transformed into the makings of a fist with small, hardened lumps where the fingers should be. “Your mind, yes?” he grinned. “I have come to hear your story, Susie Haast.”

  Six was startled. “How do you know my real name?”

  “I know so much,” the German smiled, a sudden glint in his eye. “But not everything, yes? Unlock your secrets, my child. Remember your mission to London and I promise I will kill no more innocent men and women in this city.”

  The knight scrutinised her torn dress, the shackles on her hands and feet. How does he know all these things?

  Neon began nodding sagely as the hummingbird circled her shoulder.

  Klaus Gravenstein sniffed, the mound of scabs from his gunshot wound grotesque on his forehead. “You’ve got no idea how powerful he is, have you?”

  “Who?” Six asked. “The person who sent you?”

  “Just tell me what you know.”

  “I can’t,” Six moaned, thinking about the crystals, thinking about the telepaths. “It’s not safe.”

  “You think you’re safe here?” Klaus shook his head, fast losing his patience. “I need to know who was behind that bomb. I need to know who planted it. Also, I believe you recently received a gift, yes? Some sunglasses. I will be needing these too.”

  Six said nothing, forcing her mind to be blank.

  The German nodded. “Think about what I ask. For now, I have work to do.”