Forever After (a dark and funny fantasy novel) Page 8

  “In time you will learn,” Azrael mocked with a broad smile.

  Michael nodded exaggeratedly. “Of course I will.”

  He watched his boss depart the room. He left through the front door, bypassing a merry Chip who was cleaning his sinuses with a series of grunts and snorts.

  “Un-be-fucking-lievable,” Michael muttered in his absence.

  ****

  A foreboding figure sat alone in a quiet and well-lit office.

  He drummed his thick fingers, wrinkled and worn, on the solid surface of his desk, pounding a gentle, dull rhythm into the room.

  He sighed, leaned back in his chair, which squeaked and strained against his heavyset frame, and spun gently, watching the office whirl by before his eyes as the chair spun on its revolving axis.

  A tall bookcase of the finest dark oak, lined with first editions of priceless books, never read and barely touched; walls adorned with expensive paintings, a self-commissioned portrait, doctorates and degrees; an assortment of fine whiskeys, brandies and wine, encased in a cabinet alluringly visible through a thick sheet of glass.

  He lowered his head when the chair settled. His eyes fixed on the far wall of the office where a long window took centre stage. The upper sections of the room beyond were visible. The sparkle of numerous lights, the only indication of any activity in the expansive room, rose into view of the window.

  The phone on his desk bleeped, he stared absently at it as a green light flashed and a familiar voice introduced two familiar people. Moments later One and Two walked into the room, side by side as usual. He remained seated, waiting for them to come to him.

  “Hello boys,” he greeted. “How’s things?”

  “Good.”

  “Fruitful.”

  The pair paused in front of the desk, looking down at him expectantly. There was a chair there, behind and between them, but neither of them took it.

  “You have something for me?” The seated man asked expectantly.

  One pulled out a large cylinder. A spiral of activity buzzed inside the crystallised glass like a horde of raving fireflies. He had been walking around laxly with the glass in his pocket, but after removing it he took great care with it, placing it carefully on the desk.

  “The first two on the list,” he proclaimed proudly.

  The seated man picked up the vial with equal caution. He lifted it in front of his right eye, spying the glowing mystery inside like an adventurer beaming at a new discovery through the lens of a telescope.

  “Perfect,” he declared with a touch of enchantment as he placed the vial gently back on the desk. “Any problems?”

  “No sir.”

  “None at all.”

  “Police?” he quizzed.

  “No sir.”

  The seated man nodded slowly, impressed but not willing to show it. “What about the reaper?” he pondered.

  “Clueless sir,” One offered.

  “One of the worst in the country sir. A good choice,” Two added.

  The seated man looked content. His eyes flicked back to the vial, drawn in by the radiant effervescence, like a moth to a flame.

  One and Two exchanged an awkward and unseen glance followed by a nod.

  “We were wondering sir,” One asked, drawing his attention away from the vial.

  “Yes?”

  There was an uncharacteristic pause, brief but noticeable. “Why werewolves?” he asked.

  He replied with a heavy exhalation. He stood and waddled around to the other side of the desk, pulling the attentions of the two men with him as they watched every straggling step.

  “The werewolf mutation is like no other,” he lectured slowly. “It literally is the stuff of legend, only it isn’t passed on by mere bite or scratch. The rituals, the crossing over if you like, is--well,” he waved a dismissive hand into the air. “It’s complicated. Cloak and dagger nonsense. The point is, anyone can be killed by a werewolf, but only the chosen can be turned.”

  “Like vampires?”

  He snapped a jubilant finger at the questioner. “Exactly! Only more powerful and with fewer weaknesses. They possess amazing strength and resilience. They can adapt to any climate. They can hide their true selves at will, assimilate perfectly into normal society, and, unlike vampires, they are not harmed by daylight.” He bounded around on legs that had previously looked wary, his enthusiasm on an adrenaline rush as he lectured the two men with the gusto of a professor.

  “They have a pack mentality,” he said importantly. “A willingness to fight for their own kind, to live with and to die for their brothers and sisters, blood or not. They are the perfect weapon. If one could harness their power and find a way to manipulate it, then they could create the strongest army the world has ever seen. Can you imagine that?” he cried.

  The two men looked back blankly. If they could imagine it it clearly didn’t excite them as much as it did him.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to study the actual werewolves, sir? One asked. “Rather than their souls?”

  The older man tilted his head this way and that. “Perhaps,” he conceded. But we’ve tried that already and the tests are proving to be...” he rolled his tongue around the word. “Difficult. Let’s just say it isn’t easy to manipulate a twenty stone beast. They can be quite aggressive.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “So, instead we try to own them,” he pushed on. “We give the souls a vessel that we control, a mind and a body that we have already manipulated. One that will do as we say no matter how painful it may be.”

  He strode over to the window on the far side of his office. The two men followed behind, standing either side of him as all three looked down onto the expanse fifty feet below the office.

  Two men dressed in white coats pottered about a room the size of a football pitch, slaloming through an assortment of computers, terminals and large vats which seemed to glisten and throb under the activity of a hundred wires. Inside the machines naked forms of human structure lolled about in gelatinous fluid like mannequins, lifeless and soulless.

  The old man beamed as he surveyed his creations. “This is where the next generation of solider will be built,” he informed the suited twins. “Empty headed idiots, with no purpose other than to kill and obey, will be bred in those vats.”

  One said, “This place looks familiar.”

  The older man nodded knowingly. “This, gentlemen, is where you were born.”

  “Ah,” One acknowledged without a hint of irony.

  The creator took a step back, admiring the spectacle of his creations as they studied their birthplace. “And, with your continued help, many more powerful weapons can be created. Once we build a strong force, we, or whoever chooses, can use that force to reproduce, to create even stronger soldiers -- to breed an unstoppable force. There will be no limits to its, and to our, potential.”

  He returned to his desk, to the alluring vial glowing on its polished surface.

  “Whoever chooses?” One queried.

  He laughed haughtily. “I’m not an idiot,” he declared with a wry smile. “I’ll leave the conquering to someone else. I’ll be looking for the highest bidder.”

  ****

  On his haunches, scrunching through darkened woods with Naff and Chip scuffling by his side, Michael checked his timer and sighed: “We’re a little late.”

  Naff groaned. “It’s hard to be punctual when you can’t see where you’re fucking going,” he moaned.

  Chip stumbled over something. He flung a barrage of whispered obscenities towards the ground and then scurried to catch up with his friends.

  “Why would they come out here anyway?” the tooth fairy wanted to know.

  “Wolves live in the woods,” Naff said mater-of-factly.

  “This is a werewolf,’ Chip argued, turning to face Naff, whose form was greyed in the darkness. “Technically human. Human’s don’t live in the woods.”

  “Hermits do,” Naff countered.

  Chip tutted in moc
k revilement. “So, let me get this straight, we’re looking for a deadly werewolf hermit?”

  “Well--”

  “Shut up,” Michael interrupted impatiently. “I can hear something.”

  The group paused as one, pricking their ears to the night.

  “You’re going mad mate,” Chip said after a moment’s silence.

  Just as Chip raised a sneer and closed his mouth, a middle-aged man, as skinny as a pole and as naked as the day he was born, ran a horizontal path on the pass ahead of them. An ethereal glow lit him in the darkness and followed him like a contrail.

  “Holy shit,” Naff spat.

  Michael stood, slapping his hands together. “That’s him.”

  Chip also straightened up, staring perplexedly at the quickly disappearing trail. “Is there a reason he’s naked?” he wanted to know.

  “He probably turned before he died,” Naff explained.

  Chip nodded slowly. “I hope so. Otherwise this could get weird.”

  They ambled forwards, towards the trail which had already dispersed into the breeze. The naked man appeared to their left, lit up like a tree Christmas within the midnight foliage.

  He darted up to them, gliding smoothly over the unseen obstacles. “You gotta help me,” he begged, his eyes wide. “There’s some men,” he said, gesturing behind Michael, into the darkened distance. “They killed me. They’re trying to kill me again.”

  “Makes sense,” Chip said softly.

  Michael turned around and scoured the darkness. Through the blackness he could see the glimmer of torchlights bobbing up and down like buoys in a tarred ocean.

  “I’ve gotta get of here,” the naked man said quickly, his wide-eyes darting around. “They’re fully armed.”

  “Guns can’t harm you now mate,” Chip announced.

  They have other things,” the naked man said with a manic wave of his hands, trying to indicate something he couldn’t comprehend. “They tried something after I died. A probe.”

  Chip took all of this in. “They’re probing and killing people?” he turned to Michael and grabbed his cuff. “I’m with the naked guy, let’s get out of here.”

  Michael shook off the fearful tooth fairy, his eyes visibly sneering at him under the spiritual glow. “We’re undead,” he reminded his friend. “They can’t hurt us.”

  “What about the missing souls?” Naff intervened, suddenly looking concerned. “If they can hurt them they can hurt us.”

  “Trust me, I’m alive enough to feel someone probing me,” Chip joined in.

  Ahead the two torches violently flickered and then straightened out. Two loud pops scratched the air and then exploded as a quick succession of bullets rocketed past the group.

  A sickening thump tore a chunk of bark from a nearby tree and spat a cluster of sawdust at the group. Chip twitched as a bullet whizzed past his ear with a high-pitched scream. An army of anxious rodents beat a path of retreat from their hideaways on the forest floor.

  “Let’s go,” Michael said, ducking instinctively at the sound of trouble. He turned on his heels and scarpered, his two friends and the naked man in tow.

  In a clearing the two men in black, their clothes and demeanours at one with their surroundings, lowered their guns and exchanged glances.

  “Did we miss?”

  “I definitely shot the little hairy one.”

  “Undead?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Reapers?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Should we report back?”

  “No.”

  “Chase?”

  “They’re gone now. We’ll deal with them later.”

  ****

  Chip looked casually looked around. His hands stuffed lazily into his pockets; a scowl on his face. “So, this is limbo,” he said, unimpressed.

  The waiting room was empty but for two teenagers who clung tightly and lovingly to a large, bemused man who looked half embarrassed and half annoyed.

  Hilda had watched the group enter, her perpetual scowl morphed into something even less endearing when Michael strode up to her and dropped his palms on her desk.

  She looked beyond Michael, over his dipped shoulder, and spoke before he had the chance.

  “Who’s the naked guy?” she wanted to know.

  Michael twisted his head around. The man in the forest, who appeared as James Waddington on the timer, was scanning his surroundings with the awe-struck intrigue of a child on his first holiday.

  Michael turned back to Hilda. “A job,” he said simply.

  Hilda nodded slowly, a slyness creeping onto her grotesque face. “So, you finally caught one,” she mocked. “Well done,” she peered back over his shoulder; James was now striding around the waiting room. His manhood bobbed about unashamedly with every wide stride.

  “Why’s he naked?”

  “I didn’t ask.” Michael told her, refusing to go into detail. “I need to speak with Azrael.”

  Hilda nodded, reluctantly dragging her eyes back to Michael. “He said you would say that.” She looked at her desk as if reciting from something scrawled onto the surface. “He told me to remind you that this is your job and he can’t help you any more than he has,” she finished with a flushing smile.

  Michael stepped back with a sigh. “But he hasn’t helped me,” he pleaded.

  Hilda shrugged apathetically. “What do you want me to do?”

  He turned away, annoyed. James Waddington had now made his way to the hallway.

  “James!” Michael called, stepping towards the naked dead man. “Here.”

  James looked up with a simple smile and then trotted towards the reaper like a sedately content canine.

  “I’ll process him later,” he told Hilda, “I need to take him back, sort a few things out.”

  She opened her mouth to object, her senses heightened by the possibility of establishing authority, but at that moment Seers stepped out of one of the processing rooms and her anger was stolen by adoration.

  Michael sighed inwardly, lowering his head to the floor.

  Seers moved towards the sullen reaper and loomed over him. The florescent light above his head drew a shadow that engulfed both Michael and James, despite only being a foot taller than them.

  “What do we have here?” he asked.

  Michael looked up at the grinning expression plastered on the face of the respected reaper. He drank in his presence and then spat it out with a simple answer: “A complication.”

  Seers nodded deliberately, his eyes passed from James to Michael, seemingly ignoring Naff and Chip who were subconsciously trying to use each other as shields.

  “Always seems to be the case with you,” Seers stated.

  Michael felt a welling of anger inside him. Seers was intimidating, he was at the top of his field, a position Michael could only dream of attaining, and he was respected by everyone who met him, but he was also a condescending, patronising prick, and Michael had things to do.

  “Do you need something Seers?” Michael spat with a grinding edge to his tone.

  “From you?” he rolled his head back slightly and laughed a brassy laugh, theatrics from a man who liked to be noticed. “I very much doubt it.”

  “Then get the fuck out of my way!”

  Michael barged past him, almost knocking himself off his feet in the process. Seers merely turned and watched him go, looking amused at his antics. He turned to Naff and Chip, both of whom were rooted to the spot. When he met their gaze they snapped out of their trance and skipped forward, keen to take the longest route around Seers as possible.

  “Jesus Christ he’s a big fucker,” Seers heard Chip mutter as the group strode into darkness.

  9

  The whistling agony of the kettle drowned out the constant noise from the street outside. At its peak, moments before screeching to a deafening halt and clicking to indicate the water was boiled, the broken banshee screams of the forty year old appliance could rival any pneumatic drill.

 
; Conversation between Michael and Naff stopped. All eyes, including those of James and Chip -- currently trying to work an equally antiquated games console in the living room -- turned to look at the kettle.

  The screaming died, the kettle whipped a mechanical click, and then conversation resumed as if nothing ear-destroying had just occurred. Even James Waddington, previously unaccustomed to the kettle, continued on as normal.

  Michael began pouring hot water into three cups. “You have to help me,” he told Naff as he measured out the steaming liquid before returning the clunky kettle to the stove. “Azrael said that this problem started with your department.”

  Naff accepted a cup from Michael, warming his hands on the heat that transferred through the ceramic. “I don’t really want to get mixed up with this, or with Azrael,” he said honestly.

  Michael handed a drink to Chip, leaving James out. The recently deceased man had initially been deterred at not being able to drink coffee until he saw the coffee -- cradled in a grimy jar like the moist droppings of a swamp monster.

  In the kitchen Michael said: “Apparently you already are, and if you don’t help me it won’t look good for you will it?”

  “That sounded like a threat.”

  “Fuck off, that wasn’t a threat.”

  “It certainly sounded like one.”

  “Do you want me to threaten you? I can threaten you if you want me to threaten you.”

  “I don’t think--”

  “I’m not going to threaten you.”

  “That wasn’t what I was going to say.” Naff put his cup down on the counter. “I can’t do this, I really don’t think--”

  Michael interjected. “Do you really want to piss off the Angel of Death?”

  “Now that was a threat,” Naff snorted. He picked up his cup and slipped the rim to his mouth. “But you have a point.”

  They took their drinks to the living room.

  Chip had managed to work the games console. He found the correct station on the television, tuned it in, worked out a kink in the power lead and unearthed both controllers -- a task he usually faltered at during one stage or another. He was preparing to play a game with James, the screen slowly loading, but the arrival of his flatmate had come during an argument.