by Tom Holt
That was still fast enough. Ten minutes later, having satisfied himself that he’d shaken off his pursuers, he sat down on a low wall, caught his breath and swore quietly for a while. Then, feeling better, he stood up, took a deep breath and crossed the road towards . . .
It was academic where he was going, because he never got there. A car, rounding the corner at excessive speed, hit him a ferocious glancing blow, sending him spinning off like a hard-hit cricket ball, until a wall got in the way and slowed him down to stalling speed.
He groaned. In the distance he could hear car doors slamming, shouts of Call an ambulance quick and other picturesque background noises. A torchbeam hit him in the face. Somebody said, ‘You all right, mate?’ or something similar. He tried to growl, bare his teeth, frighten them away; but all he managed was a feeble moan. He was just about to try again when he fainted.
When he came round, he fancied he was inside some sort of vehicle, moving fast. There was a man in a blue uniform standing over him, and a cute little thing with a white uniform and a really sensational neck off to his left. Dracula tried to sit up, but encountered technical difficulties.
‘He must have lost a hell of a lot of blood,’ the man was saying. ‘Emergency transfusion?’
‘We don’t know his group,’ the girl replied. ‘Oh, hang on, he’s coming round.’ She bent over him, until her neck was only inches from his face; yet those few inches separated him from his prey as effectively as the plate-glass window of a restaurant separates the people sitting inside and eating from the people outside with their noses pressed up against the glass. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘What blood group are you?’
‘Huh?’
‘We’re going to give you some blood,’ the girl said. ‘What group?’
That settles it, Dracula said to himself, this is Heaven, or maybe Valhalla.
‘Oh, whatever you’ve got the most of,’ he croaked. ‘Litre of the house red’ll do fine, really, unless you can recommend something a bit special.’
The girl stared at him, shrugged and turned to her colleague. ‘Concussion,’ she said. ‘I’ll bang in a sedative, you do a quick test. Ready?’
There was no point trying to struggle against the needle; he was far too feeble and drained, and besides, lounging on soft pillows while a gorgeous blonde takes your order for blood wasn’t something he could convincingly tell himself he wanted to escape from. With a contented sigh, Count Dracula lay back, closed his eyes and thought of Transylvania.
‘There was no need,’ Regalian muttered, ‘to get carried away.’
If he’d been addicted to puns, he could have got some mileage out of a performance that had brought the house down without raising the roof; the opposite, in fact. Instead, he coughed out some of the dust he’d inhaled, and scrabbled in the loose spoil for the Scholfield.
‘Nice thorough job?’ queried the revolver.
‘Thorough,’ Regalian answered. ‘Certainly thorough. You all right?’
‘Nothing wrong with me an oily rag won’t cure,’ the gun said cheerfully. ‘Come on, then, work to be done. By the way, I’ve got two shots left.’
‘Bully for you, then. Now, where do you think this tunnel leads?’
‘Follow it and see.’
They hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards when Regalian stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Listen!’ he hissed.
‘So? You never heard stealthy footsteps before?’
‘Coming this way.’ Regalian looked back at the way he’d just come. In a long, straight tunnel, hiding space is at something of a premium. ‘Shit,’ he added. ‘Now what?’
‘I’d have thought that was pretty obvious,’ replied the Scholfield sarcastically. ‘In case you haven’t had time to read the manual, you fire me by pulling the lever, commonly known as a trigger, which you’ll find located just behind the tip of your right index finger.’
Regalian was just about to reply that under no circumstances was he going to start a gunfight against unknown opponents in a pitch dark tunnel when a pale penumbra of light, such as that produced by a torch just around a corner, caught his attention. A split second later, a short, ugly, powerfully built form appeared in front of him and raised a lantern . . .
‘Shot!’ said the Scholfield with admiration. ‘But I thought you said—’
‘Changed my mind,’ Regalian answered, stepping over the now deceased goblin and picking up the lantern. ‘If it’s just goblins, I fancy my chances. In Wishblades I used to knock these buggers off by the coachload.’ He stuffed the gun in his belt and picked up the goblin’s heavy black scimitar. ‘It’ll be good for my self-image to do some proper swordfighting again.’
‘Now’s your chance,’ the Scholfield murmured, as another crouched, menacing form lurched round the corner like a two-legged spider. There was a crash, like a whole canteen of cutlery falling from a fourth-floor window, and the goblin fell neatly over the body of its colleague. ‘You want to watch what you’re doing with that thing,’ the gun added, as Regalian tried a wristy practice swing with the scimitar. ‘You could put someone’s eye out if you aren’t careful.’
‘Could have once,’ Regalian replied nostalgically. ‘Better stick to the orthodox stuff for now, at least till I’ve had a bit more practice.’
During the course of the next twenty minutes, he got all the practice he could reasonably want.
‘This,’ he grunted, parrying a savage leg glance and responding with a beautifully timed figure-of-nine cut to the throat, ‘is proper heroing. None of your undignified—’ He flicked aside a despairing thrust and made contact with his counterthrust; five down, two to go. ‘—running about and hiding behind things, oh no. Heroism’s all about things going thunk! and splat! Like,’ he added, whirling round and aiming a double-handed cut across the cheekpiece of a goblin helmet, ‘that. Here, you rotten little bastard, come back!’
‘Quite finished?’
‘Apparently. Did you see that? The last one scarpered. They’re not supposed to do that.’
‘Shucks. Come on, grab that lantern and let’s get out of here, before you get an overwhelming urge to dress up in leather.’
‘Don’t know what you’re getting so damned patronising about,’ Regalian grumbled, as he picked his way over goblin corpses. ‘Haven’t noticed you going a bundle on passive resistance and friendly persuasion. Don’t say you’re jealous of a goblin scimitar.’
‘Get real, you ponce,’ the Scholfield growled disdainfully. ‘But in case it slipped your mind, the purpose of the exercise isn’t actually abolishing goblins. What we’re meant to be doing—Oops,’ it added. ‘Company.’
Regalian grinned. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I was starting to get a bit lonely.’
‘Not that sort of company,’ the Scholfield hissed. ‘I meant company in the sense of smaller than a brigade but larger than a platoon.’
‘Oh. That sort of company.’
‘Yes.’
Sure enough, the clatter of iron-soled goblin footwear was starting to get offensively loud. ‘Coming this way,’ Regalian whispered. ‘That’s a problem, isn’t it?’
‘Yup.’
‘I mean, being realistic for a moment, I can’t fight that many goblins on my own.’
‘True.’
‘Any suggestions? And don’t say run away, because with all these dead bodies lying on the floor I wouldn’t get ten yards without ending up flat on my face.’
‘Correct.’ The gun paused. ‘Which leaves?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Not forward,’ said the Scholfield with exaggerated patience. ‘Not back. Or up or down. That just leaves—’
‘What?’
‘Sideways, you idiot.’
‘Thanks, but the walls are solid. You had noticed that, hadn’t you? I mean it’s not as if it’s riddled with little doors in the wall every few—’
He stopped. Under his left hand, he could feel wood. Carefully he lifted the lantern. ‘Hey, look at this. A door.’
‘Oh
, so that’s what they’re called. I knew it began with a D.’
Footsteps nearer, running; very close to the corner. Quickly, Regalian reached out, secured the door handle, turned it and pushed through—
‘Hellfire. It’s locked.’
The Scholfield made an exasperated noise. ‘Doesn’t that suggest something to do? A course of action?’
Regalian shrugged. ‘Run away? Surrender? Pop next door and see if they’ve got a spare key?’
‘Shoot the lock off, dummy.’
Regalian frowned. ‘Easily said, my finely machined chum, but how do you actually—?’
‘Oh for pity’s sake - mind your stupid feet, there’s a good lad.’
BANG!
‘All right,’ said Claudia into her mobile phone, ‘you can have exclusive distribution in Mauritius and the Cayman Islands and the soft toy rights and a ten-year franchise on the Four Horsemen of the ApocalypseTM combination radio alarm clock and sandwich maker. Now have we got a deal?’
The telephone assured her that she had, and it had been a pleasure doing business, and one day soon how about lunch, and changing the subject entirely, did she happen to know which of the levers inside the cockpit of a third generation Kawaguchiya Heavy Industries space shuttle closed the doors?
‘The blue one third from the left, second row down,’ Claudia answered, ‘except on the GT1001. Why?’
‘Oh,’ replied the telephone, ‘just curious, that’s all. Ciao.’
‘See you, Lin.’ Claudia shrugged and pushed back the aerial. ‘Max?’
‘Howdy.’
She peered down the beam of her pocket flashlight until she located him, sitting cross-legged on the floor thumbing cartridges into the gate of his Winchester ’74. ‘Max,’ she said, ‘what’s going on?’
The bounty hunter clicked his tongue. ‘Reckon them no-good skunks all moseyed off into the crypt and caved in the tunnel, ma’am. All of ’em ’cept that danged hero. He’s down the tunnel some place beatin’ up on mah goblins.’
‘I see. And are you planning on doing anything about that?’
Max grinned, and jacked the action of the rifle. ‘Reckon so, ma’am,’ he said, pulling a cartridge from his belt and holding it up so that the bullet head caught the light. ‘Solid silver, ma’am,’ he explained.
‘Oh right. Well, get a move on, will you? And do try not to damage them,’ she added, allowing her drawl to unwind like a rattlesnake at a health farm. ‘I’m not too fussed about the hero and Hamlet, but I want Skinner and the Armitage woman in one piece. Understood?’
‘Sho’ nuff, ma’am.’
He got up, wiped the dust off his trousers, picked up his rifle and stalked off down the tunnel, spurs jingling. Once he’d disappeared from sight, Claudia pulled out the phone again and tapped in a very short number.
‘Yes, hello. What? No, it’s urgent. Look, I don’t care if it is a Sunday, I want to talk to Him now, got that? What? Oh, all right then, tell Him to call me as soon as He gets back. Yes. Bye.’
She scowled. That was the trouble with these so-called creative types. Downright unprofessional. She keyed in another number. A clue; it was like the number you would dial for fire, police or ambulance, only upside down.
‘Nick? Yes, it’s me. Look, the, um, other player in the game’s just horsing around and I’ve run out of patience so the bottom line is, if you can match His price, the contract’s yours. How soon? You can’t make it earlier? Oh well then, that’ll have to do.Yup, see you around. Cheerio.’
Well, Claudia reflected, at least she now had a definite date, even if it did mean hanging fire for another forty-eight hours. Just enough time, she reflected (for she loved to accentuate the positive) to get all those sweatshirts amended and into the shops. She dialled a third number.
‘George?Yes, now listen. The logo. I want you to change it, rush job. Look, just under where it says “The end of the world is”, I want you to delete “nigh” and put in “Wednesday”. Got that? Fine. Bye.’
She put the phone away, and grinned.
Let’s do the show right here.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Excerpt from Ending The World For Pleasure and Profit, p. 176.
The consequences of conventional Armageddon on the environment have in recent years given rise to a considerable amount of debate in ecological circles. The prospect of littering space with large quantities of post-holocaust radioactive debris is not an attractive one for any would-be terricide with even a vestigial level of ecological awareness; hence the race to develop an environmentally friendly alternative - the so-called ‘responsible apocalypse’.
The only viable model so far developed is that proposed in a recent paper in Catastrophica by Claudia Van Sittaert, the celebrated dramatic agent. The Van Sittaert option contemplates achieving global oblivion by means of breaking down the spatio-temporal membrane dividing Fiction from Reality. The underlying logic is quite straightforward; only what is real can exist, and where reality is so comprehensively diluted with fictional elements that it becomes impossible to distinguish fact from fiction, existence itself is likely to be irreversibly compromised. The world, in short, would no longer be sufficiently real to go on existing, and would quite simply cease.
The practicalities of the proposal are refreshingly straightforward. The balance between Fiction and Reality is regulated by one basic law: for every entrance, an exit. If a real person were to be transferred into Fiction and then suddenly sent back again to Reality without a corresponding transfer of another real person back into Fiction, the effect would be to fracture the membrane, thereby creating an interface through which the inhabitants of both sides of the line could pass freely. Once the loophole exists, it will inevitably be used, leading to a collapse of Reality and the desired effect.
Van Sittaert herself attributes the inspiration for this radical new approach to a chance remark of one Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. According to Van Sittaert, the theory sprang fully formed into her mind at precisely the moment when she realised that ‘To be or not to be’ was not in fact a trick question, as she had always assumed.
‘Thought you were going to shoot off the lock.’
‘Well?’
‘What you have just shot off,’ Regalian said slowly, ‘was in fact the door handle.’
‘Oh.’
Regalian fetched a sigh up from sock-level and sat down, his back to the tunnel wall. Pretty soon, he would be knee-deep in goblins; not a pleasant prospect, if he knew goblins, which he did, rather better than he’d have wished if he’d had any say in the matter, which he hadn’t. Say in the matter, now he came to think of it, had been conspicuously absent from his life for as long as he could remember, right up to the moment when Jane had turned him loose to embark on this damnfool adventure. Was it coincidence, he wondered, that ever since he’d been the master of his fate and the captain of his soul, one cock-up had, so to speak, pressed another’s heel in a headlong stampede to happen to him? Probably not. The thought that he was worse at arranging his own life than Jane, who was a nice kid but about as bright as the stairwell light in a cheap hotel, didn’t cheer him up particularly. The opposite, in fact.
I wish, he caught himself thinking, I was back home in the Hubworld. For one thing, you got a better class of goblin in the Hubworld. More to the point, however many of the little buggers you found charging towards you, it was certain sure that you’d be more than a match for them. True, you did actually have to smite them, and they were perfectly capable of giving you a wicked nip in the ankle if you weren’t careful; but at least you knew it was all going to be all right, because you were the hero. Right now, you’re still the hero, but there are no guarantees whatsoever.
Thinks . . .
But this is still Fiction, and I’m still me. If I wasn’t still the hero, this wouldn’t be happening to me; it’d be some other poor bugger hunched in this lousy tunnel waiting for the goblins to show. And if I’m still the hero, then . . .
‘Howdy.’
/> Regalian looked up, puzzled. ‘You?’
‘Reckon so.’
‘I was expecting goblins.’
Max allowed himself a lazy smile. Actually, he was trying to cut down, but the situation seemed to justify the indulgence. ‘They’ll be along directly. Reckon I got longer legs, is all.’ He raised the rifle to hip level. ‘Won’t be needing them, anyhow,’ he added. ‘On your feet, partner. Little lady wants a word with you.’
Regalian looked at the muzzle of the rifle, remembered the position of the lock on the door behind him, and made a few swift calculations of trajectory. ‘Get stuffed,’ he said.
‘Pardon me?’
‘Go play with yourself,’ Regalian elucidated. ‘Shove off. Go away.’
‘Reckon you can’t have heard me right, mister. On your feet - that’s if you reckon on doin’ much more livin’ around these parts.’
Thanks to his basic training at character school, Regalian was able to sneer. He did so. ‘Nuts to you. Go on, shoot me.’
‘You said it, buster.’ Max shrugged and pulled the trigger. At the moment when the sear slipped out of the hammer notch, Regalian threw himself forward and rolled. The bullet from Max’s rifle cleared the top of his head by eight thousandths of an inch, hit the doorframe and smashed the lock. The door creaked and swung inwards.
‘Sheeit,’ Max exclaimed, disgusted; but before he could jack another round into the Winchester’s chamber, Regalian headbutted him in the stomach and threw him across the tunnel, then dived like an American footballer through the open door, hit the ground, swore, kicked the door shut with his foot and looked round for something to wedge it shut with. Quite by chance there was a section of railway sleeper of precisely the right length leaning against the wall, just handy. He grabbed it, jammed it in place and listened. He hoped very much that Max would try shoulder-charging it. A clatter of footsteps, a bang on the door and a cry of pain followed, and Regalian smiled contentedly.
