Pure Dead Trouble Page 15

  Ring of Dank Water

  andora tried to focus on the gnarled face swimming up at her out of the fog. It was trying to communicate, attempting to say something. This much she knew, since its mouth rapidly opened and closed, occasionally pausing to stretch its wrinkled folds into a gummy grin. No. It was no use. She simply couldn't understand what it was saying, and besides … ever since she fell out of the loft, she'd been so… tired she just… couldn't manage … to stay awake. Her eyes rolled shut once more, causing StregaNonna to emit a string of curses that would have shamed a Sicilian capo. Wondering where on earth she'd picked up such unladylike language, Strega-Nonna slapped Pandora's wrists and pinched her cheeks in an attempt to bring her back to consciousness.

  Pandora's eyes flickered open. “Not you again. Go 'way. Too tired,” and then, “What's burning?”

  “We are,” Strega-Nonna informed her with a deplorable lack of tact. “Or at least we will be soon if we don't get a move on.”

  Pandora lurched upright. The icehouse was ablaze, and as memory came crashing back, she realized that Zander must have been pretty hacked off with her to drag her out of the loft; then as the grimness of their present situation sank in, she upgraded “hacked off” to “murderous.” For some unaccountable reason, this made her feel utterly calm. She'd arrived in some chilled, languid space, a place where panic might well have been clawing at the entrance, demanding to speak personally with Miss Pandora Strega-Borgia; but whoever was on doorman duty was having nothing whatsoever to do with that kind of lowlife gate-crasher. Miss Borgia isn't receiving visitors today. Thank you for your interest…. In front of her, Strega-Nonna frowned, her face surrounded by a wreath of white smoke drifting down from the burning loft. She looked like a shriveled angel, Pandora decided. Minus the wings.

  Strega-Nonna rolled her eyes and snapped her fingers under Pandora's nose. “I'm not immortal, you know,” she scolded, “and neither are you, child. We're going to be spitroasted if we don't hurry up.”

  Hurry up? Pandora rolled this interesting idea around in her mind like a boiled sweet, using it as a distraction from the distressing clamor inside her head, where panic was trying to bluff its way past security with a false pass. Hey, buster, just where d'you think you're going? Miss Borgia is not to be disturbed. Now just back up, buddy, nice and easy, nobody do anything hasty….

  Strega-Nonna shook her. Hard. Slapped her face, one, two—

  “Aowwwww. That hurt. What'd you do that for?”

  She flinched as the antique woman patted her cheek fondly. “No harm done, child. You must wake up. I need your help. Come on, stop drifting off or you'll float away forever…. ” Strega-Nonna knelt on the straw, oblivious to the burning flakes of ash sizzling in her hair. Despite her age and general decrepitude, she was attacking the floor like a thing possessed, sweeping aside bales of musty straw and clawing at the earth with her bare hands. Wary of being slapped again, Pandora bent to help, trying not to scream as burning roof beams creaked and sagged overhead. The old lady's efforts had uncovered a rusting iron ring set into a metal plate on the floor. She was hauling on the ring, her Herculean efforts producing little more than an almost invisible movement of the plate beneath. Given that Strega-Nonna was practically prehistoric and was attempting to lift a chunk of metal about a meter wide, her lack of progress was hardly surprising, but to Pandora's amazement, she saw that something was happening. With each demented tug on the ring, water was beginning to seep around the edges of the metal plate. Water that swelled up and immediately soaked into the parched earth around it. Water that hissed and bubbled, as if under some subterranean pressure.

  Temporarily defeated, Strega-Nonna fell backward, her hands slipping off the ring. “Can't manage on my own,” she gasped. “Here, you. You're young and strong. You heave and I'll go and find us something to use as a lever.” She looked around the icehouse, where shadows of ancient lawn mowers danced in the red glow of the flames. Up against the walls stood a row of antique hoes and rakes, mute witness to the Strega-Borgias' inability to throw anything out, no matter how useless it appeared to be. Consequently, the lower floor of the icehouse had become a retirement home for genteel gardening equipment deemed too rusty to use, but too well loved for disposal. Tottering across the floor, Strega-Nonna seized a rake, its fanned-out tines crumbling with age, and returning to the task at hand, jammed the handle of the rake through the iron ring.

  “Right, Flora,” she croaked. “Over to you.”

  Flora? Pandora didn't correct the old lady. Plainly she was losing what few marbles she had, but given the extreme nature of the circumstances, it was to be expected. A blazing chunk of timber crashed down behind Strega-Nonna, sending sparks flying all around. Little flames appeared as the sparks found new fuel in the straw-littered floor. Pandora leant on the rake handle and prayed that it wouldn't snap.

  “Put your back into it!” Strega-Nonna shrieked, batting at the flames licking around her feet.

  “I am …it's too heavy…it won't shift.”

  A low rumble came from beneath where Pandora stood, and water oozed out from the rim of the metal plate.

  “KEEP GOING!” Strega-Nonna yelled, but Pandora needed no encouragement.

  The metal plate shifted… shuddered…then rose up and teetered on its edge for a second before crashing backward in a shower of sparks. At first Pandora thought all her efforts had achieved nothing, for at her feet now lay a pool of liquid fire. Then she realized it was water. A dark pool of water reflecting the burning roof of the icehouse…

  “What are you waiting for, child? A round of applause? GO. GO. GO!” And with this, Strega-Nonna pushed Pandora headfirst into the pool.

  Pandora's scream turned into a series of choking sounds as she plunged below the surface. Strega-Nonna followed behind, propelling them both deeper into the darkness. The last clear thought that went through Pandora's mind was that they'd managed to avoid burning to death by drowning themselves.

  Raining Dogs

  he Sleeper paused on the sand above the high-tide mark to remove something sticky from his tender underbelly. Shells and seaweed were all very well, he thought, but he'd never before come across a beach quite so littered with dead animals. Several meters away, a seagull eyed him warily before bending its head to something lying on the sand. The bird's cruel beak dipped and tore into whatever it was, rending and gouging with every evidence of enjoyment. Dogs barked in the distance, and the seagull looked up again, its beak draped in what appeared to be red spaghetti, but which was, the Sleeper realized—

  “AWWWWW, NO! Yon's disgusting. Leave that puir wee moose alane, ye big vulture. Go pick on somethin' yer ane size!”

  The bird needed no further encouragement. Lifting into the air with the disemboweled mouse still clamped in its beak, it flew up to what it judged to be a safe distance and began to swear in fluent Seagullese, unfortunately forgetting its table manners in the process.

  “Did yer mammy no tell youse no tae speak wi' yer mouth full?” the Sleeper muttered, picking the remains of the white mouse off his forehead before continuing his gruesome journey up the beach.

  Little had changed since his beachcombing visit the day before. The same rusting oil drums, discarded tires, and festering trench of dead fish…He halted, listened carefully, then shook his head as if to clear it. “They big burds,” he observed to himself, “they sound jis' like a cryin' wean.”

  He was picking his way around a charnel pit of assorted furry legs and tails, feeling distinctly nauseated, when a thought occurred to him. He could still hear the shrieks from the seagull, but when he looked up, there wasn't a single bird to be seen. But, if anything, the ghastly screaming sound was even louder than before. It was so like a crying infant that it sent shivers rippling along his entire body, and he found his eyes watering in sympathy with the unknown baby who was making such a racket.

  “Kin somebody no dae somethin'?” he roared. “Yon puir wee bairn's greetin' its eyes oot and naebody's listenin'?�
�

  As if in response to this, the noise redoubled, swelling into a whole opera of infant anguish, complete with choking sounds, hiccups, and now the occasional word …

  “Want Dadaaaaa,” it wailed, and with that the Sleeper suddenly felt as if a giant hand had reached inside him and twisted a knife in his stomach. Ffup's mystery breakfast gave a warning of imminent reappearance.

  “NESTOR?” he screamed, sick with horror. “NESTOR? MA WEE MAN? HING OAN, SON, DADDY'S COMIN' IN!” And willing breakfast to stay where it was, the Sleeper hurtled across the beach to the gray building up ahead.

  Ffup's nostrils were plugged with asbestos wool and her mouth taped shut as precautions after she'd roasted a security guard and melted Dr. Umbra's rubber apron. Despite her best efforts, she hadn't been able to protect Nestor, and it was this knowledge, not the aftereffects of tear gas, that was causing her to weep hopelessly. Chained and manacled alongside her on rubber-covered tables, the beasts wept and roared in sympathy.

  “What is it now ?” Dr. Umbra paused, looking up from her examination of the hysterical Nestor, who lay trussed on the table beneath the circular saw.

  “It's this stone monster, Doctor. The Tasers cannae touch it. I just bent ma cattle prod out of shape trying to get it out of the cage.” The security guard found himself having to shout to make himself heard over the din that Nestor was making.

  “Perhaps you could try taking its head off with a power drill,” Dr. Umbra muttered, her rubber-clad hands running over the controls to the saw and starting the blade spinning slowly in front of her.

  The security guard shook his head in disbelief. “Nawww. With all due respect, Doctor, there's no way I'm going in there.” He waved a trembling hand in the direction of the cage where Sab sat, stone still, stone cold, a griffin carved in one hundred percent basalt. “You didn't see it in action in the parking lot. It wisnae stone then, I can tell you. It was real. Snorting and roaring, wi' big claws and teeth—”

  “Are you refusing to obey an order?” Dr. Umbra glided toward the guard, one finger raised in warning. “I wouldn't, if I were you…. ”

  The guard gulped, clearly unsure which of the unpalatable options before him would be easier to swallow. He was on the point of steeling himself to argue with the griffin in preference to the doctor when matters were taken out of his hands.

  There was a forlorn “Och no …,” followed by a colossal explosion from outside, and the wall behind Sab's cage appeared to dissolve under a shock wave of powdered bricks and atomized concrete. Then, coughing and spluttering, a gigantic creature straight out of a B movie crunched over the fallen bodies of Dr. Umbra and the security guard and began to apologize loudly.

  “AWFY SORRY ABOOT YER WEE HOOSE,” it began, and then, embarrassed by having to discuss such matters in front of a roomful of strangers, added, “Ah never really knew the meaning of explosive diarrhea before, ken?”

  To the puzzlement of the slavering guard dogs closing in on Titus, their prey appeared to be removing his black outer skin and waving it all about. The dogs stopped and sank back on their haunches for a quick scratch while they considered this bizarre behavior. The prey's actions were highly confusing; all the dogs' previous victims had either tried unsuccessfully to run away, or had attempted (also unsuccessfully) to defend themselves with feet, bags, briefcases, or whatever came to hand. The end result—human sushi—was always the same. Licking their lips at the prospect, the dogs stood up and closed in for the kill. Titus responded by renewing his efforts with Zander's leather jacket, feeling like a doomed bullfighter as he did so. The deadly weight of explosives tucked into the jacket lining made it a surprisingly effective weapon, and Titus had batted two dogs across the parking lot before a third managed to fasten its teeth into a sleeve and yank the jacket out of his grasp. Victorious, the dog ran across the parking lot to devour it in peace. Titus watched with grim fascination as the pack descended on the jacket and demonstrated the ease with which they'd probably tear him apart after they'd finished devouring the tasty hors d'oeuvre he'd thoughtfully provided. Titus wondered if he stood a chance of running out of the parking lot while the dogs' attention was thus diverted, but his meditations were abruptly cut short when the dogs were flung into the air by the force of the exploding jacket. The noise was deafening, but not nearly as painful to the ears as the ferocious explosion that followed from somewhere to the rear of the building.

  Caught in a downpour of ironically bite-sized portions of dog, Titus did not dare open his eyes to see what had happened for some time. When he finally risked a peek, he saw that the parking lot resembled the aftermath of a serial killers' convention, with every vehicle bearing gruesome evidence of just how lethal Zander's jacket had been. Titus began to tremble uncontrollably. He'd been wearing a bomb? If he hadn't taken off the jacket…if the dogs hadn't ripped it out of his hands and dragged it across the parking lot to devour it in peace…Titus was so dazed with horror that it was some time before he realized that he wasn't alone. Familiar voices came from across the parking lot, and he saw Tock waddling around from behind the building, followed by the Sleeper and the other beasts.

  “Did you do a dump in the parking lot as well ?” Tock was clearly aghast at the carnage all around. “I mean, not that I'm not extremely grateful for the explosive nature of your emissions, but why here?”

  “Naw. It wisnae me, pal. And fir your information, ah've nae idea whit's gone wrang wi' ma bowels. Like ah said, ah didnae know whit explosive diarrhea meant till today, ken?” Turning to Ffup, the Sleeper roared, “Whit did youse pit in ma breakfast, wumman?”

  “I didn't put anything in it.” Ffup's tone was indignant. “I didn't even think about Your Breakfast this morning. What d'you take me for—a wife?”

  On legs that could barely support his own weight, they were shaking so badly, Titus staggered across the parking lot like a sleepwalker. Ffup was now clutching Nestor as if she'd never let him go, and somehow the sight of this made Titus aware that what he really needed right now was for someone big to hug him and assure him that it was all going to turn out just fine. He'd actually been thinking of his dad, but when the dragon reached over and wrapped a wing around him, he found himself almost weeping with an insane mix of relief, horror, and rage. He had to warn Pandora. She had to be told that Zander was mad, bad, and dangerous to know.

  “Can we go home?” he mumbled from the depths of Ffup's underwing, too faintly to be heard above the beasts' raised voices as they assessed the damage lying all around them.

  “What a mess.” Sab shuddered, fastidiously removing a lump of something from the underside of his foot. “Someone should inform the Department of Health and Safety about this place.”

  “I think not,” Tock decided. “Use your brain, for heaven's sake. In the space of a few minutes, our gigantic colleague over there has destroyed half a building, wrecked who knows how many hundreds of thousands of pounds of equipment, and killed two people…. Where we beasts may regard such actions as heroic acts of liberation, the law in this country still takes a very dim view of such things—”

  “Can we go home? Now?” Titus interrupted.

  “—two counts of willful damage to property, plus two of manslaughter…,” Tock continued gloomily. “Plus heaps of witnesses. D'you think if we plead self-defense, we might get off with a fine?”

  “I want to go home…. ”

  Sab snorted dismissively and extended his wings to their full span. “The boy's right. It's time to go home. This never happened. We weren't here.”

  “But…,” Tock bleated, “there's a pile of rubble and two dead bodies back there, plus several security guards who saw the whole thing from start to finish—”

  “Correction,” Sab said firmly. “Several security guards who're going to swear they saw the Loch Ness Monster demolish their workplace. That's not going to go down too well with the local constabulary, is it? Can you imagine? Oh, honest, officer, it was awful—massive big head and, gosh, pass the smelling sa
lts, such teeth, and its body must've been about a thousand meters long—”

  “Naw, only nine hunnert an' eighty-two,” the Sleeper admitted sadly.

  “What I'm saying”—Sab sighed—“is that we're free to go. Why are we hanging around the scene of the crime?”

  “What crime?” Tock grinned. “What scene?”

  “Honest, officer,” Knot added.

  “It wisnae me,” the Sleeper roared. “A big boay did it an' ran away.”

  “You said it,” Ffup muttered, flapping into the air with Titus and Nestor clinging to her back. “I'll just take the kids home, shall I, boys ? Someone's got to act like a responsible adult around here, and it certainly isn't going to be one of you lot. …” Her voice tailed away as she flew off down the loch, heading for home.

  “Whit have ah done wrong noo?” the Sleeper moaned at Ffup's diminishing silhouette. “What mair d'youse want, wumman?”

  It wasn't until he arrived back at StregaSchloss that he remembered he still had Ffup's diamond ring tucked in his pouch. In all the excitement, he'd simply forgotten to give it to her.

  The Biter Bit

  motorcycle slowly pulled into the courtyard of a converted stable on the shores of Loch Lomond. Dismounting, the rider removed his helmet and checked his watch. Wondering if he had enough time to take a shower and wash the smell of smoke from his hair, he crossed the courtyard and bent down to remove the key from under a plant pot at the front door. He stood up, feeling slightly dizzy, then remembered he hadn't had anything to eat all day. In fact, he recalled he'd even turned down the kid's offer of a share in his cheeseand-pickle sandwich, since by then he'd decided it was the boy's last meal on earth. Opening the door, he noticed signs of recent occupation: a telltale wisp of steam coming from the kettle and an empty coffee cup on the table. She'd left her book lying spine up beside her cell phone, which meant she probably wasn't going to be long, but when he heard footsteps behind him, he spun around in alarm, only relaxing when he saw who it was silhouetted in the doorway.