Pretty sure I only read the children’s ‘Five go to Smugglers Cove (in the Great War)’ ones.
Off topic, but I didn’t mind Enid’s “Famous Five”. Never liked the “Secret Seven” though.
Random fact: She and Johns died a few months apart in 1968. Literally hundreds of written titles between them.
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Chapter 5. Bertie Steps Out.
Ginger hadn’t been wrong in his surmising that Bertie wouldn’t have held any false illusions as to the gamble he was taking. Even as he leapt out into space his mind was ticking over. He was too experienced a hand to play down the hazards he might encounter, even without the presence of armed and, most likely, hostile humans in the area. But equally, his nature revolted at the thought of taking a back seat in what he knew his country considered a crucial undertaking, and that same experience that made him aware of the dangers also imbued him with a sense of confidence. He had passed through war and adventure before, and could surely do so again.
At any rate, if Davidson was somewhere below, they certainly wouldn’t find him from ten thousand feet. Someone needed to put their feet on the deck, as he termed it, and if that meant some boot drill, it might as well be he who undertook it. If he could make contact with the missing Commando, what they had all envisaged as the most difficult part of the mission would be complete. They would make to the North West by foot and find somewhere to be picked up. If it turned out Davidson wasn’t in the offing, then Bertie would just have to make that trek alone and they would have to resume the hunt. But it seemed certain that someone was down there, within a mile or two of his intended landing place, and in Bertie’s mind there wasn’t much doubt about who it would be. One way or another they had to get that man and his priceless cargo beyond his pursuers grasp, and if that entailed some risks then that’s just how it had to be. That much was clear.
All this flashed through his mind in the time it took to count to five, the wind whistling in his ears and setting eyes watering, before he pulled the rip cord release and heard the frantic rustle of fabric behind and above. There was a sudden flap and jerk as the ‘chute ballooned into shape and the harness took up his weight, slowing his free-fall descent to a pleasant glide in one snapping motion. Far above he heard the bellow of aero-engines, but looking up all he could see was the canopy of silk printed on a darkening background. To the west the sky was emblazoned with the coloured streaks of an African sunset, and he was struck by the relative serenity of the scene after hours of engines roaring in his ears.
Turning his attention to the ground, he was pleased to see that the small cleared patch amidst the covered valley floor was more or less below him. Grabbing a handful of guy wires to correct for some wind drift – thankfully relatively minor –he surveyed the approaching landing zone closely, and was relieved to see that whilst it certainly wasn’t devoid of vegetation, it did appear to be mainly low-growth thorn bush on relatively flat ground. At a height of roughly 500 feet he thought he could just make out several anthills that could make for an unpleasant landing, but was satisfied that he would get down somewhere within the half an acre target rather than crashing into the trees that populated the surrounding expanses.
Dimly, he was aware of a change in the engine note somewhere above, and his forehead crinkled in surprised thought as it became the definite and unmistakable wail of an aircraft in a rapid dive. Looking up from his focus on the world below, he stared in astonishment at a small aeroplane that had appeared as if by magic from the east and seemed to be on a collision course with him. Even as he watched, the plane banked to the right and a door slid open in the fuselage. Bertie reacted with the instinctive alacrity that only war service can provide, and he had pulled savagely on the left-hand harness “riser” even before the inevitable firearm barrel appeared through the door. Even so, the world seemed to go into slow motion for a moment, his mouth went dry and he glared with morbid fascination at a sequence of muzzle flashes, counting each one off like the slow winking of an aldis lamp.
And then the flow of time, as if pent up like water behind a dam wall about to burst, flooded back with a vengeance and threw everything into frantic chaos. The parachute, ‘crushed’ on one end by Bertie’s reflexive movement, plunged into a rapid left-hand spiral. He could hear the hum and buzz of angry wasps rushing past. There was a splintering crack and something pounded his shoulder like a sledgehammer, eliciting a cry of anguish. Aero engines screamed nearby, and the violent tattoo of machine guns beat a drum upon his consciousness. Through a mist of pain and shock he saw that the ground, approaching so serenely just a second before, was now rushing up to meet him at a frightening rate and the treetops spun wildly beneath his feet, their branches waving gleefully as if to pluck him from the sky. His left shoulder was pounding out signals of discontent and refusing to function, but in desperation he hauled on the right-hand riser to stabilise the spiral and shot across the treeline with inches to spare. Even as he did so he caught a momentary glimpse of what looked to be a glowing meteor descending to earth and vanishing into the gloomy foliage in the distance.
Skimming past the treetops meant he was now over the clearing, but carrying frightful forward momentum. Almost half the area had been covered before his feet touched down, trying desperately to run but to no avail. He stumbled on dense shrubbery, and crashed heavily to the ground before being dragged helplessly through heavy thornbush and rocky protrusions. Sticks and thorns sliced cloth and skin, rock and dirt pounded everything else. Only the kit packs on Bertie’s back and chest provided some protection, although the rifle butt cracked painfully into a hip. He bumped and scrabbled for some 50 yards before crashing, with a thud that drove the final wind from his body, into an ant hill that exploded like a dust-filled landmine and covered its assailant in a choking cloud of debris. The tormenting parachute, finally emptied of pressurised air, settled to earth with a tranquil softness completely at odds with the state of its former passenger.
For several moments Bertie lay still, fighting an inner battle to refill his lungs. Rising to his knees with a painful groan, he fumbled clumsily trying to unshackle the harness. Finally free, and trying to ignore not only the shooting pain in his shoulder but various other protests from around the body, he staggered towards the treeline that loomed in the rapidly growing darkness some 30 yards away. Overhead he could hear the Wellington circling, it sounded some distance away and he paused briefly to see if he could spot it. Unable to do so, he went to move on again but seized to an abrupt halt as a voice cut through the twilight, accompanied by the metallic snick of a safety catch.
“That’ll do you, laddie”. It was curt, sharp, with just a hint of Scottish brogue. Bertie, breathing heavily, peered desperately into the gloom but the speaker may as well have been invisible.
“Now, you have thirty seconds to convince me that you shouldn’t meet yon maker, so I suggest you start talking. You ken?”
Bertie wasted no time in pleasantries, not least because he was still trying to recover his breath. “My name is Lissie. R,A.F. We’re here to find a man called Davidson, who may be lost in this bally place, and offer him a lift home to Blighty, yes by gad.” He glanced down at his left hand, where he could feel dampness, and when he looked back up a figure had materialised out of the gloom like magic. There was an uncomfortable moment as he stared down the barrel of a rifle, and beyond it a grizzled, careworn face framed with a ragged and matted beard. The remains of a service uniform of some sort, originally khaki but now filthy and torn covered what could be see of the new arrival’s torso. The wild look was strangely at odds with a pair of calm eyes and an even paced voice when he spoke again, and Bertie had been around such men long enough to instinctively recognise that here was a formidable adversary. He was, of course, such a man himself, had he ever acknowledged it.
“RAF, eh? Well, ye sure made a grand entrance into things if ever I’ve seen one.” The rifle was lowered but it wasn’t lost on Bertie that it remained trained on him. “Are ye hurt?”
“Yes,” Bertie replied frankly. “My shoulder is bunged up, it looks like I’m bleeding all over the landscape and being dragged through that perishing thornery was worse than a barbed wire fence. But most of all I need to get a signal up to my boss up there”. He thumbed in the direction of the Wellington, which was lost against an increasingly dark sky but could be heard cutting slow loops around the general area off to the south.
“Right. Come in under the treeline and I’ll have a look at you. But ye’ll be wanting to drop that rifle right there, laddie, ah’m not taking any chances with ye just yet. That’s the way”.
Bertie complied without complaint. Indeed, even just unslinging the weapon caused him discomfit and he knew that something was seriously amiss. He gingerly divested himself of the other satchels he was carrying as well, and sank down wearily against a tree.
“But I say old chap, who are you? You never actually answered. Are you Davidson, by any chance?”
There was a brief pause, before the reply. “Aye, Lissie, I am.” And then a chuckle. “Knowing my name is probably the only reason I didn’t shoot ye. I’m just about all in, I can tell ye.”
“Well that’s capital, absolutely capital!”, cried Bertie. “Looks like I’ve stumbled on the needle after all, yes by gad. Jolly good show and all that. Call me Bertie, by the way, I’m not one for formalities and all that rot”.
“Righto, laddie. Have ye got a light in your kit? Yes? Good. Now pipe down for a moment and lets ‘ave a look at that shoulder”.
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20 minutes of idle pondering/brainstorming on how i could open a movie, lol, produced this. Paging Morgan Freeman…
Plague.
Screen starts black.
Narration begins.
“Plague.” Pause, blackness on screen. “The mere word instils deep seated fear.”
Screen brightens to reveal slideshow of images, historical and more recent.
“Across the eons, our ancestors and forebears suffered its remorseless brutality. A morbid tinge of thrill mixed with terror, helplessness, futility. Unseen, microscopic death that brought civilisations to their knees. Conditioned to the inevitable, imprinted in the psyche, even entwined in genetic consciousness of generations past. Superstition and faith the frontline weapons until science cast a light in the darkness. We fought back. Never in totality, but we thought we were winning. Watchful, on the hunt for new threats, recent horrific arrivals controlled if not neutered. Fascinated by the horror, vigilance born of unease and experience.”
Images fade to black again.
“And yet we missed it. Lurking, silent, hidden. It came out of the shadows. The irony. We didn’t see it coming. Not until it took our sight.”
Title rolls, music comes in.
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That’s the name of your movie right there.
Edit: I haven’t had a chance to read your latest Biggles chapter yet, should get to it later this arvo
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I’ve posted this before.
shrugs I’m posting it again.
I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea but, while it’s not my best writing, it is absolutely my favourite piece of writing.
I love Adams/Pratchett/Rankin.
There’s more, but this is enough to subject you to.
Stupendously Silly Self-Aware Sword & Sorcery Story
Chapter One
The cave glowed. The light of lanterns reflected from a bounty of gold, jewels and treasures. Around the perimeter, swarthy brigands with curved swords grimaced and grawed their scarred, ugly faces. In the centre, a beauty surpassing all the riches lying at their feet. Blonde and tanned, beaten but not bowed, she struggled prettily against the ropes that bound her, a white cloth between her perfect white teeth stifling her screams, her clothes torn obscenely where the villains had groped and prodded her.
Holding her arm, laughing in triumph, a stunted, brute of a man. Narrow of eye and weak of chin, bereft of hair and smelly of breath.
“Come out, D ick Caesar!”
Childish giggles lilted around the cave. The buxom wench glared at each man until he stopped.
With a sound like a really long sword being unsheathed, the grubby little man unsheathed a really long sword and pointed the tip towards her neck.
“I vill kill her.”
Fanfares failed to blurtle. Heroes tall, dark and/or handsome were notable only by their absence.
“Very vell…”
“No! No!” shrieked the fair maiden. Or would have if she could have, but she was gagged, remember? So it was more of a ‘Ngh! Ngh!’ but we all knew what she meant, don’t we lads?
The band of thieves nodded and mumbled in agreement with the charming narrator.
Suddenly, a whisper echoed around the cave echoely.
“Do it properly!..-operly!..operly!”
The guards groaned, dropping their shoulders, some throwing their swords to the ground with disgust. The girl stamped and kicked doubloons hither and thus in annoyance and also in a cave, which I’m sure I’ve mentioned. Coincidentally, Annoyance was the name of the region the cave lay in, so she kicked the doubloons…well, I say doubloons; they were gold coins of some description, which may or may not have been Spanish…
“’scuse me!” said one of the guards. “They are doubloons, as it ‘appens.”
…right, so the interesting thing is that while she kicked the coins in annoyance, she also kicked them in Annoyance.
The cave stood silent as all appreciated this very interesting fact.
“Are you done?” asked the little, putrid man with appalling manners and no friends.
“Right, then. Where were we?”
The girl nodded towards a dark, gaping and disappointingly empty entrance to the underground vault.
“Oh, right. Do we really have to go through this every time?”
More nothing happened, equally nothingly as before, if not more so.
“Fine,” said the unctuous little weed as he…”Look, I’ve just about had it up to here with you, pal! Can I have a name, please?”
Cecil the Pigf ucker tapped his foot impatiently, possibly recalling his mother who was the result of an unholy union between a giant slug and…
“That’s it. Forget it. I’m outta here. Prima donna b loody heroes, high-maintenance slags, smartarse b loody writers, it’s not worth it, I tell you. Not for Forty Thieves style Arabians finding lost treasure of Spanish Doubloons, I mean hello? Told me we’d be using a cave from Verne’s Journey and I thought, oh, that’ll be nice, and end up in a dank old Blyton F5. I mean you try to be professional, and what does it get you? Cecil the f ucking Pigf ucker, that’s what.”
Malicho, the evil genius, twirled his thin moustache.
How’s that?
“Terrible. I wouldn’t have thought you could come up with something more hackneyed, but congratulations. Now I’m a thirties, silent film villain with a German accent surrounded by goons from Arabian Nights who’ve found sixteenth century treasure holding a poor-mans Kathleen Turner hostage. When do the dinosaurs and aliens turn up?” sulked Malicho as he selfishly gave away the surprise ending.
The proud beauty spat out her gag.
“Can we just get on with it?”
Soon as we all get back into character, sure. Malicho, you know the damn line. It’s in his contract, so just say it.
“Nothing can stop me now! Not even that…ahem…that…mumblemumblecaeser.”
They waited.
“I don’t think he heard you. I know I didn’t,” said a guard. Maybe the same one who mentioned the doubloons, maybe not. They’re all pretty much the same, so don’t worry about it too much. I mean most of them are going to die in a minute anyway.
“Eh?” said quite a few guards.
“Shut up you lot,” said the regretfully ungagged strumpet, “this is a good bit.”
There was a muttered chorus of ‘pffts’ and ‘as ifs’.
“I’m waaaaaaaitiiiing,” went the curiously effeminate voice in the shadows.
Malicho cleared his throat and spat in its general direction.
“Eww, you can have that bit of gold, Barry.”
“Barry? Is that my name then? Bit of an odd name for an Arab, isn’t it?”
“It’s short for Al-Barri.”
“Is it? That’s good, hey. I’ve never had a named part before. How do you think I’m going?”
Malicho cleared his throat with more emphasis.
“Oh, right. Sorry. Carry on.”
Malicho shouted perhaps the worst delivered line of his career, although then again perhaps not, in a deadpan voice “Nothing. Can. Stop. Me. Now. Ha. Ha. Haaaaa. Not. Even. That. God. Among. Men. D ick. Cae…”
“Ha-haaaaaaaaa!” D ick leapt out of the darkness, completely stuffing up his cue.
“Oh, sorry, too early. Do it again, I’ll just creep back in here.”
“Caesar! I’m going to ram this sword right up your a rse!”
“So we’re just going to wing it then? Sort it out in the redraft? It’s not how I normally work, but I’m happy to take on new challenges.”
“Oh, D ick! Thank god!” Overacted the stunning breasts attached to a complete moron.
“Yes, it is I. D ick Caesar, come to save you from this filthy scum. Have at you, vermin!”
“Arrrrrrgh!” went the band of thugs, now sounding suspiciously like pirates as they all rushed to get D ick.
D ick pranced around like a nancy, waving a sword he clearly had no idea how to use. This didn’t seem to matter as the fatal blade found its way to one black heart after another. Was it a magic sword?
If you like.
While all this was going on the dastardly Malicho swept up the whiny voice and amazing knockers, “Help! Help!” they went. Well…the knockers didn’t actually talk, you know that. I was just objectifying the female character by referring to her as her mammary glands, don’t make a mockery of the whole thing.
Anyway, he did an evil jig and carried the t its away, sadly. On the bright side, he took the annoying voice with them.
A mountain of bodies grew in front of D ick. Guards climbed up one side of it and went ‘whee!’ as they slid down and into D ick’s proud, thrusting sword, whereupon they went ‘awww?’ then ‘ouch’, then ‘bleurgh’.
He checked his manicure while swinging his sword in a limp-wristed fashion. What a t osser.
“What’s going on up there?” asked Barry as he jumped up and down, trying to get a better view at the back of the bandit-c um-pirate queue.
“I think it’s some sort of ride,” replied his friend.
“I think we’re getting slaughtered. Blow that for a lark. D’ya wanna go to the pub?”
“Oh man, I could murder a beer right now.”
“Rum, possibly,” suggested Barry. “Yo-ho-ho.”
“Santa?”
“No. Yo.”
“Yo, dude. ‘sup?”
“Look, can we not do this? There has never been a funny ‘yo’ joke, ever. Ever. And some pretty decent writers have had a crack at it, mark you.”
“Yo.” Barry’s friend stuck out his bottom lip, made strange movements with his hands, then wrapped his arms around himself.
“What are you doing with your fingers? What’s that supposed to mean for f ucks sake? Narrator, can you help us out here?”
Barry and his stupid friend went to the pub.
Actually…look if you don’t mind, I might join them. It can’t be as bad as this crap, can it? Hopefully less h omo-erotic too, if you know what I mean. I’d hate to think what Freud would make of it. Anyway, you coming? Mine’s a C ock-sucking Cowboy if you’re buying.
Chapter Two
As it turned out, Barry and his friend had Jim Beam and coke.
“Hey!” they cheer as we enter the bar, ordering four more and making room for us.
“So. What was all that about?” asked Barry.
Oh, you know. Just blowing off some steam, not trying to think about things too much. Being silly for a bit. I’ve been writing some pretty dark stuff lately and I wanted to lighten up a little.
Barry nodded as he sipped. “Fair enough. It was still a bit dark in a way, wasn’t it.”
What do you mean?
“I mean, nobody was particularly nice in it, except us of course, and you were saying all those mean things about the characters.”
Yeah, that’s true. Maybe that’s just how I write. I have no idea where you two came from.
“Well, we’re not very well formed, are we. I don’t have a face or a body or an accent, my friend here doesn’t even have a name.”
Still, I wanted to follow you guys rather than stay with them. How about we give your friend a name then.
“That’d be great,” said John. He looked up. “John? That’s a bit disappointing. Can’t I have Malicho? That was a cool name.”
“It was a f ucked name,” said Barry.
Thanks.
“No problem. Anyway, he might be in the story later. Can’t have two Malichos, but I reckon you can do better than John.”
I’m sorry, I have a bit of a problem with names. Steve?
Steve rolled the name around his tongue.
“Steve. Steven. Steve-o. S-man.”
“Not f ucking S-man,” said Barry. “Steve-o’s okay. Right then, how about some characteristics?”
Barry stood six and a half feet tall, with piercing blue eyes and…
“Nah, nah, hang on. I don’t want any of that. Just something normal will do me. Although if you could make me irresistible to the ladies, it’d be much appreciated.”
Irresistible?
Barry thought. “Actually, no. I don’t want every woman in the place chasing after me. Just…if they could find me cheeky and charming, so if I flirt a bit they’ll play along for as far as we want to take it, that’d be awesome.”
Steve ordered another round.
“How’s it going, Rose?” Barry asked the barmaid.
“All the better for seeing you, Barry. You here ‘til closing?”
“Could be,” Barry grinned, “could be. Rose I’d like you to meet some friends of mine, Steve, the Narrator and the reader.”
“Pleased to meet you all, any friend of Barry’s is a friend of mine. Where you all from?”
We’ve just come in from an adventure story gone wrong, Barry was about the only one worth saving in it.
“Oh, thank you very much,” grumbled Steve.
“I can believe that. Well if you need anything, just call out for Rose, okay?”
We sure will. Thanks Rose.
“She’s nice,” said Barry.
“She likes you,” said Steve. “So what about me? Am I just the wingman? The loyal side-kick?”
Looks like it so far. I’m sure a subplot will crop up somewhere for you. Do you want a hobby?
“What, model trains or something? No thanks.”
A man’s gotta have a hobby. I’m sure I heard that somewhere. How about…well, you could drive formula one cars in your spare time?
Steve looked himself over and checked out the bar.
“Seems a little unlikely. I mean I’d be in some fancy place if I had that sort of money, wouldn’t I.”
Fair enough. Don’t worry. I’m sure it will turn up in a completely natural way a little later.
Barry gave a dubious look. He was very good at it.
The hours passed quickly at the pub, like they do, and everyone got nicely jolly. Nobody became lecherous, although Barry’s wooing of the delightful Rose pushed the limits occasionally, but even more betterer, nobody became morose and melancholy.
There came a crash from the corner of the bar.
“What!” shouted Steve. Steve-oooooo. Stevie-boy. “Like none of yooz have never askadently mixed up their girlfriend with someone else’s.”
“Steve, c’mere.” Barry called friendlily. In the manner of a friend. These bourbon’s are going down quite well, aren’t they. “Come on, before you get yourself in more trouble.”
“Could’ve happened to anybody.”
“Mate, you don’t have a girlfriend. I don’t see how you can mistake someone else’s for your own when you don’t have one to mix up…sorry, what was I saying?”
“Not my fault. It’s his b loody fault. Wanker.”
You want a girlfriend then Steve, is that it? You only had to say. You’re a good bloke, Stevie. You are. I’ll get you a girlfriend, don’t you worry.
“Nah, you don’t want a girlfriend.” Barry threw his arm around his mate. He’s such a top bloke, don’t you reckon? “We’re the boys! We don’t want no women tying us down.”
Actually, I don’t mind that sort of thing if it’s done right.
“You’re getting smutty, Narrator. I like you. You know I like you, but you’re getting smutty and there’s no call for it.”
Sorry.
“Right, so…something something…oh, that’s right. We’re the boys! Come on, Steve. We’re men of action and adventure. Soldiers of fortune! We don’t want some nagging bit of crumpet cramping our style. Who knows what will happen next, eh? Something really random, I’ll bet, right Narrator? Oh, bugger. He’s passed out.”
But in fact, I hadn’t. I was merely required elsewhere.
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Wow. I’ve never dabbled with Pratchett beyond , well, no, nothing meaningful.
I’ve seen the author interacting with characters thing done before, and I like the chaotic nature of it.
A good, fun read wim. Once I twigged to the 1st/2nd/3rd/4th person narration structure. Which took me a bit, lol. Somewhere around "With a sound like a really long sword being unsheathed, " I latched onto how this piece should be read.
Well done.
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Hmm. Okay, we’re into uncharted territory. Well, largely unedited for chapter 6, and chapter 7 . Just looking at chapter 8, it is totally as it was first drafted, and i feel it is more me and less in Johns-character, so it probably needs a fair tidy up. Chapter 9 is just a few brief notes, and some idea’s in my head. So we’re going to hit a wall soonish.
Anyway, next installment:
Chapter 6. Reginald takes a hand.
The sound of the Wellington approaching again prompted Bertie to protest that he was fine and that instead the priority was to fire up the radio. Davidson removed an S-phone from Bertie’s backpack and grimaced. Under the torchlight it looked like a mangled piece of shrapnel, jagged edges protruding and shattered glass rattling. Parts shone crimson red where the light glinted off them.
He whistled softly. “I’ve used these quite often in the past, but I don’t think we’re sending anything on this beastie any time soon.”
Bertie groaned. “No, by Jove! Dash it all. Of all the bad luck, it has to be that.”
“Bad luck for the radio, perhaps” ruminated Davidson. “But perhaps very good luck for ye, I think. Hold fast. I’ll have to get a message topsides the old way.” Shielding the torch with his shirt, he began sending a repeat morse code signal towards the slowly appearing stars, and grunted in satisfaction when the aero engines blipped in acknowledgement and gradually faded away to the west. Silence reigned.
Davidson returned to Bertie – who had carefully divested himself of his shirt - and inspected his shoulder.
“It’s ugly, but I think its only lacerations”, declared the former SAS operative. “The radio stopped the bullet but you might have some shrapnel in there”. He sucked the air through his teeth in thought. “You’ve lost some blood. I think I can patch this up, lad, but it might turn septic out here quite quickly”.
“No bother, old boy. I’ll be fine, and we plan to get you out of here tomorrow anyway. Not a moment too soon either, I should say, a beastly place.”
“Don’t count ye chickens just yet, matey. But give me a moment, we’ll need something as a bandage. This little 1st aid kit ye’ve brought along won’t do it. I’ve an idea. Ye’ll have to whistle me in as I think we’ve shown enough light tonight. So don’t go away, no runnin off, ye ken?” There was a trace of humour in the last instruction.
“Not me, Davidson. I won’t, no by Jove. Nowhere to go and nothing to see, if you get my drift”.
“Good lad. And call me Reg”.
Davidson vanished into the night. Bertie sat propped against a tree, a wad of fabric clamped against his shoulder, and pondered proceedings. There was no moon as yet, just a glorious vault of stars stretching overhead providing almost the only light. Only on a skyline to the North East could he detect a faint reddish glow, and he surmised that it may have been where his attackers plunged to earth.
A cold sweat -and then smouldering anger -arose in him when he recalled the calculated attempt on his life. His face set in hard lines and he promised silently that – as he put it to himself – he’d set his clock accordingly and not be caught out again. There was this about it – he now knew what lengths their foes would go to. Of course, the murderous destruction of Litaka had already pointed to that. But, happily, to his mind his plan had already paid off. He had found Davidson. Sure, he – Bertie – was injured but he felt confident that it wasn’t a major problem and certainly wouldn’t stop them hiking out to a possible landing ground in the morning. It could have been far worse, a broken bone or a bullet to the leg would have been far more problematic.
Davidson returned after five minutes or so, a low whistle and reply from Bertie guiding him in. He bore with him a large piece of parachute fabric, which he proceeded to cut into long strips with a fierce looking commando knife. Bertie stifled a groan when the small bottle of antiseptic from the kit was poured over his wounds, and then Davidson bound the shoulder with an elaborate weave of parachute bandages.
“That’s about all we can do, methinks. How do ye feel?”
“Top hole, old boy. Absolutely top hole.” He moved his left arm around in the gloom. “A bit stiff of course.” And then brought the rifle up to his shoulder. “But I can still do this! So, the Lion hunt is still on, yes indeed!”
“Lion hunt!?” Reg’s voice was laden with incredulity.
“Of course. We’ve some walking to do in the morn and I imagine we may come across old Leo and his pride?” Bertie sniffed sadly. “So many trips to Africa and I still haven’t bagged a ■■■■■ cat”. The statement was tinged with so much regret that Reg had to stifle a laugh.
“Right. Well let’s get moving. Aye, even in the dark. No, it’s not far, just a wee way. But those devils up on yon hill may have marked where you came down and I’ve learnt to not be where they think I am.”
“Oh, so you know about them?”
“Aye. I saw them drop in a few days ago”.
It was Bertie’s turn to be surprised. “Drop in? Do you mean paratroopers?” and on receiving affirmation continued. “I say, that’s an eye opener, yes by gad! Who in the world are these people? A bunch of Brolly Men in a place like this? What a rum show you’ve got happening”.
“That’s one way to express it. But follow me, we’ll take our time, we don’t want to put an eye out on a wee branch.”
The moon had barely risen and It was hard going by starlight, but Reg seemed to know his destination. He led the way northwards into thicker cover, staying close to, but off, what Bertie suspected was a game trail. For almost an hour they picked their way through scrub and ground cover, a canopy of trees overhead further darkening proceedings, all the while heading downhill. Animals – of what species Bertie couldn’t say – scurried around intermittently and he admitted to himself that the idea of stepping on something venomous fair put the wind up him. It certainly worried him far more than a shoulder that was aching with each step.
And then, completely unexpectedly, the terrain opened out, revealing a small watering hole, still and brooding, a silvery sheen reflecting the moonlight. Perhaps 40 yards across, Reg took them around to the northern edge and there, hidden and virtually invisible until Reg quickly flashed the torch on it, was a rough shelter built of leafy tree branches. It wasn’t so much camouflaged with the foliage, but rather was part of the foliage.
“This is us, Bertie. We’ll go no further, and you can rest that wound now. This watering hole is down in a little valley and can’t be seen from where we were. I know, I’ve checked it. Now, would ye by any chance have brought some grub down wit ye? Antelope steaks have worn pretty thin over the last few months, ye ken?”
“I can imagine, old bean. Absolutely. There are some tins here, help yourself.” He looked curiously at his companion, a shadowy figure in the dark, as Reg opened a tin of rations. From the sound it was an activity born of long experience. There was a low chuckle. “Hmm. Bacon. It’s been a while”.
“I say, old chap, you’ve done incredibly well out here all this time on your own”. Bertie’s admiration was genuine. “Have you really had these hounds on your tale for three months?”
“Aye. I have. A terrible lot they are too. I’ve faced far better men of course, Rommel’s lads were a tough nut to crack in the big show, but I’m beggared if I’ve ever encountered a group so quick to murder and destroy. But how did you know I was out here?”
“Kemboi got through and spilt the beans about Litaka, the massacre and yourself”, replied Bertie simply.
“He did, did he? Stout lad, that one. What happened at Litaka?”
“It sounds like they killed everyone, yes by Jove. Barbarians. A ‘plane load of white men arrived, searched the place and they set their troops on your track with native trackers, old boy. The pursuit was on, if you see what I mean?”
“Aye, I see it alright. I saw it up close. The trackers are the big the problem, those laddies could follow a scorpion over a frozen lake. They ran me to ground several times. The uniformed thugs are amateurs.”
“How did you get clear?”
“I shot the trackers.” It was said calmly, with no trace of emotion. “No choice.” Then his voice brightened. “But ye lads certainly took ye time comin to find me!”
“I don’t think anyone thought you’d be alive, old man, until a BOAC flight crew saw your signal. That fair set the cat amongst the Whitehall pigeons and we were asked to trundle out here and take a decko.”
“Ha! So that worked then!? I’d fair run out of idea’s by that stage, I must confess. I’ve spent more than three weeks here, largely because it provides a water supply and there’s enough game at dusk to allow a feed. That, and thinking I’d lost those cut-throats, I thought I could rest up a bit. Besides, I didn’t know where else to go. It looks pretty dry to the north and I was tired of running, ye ken?”
“Oh, I ken, absolutely old boy” Bertie replied emphatically. “Running around this corner of the world playing hide and seek with a bunch of scally wags for months on end is not my idea of fun, no bally fear. Good thing we arrived when we did. I say, we were meant to find you foremost, but also a wad of papers that you may have stuck in your pocket. Biggles - my boss -is going to want to know if you still have the old paraphernalia.”
“No, laddie. I don’t”, replied Reg. “I didn’t want them on me if I was caught, which very nearly happened. They’re well hidden, stuffed in an old biscuit tin a couple of days march from here if you’re thinking of fetching them. Personally, I think we’re better off without them.”
Bertie pondered on it for a few moments. “We’ll let Biggles decide on that. The plan is to head north west along this valley in the morning, where we think we can get an aeroplane down for the rendezvous. We better stick to that, yes by Jove, or they’ll wonder where we are if we’re off on a bally paper chase of our own. We don’t have a radio to let them know how things stand.”
“To say nothing of my friends up on yon hilltop and what they might think of that” added Reg dryly.
“Absolutely, old top, absolutely. I’d forgotten about them. Damn nuisance with the blighters in the offing. No doubt they’ll be out looking for us at daybreak.”
“Aye, they will. Ye’d best rest that shoulder for a bit. I’ll take first watch, then grab a bit of shuteye before dawn. It’ll be nice to have a spot of blanket drill with someone else on the alert for once.”
“I can well imagine that” murmured Bertie. He settled into the base of a tree as best he could, rifle within easy reach and watched the moon shine fitfully through the canopy. Dappled light mixed seamlessly with inky shadows, and something splashed about at the nearby waterhole. But on the whole, silence reigned, and despite a dull thudding in his shoulder he soon fell asleep.
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Chapter 7. Warm Work.
It was just after two in the morning by Bertie’s watch when he was awakened by a gentle shake from Reg.
“Your turn, laddie. There are a few animals out and about but nothing else to report. The waterhole will get busier towards dawn though. We probably want to be on the move by then.”
“Certainly do, old chap. Don’t want any beastly paratroopers calling in for breakfast, what. And Biggles will be on his way as early as possible, you can bet the bank on that. I’ll give you a nudge at first light.”
For Bertie, the night watch provided a chance to sit and think. The shoulder was aching and stiff, but not debilitatingly so, and he thought would not impede them on what was likely to be a hard day’s march. The idea, of course, was to reach the open ground that they’d spotted from the Wellington to the north. How far this was, he wasn’t sure. Algy had thought 10 miles or so, but it perhaps wouldn’t be that bad. Any reasonably flat opening in the vegetation would probably allow the Proctor to get down. He and Reg could even do a bit of light clearing if needed.
The unknown, of course, were the intentions of Reg’s pursuers. That they’d seen the smoke signal and had decamped to investigate it was already known. How far had they progressed before nightfall made moving impossible? Had they even stopped? It would have been exceedingly slow going but the moon – which was now low and largely hidden by the tree tops to the west – may have allowed them to press on, and Bertie shifted uncomfortably at the idea that the enemy may well be within a mile or two. He had, of course, no way of knowing, but it was enough to prevent him lighting a cigarette.
The biggest concern in Bertie’s mind was if the pursuit ran them close then any potential landing zone may well be under fire. He was under no illusion that their adversaries – whatever their nationalities – would be well armed, and possibly well trained. The events at Litaka starkly illustrated both their ability and their ruthlessness. This was war, albeit undeclared. Could the two of them hold out against a dozen or more in open battle? Maybe for a while, and he took some solace in doing a mental count of his ammunition supply. But ultimately, the wildcard was Reg. If he was cut from the same cloth as Gimlet King – and his ability to survive under the current circumstances, to say nothing of his war record suggested that he certainly was – then here was a formidable ally to have on a battlefield.
But it would be far preferable to not have to put themselves to the test, and Bertie resolved to be on the move at the first hint of pre-dawn, even if it meant a hard slog in dim conditions. Every yard they gained now would reduce the chance of being overtaken later. What they did once a rendezvous had been achieved could be safely left to Biggles. His job was simply to make sure it happened. Reg not having the papers on him wasn’t something that he’d even considered, but that would have to wait.
The night ambled on. Far away, a hyena barked its distinctive “laugh”. Some gentle footfalls and swishing of foliage had Bertie startled and he inched forward to get a view of the waterhole, rifle in hand. He looked in wonder at some silhouettes not 50 yards away, a small herd of what appeared to be Zebra’s having magically materialised in the darkness. Looking to the east, above the impenetrable shadows of the valley wall, the summit was haloed in the vaguest hint of glow, an early harbinger of another sweltering African day. Far to the south, a strange sound carried in on the otherwise peaceful air to set Bertie’s thoughts racing. Simultaneously, he was aware of a form appearing next to him.
“Time to go”, whispered Reg tersely. “That was a machete chopping at a branch. Those devils didn’t stop for a nap. I’d say they aren’t far from where you dropped in.”
In silence, under a quick flash from the torch, everything was gathered up. Reg gently dropped the shattered radio remains into the waterhole as the easiest way to hide them and scattered the branches of his improvised shelter whilst Bertie filled the waterbottles and dropped in a halozone tablet.
“I like to leave as little information as possible, but they’ll obviously know we’ve been here if they find this place.” It was a hoarse undertone from Reg. “There’s an old dry creek bed that leads north, I’ve followed it for half a mile or so but beyond that its all new territory for me. We’ll use that to get clear of here. Try not to break any branches and no noise. Slow is fine until we can see better. If you come across any damp patches, don’t step in them. Try to walk on rocky ground. Ye ken?”
It was slow, tedious going in the early stages. Reg led them to a faint gametrail and carefully picked his way through the brush. True dawn was now staining the eastern sky, the half-light reducing the chance of poking an eye out but care was still taken not to break any foliage. After perhaps fifteen minutes Bertie found himself looking down at a shallow depression, an old stream bed that presumably supplied the water hole in wet periods. The banks were heavily congested with tough looking thorn bushes and a tangle of undergrowth, but the bottom was somewhat clearer, obviously cleansed by somewhat regular water flow. It all looked very dry. Reg cast about for a thin place in the undergrowth and they descended into the watercourse. From here, progress was easier, and Bertie noted with satisfaction that the heading remained North to North West.
By now, the sun was up and already the temperature was climbing. If there was any breeze, they were sheltered from it in the creek bed and they started to sweat under the workload. Looking southward, there was a hint of smoke in the far distance and Reg surmised that it may have been the remains of the plane that had crashed the night before. “If they spend some time looking for that wreckage, all the better for us”, he opined.
The daylight also gave Bertie his first real chance to view Davidson and what he saw gave cause for sympathy. Thin and emaciated with skin stretched tightly across a tall but gaunt frame, his companion was covered in scratches, bites and bruises. A general impression of physical hardship was only enhanced by a covering of grime and dust. An improvised bandage adorned an upper arm, filthy and bedraggled, red stained with congealed blood. A grizzled beard flecked with grey and dishevelled, matted hair completed a wild and battered look. But as per the night before, the eyes framed by the innumerable wrinkles and filthy haggardness of extreme hardship shone brightly. Despite a tattered uniform, with rifle slung on his left shoulder and an energetic gait Bertie felt he looked every inch the part of desert commando.
At one point Davidson paused to remove the old bandage and replace it -on an ugly looking wound -with a new piece of parachute strip that he’d evidently bought with him. Catching Bertie’s eye, he grimaced. “Bullet wound”. And then with an accompanying smile, “But it’s really just a wee scratch.” Bertie smiled back as he helped tie off the bandage and motioned to his own shoulder. “I’ve one of those too, old boy. Hopefully we can return the favour to these blighters, yes by Jove.”
“I’ve already started” asserted Reg, with a grim countenance. Bertie laughed, and with an admiring “jolly good”, the march was resumed.
Somewhat more than two hours after sunrise, it was Bertie who first detected the hum of an aero engine in the air. Scrambling up a clear patch of the western bank, he peered cautiously over the lip and surveyed the sky. A moment of confusion ensued and then he slid back down through the vegetation. “Quick, get under cover! Its coming from the east!” Both men threw themselves with alacrity into a thicket of bushes against the eastern wall, the thorns exacting a painful toll for the shelter they provided. The engine sound was still faint but growing steadily. Bertie wormed his way through the bracken until he had a view of the eastern skyline. At first he could see nothing, but then he spotted a small black dot to the south east of their position that slowly resolved itself into the form of an aeroplane.
“It’s the same type as yesterday! How many do these perishers have!?” exclaimed Bertie. Reg joined him and they watched the plane come in on a line that took it somewhere near their starting position that morning. It went into a tight turn several miles south of where they were watching from and proceeded for the next few minutes to trace a circular flight plan.
“I’d say they’re talking to the bright lads on the deck via radio, old boy, who are probably filling them in on what happened last night.” Bertie paused for a moment, then went on with a mirthless smile. “It must be a bit of a shock, yes by gad, to learn that their mates got shot down!”
Reg agreed. “But they’ll also now be aware that ye have put your feet on the ground, too. I’m not certain, but I suspect they’re at the water hole rather than your landing zone. So that puts them just a couple of hours behind us. We need to push on. Hark! Now what are they up to?” The distant aircraft had levelled out and headed north east, leading the watchers to hope it was returning to base. This hope was dashed when it then abruptly tacked back and headed due west. For perhaps a mile it continued on, then swung back to an easterly course.
Bertie looked at Reg. “The blighters are looking for us, that’s what they’re doing. Perish them! Its going to be tough to make progress with that thing buzzing about. Look out! Here it comes, don’t move and don’t look up at it!” The plane roared overhead at perhaps 500 feet, Reg and Bertie lying prone beneath a tangle of bushes and undergrowth.
“This is your field, laddie. How likely are they to spot us in this stuff?” The question from Reg was calm.
“If we don’t move, old boy, not likely at all. It’s usually movement, or a glowing white face, that let us spot people who are trying not to be seen.”
A few minutes later the aircraft returned, this time travelling in the reverse direction and they watched it pass by a few hundred yards to their north. The next pass took it even further to the north and it gradually faded to a speck on the northern horizon.
“Now what? The question came from Reg.
“We’d better stay hidden for a bit. They must know that we couldn’t possibly have made it on foot that far, no by Jove. I’d wager they’ll start to come back south again shortly.”
In this he was soon proved correct, as the volume began to increase again. But now it had seemingly abandoned the grid pattern, instead flying a course parallel with the river bed and much lower than they had been. Bertie could see a side door open and he started violently when a machine gun opened up whilst still a quarter mile north of their position. The fire appeared to be directed into the creek bed.
“What the deuce are they shooting at!?” cried Bertie. The answer would be soon forthcoming.
Ok time to revive this thread. I had, on the quiet, been writing a fair bit during the Melbourne lockdown. I always wanted to write and have a novel printed and 2020 gave me the opportunity to give it a try. I still don’t know if I’m good, but i am apparently “good enough” to have a couple of works (a short story as part of an anthology and a novella as a stand alone book) going to print in the next week or so. I’ll finish 2020 as a published writer which is in my book a big win in what has generally been a very ordinary year.
In the spririt of the thread I’ll post one of my stories below. This is one i wrote this year but hasn’t been accepted by any publisher. Probably needs some editing (a process which really showed me i do need to sharpen my work) and may not be for a broad audience. It’s a slasher story and meant only for a bit of ghoulish fun.
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Die for Metal
“And… go!”
The video recording starts. A dingy garage is lit by a flickering light. On the back wall a black cloth banner is hung loosely. Printed on the banner, in a font to resemble dripping blood, is the word ‘Bloodwolf’. In the foreground, a cardboard box sits on a plastic, fold out table. The clear plastic tape on the box is cut open.
A man walks into picture. He is young, clean shaven and has long hair. He wears pale blue denim jacket with a black heavy metal t-shirt underneath. The t-shirt bears the image of a rotting corpse lying on its back, also clad in denim over denim. At the top, green emblazoned letters dripping slime read ‘Obituary’. The sleeves have been cut from the t-shirt revealing tautly muscled arms. He wears a belt made from bullets over his black jeans. He carries an opened can of beer in his right hand.
“What is happening my wolfen brethren?” he begins, speaking to camera. “Have I got some exciting ■■■■■■■ news for you all.”
He walks to the box, taps it gently on the top.
“Have a guess what’s in this bad boy we received today. That’s right my wolfies. It’s here. The debut ■■■■■■■ album of Bloodwolf.”
A chant of “wolf, wolf, wolf” can be heard. The vision pans left and more men are seen sitting on a dirty green sofa. Like the first man on camera, they have long hair and wear the denim double. One has a beard, the second wears a backwards cap. The vision blurs as the camera is quickly turned back to the first man.
He grins. He opens box and slowly reaches in. He turns to the camera. His face turns to mock pain and his body begins to thrash about violently, arm stuck in the box. He screams in pain. The scream slowly shifts from one of pain to a falsetto power scream. He clenches his fist of his second hand and raises it in triumph. He once again focuses on the camera.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the first look at our killer debut album, out next week. Here it is, ‘Kill for Metaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaal” he ends again with a falsetto scream, an iconic trait of metal since the eighties.
He withdraws his hand from the box, bearing a CD like a trophy. He runs towards the camera and thrusts the CD forward. The camera is momentarily unfocused, before refocusing on a badly hand drawn image of a skeleton killing a man with an axe-shaped guitar, blood splattering into the band name Bloodwolf and dripping down to form the album title ‘Die for Metal’.
“Available now for pre-order or in-store Friday.”
The fourth man in the garage pressed the stop button on the recording and rocked his head back in a deep laugh which echoed through the garage.
“Dude” he said, “that was ■■■■■■■ gold.”
The main speaker frowned and took a swig from his beer. He swallowed the mouthful loudly, face thoughtful.
“Yeah, it was OK, I guess. Bit generic though.”
“C’mon Chris” said the man with the phone. “that’s all our fans need to see on facebook. It’s a prompt to get those pre-orders in.”
Chris’ face contorted into a pained expression.
“Our fans already know that, Gav. We’ve already had more pre-orders than we have followers.” Chris took another swig of his beer. “We need something that goes beyond our fans. We need something to go viral”.
The two on the dirty green couch looked at each other, raising eyebrows. Gav looked down at his phone, eager to post the video on the band’s page. Chris paced the room, tapping the CD case on the top of his head. At last Chris turned, eyes wide with exhilaration.
“I got it. We should do a graveyard video.”
The two on the couch groaned, but Chris ploughed on regardless.
“We take a Bluetooth speaker. Gav you take your guitar. Damo your drumsticks. I’ll take a cordless mic. And Joe get your bass. We set up your phone and we pretend to play ‘Graveyard Mosh’ in the ■■■■■■■ graveyard. And we ■■■■■■■ dance around and mosh and ■■■■. It’ll be great.”
“It’ll be lame” Damo said. He took of his cap, brushed back his hair and placed it back on. “Just drumsticks? What do I play on? Invisible drums?”
“Nah dude, you play on the headstones man.”
Now it was Gav’s turn for a pained expression.
“You really think a bunch of dudes ■■■■■■■ around in a cemetery will go viral? Where’s the pull?”
Chris raised tossed the CD aside and raised a finger to get their attention. His smile could have belonged to the devil himself.
“Because, dudes, when we mosh, we knock over and smash headstones, just like it says in the lyrics.”
“Oh, ■■■■ no” said Gav.
“Shut up Gav. Listen” Chris now turned to Damo and Joe to implore them, “the graveyard damage will be all over the news. They’ll play our video everywhere. We’ll be ■■■■■■■ famous guys.”
The bass guitarist and drummer looked cynical.
“When you’re famous you’ll get a lot of ■■■■■” said Chris. He lifted two fingers in a V up to his mouth and started darting is tongue in between then.
Joe and Damo looked at each other, faces alight.
“We’re in” the exclaimed in unison.
Gav slumped back in to his chair, defeated.
Chris led his band out into the cool night air a short time later. There was a small to moderate sized cemetery at the end of the street they had used in a video clip previously. They could use it again. Chris carried a six pack in one hand and his microphone in the other. Joe carried his bass guitar, and on his arms he wore long leather spiked bracelets with nails poking out aggressively. Damo carried his drumsticks in his back pocket and cradled the Bluetooth speaker in his arms. Gav straggled behind all three with his guitar slung over his back and held a torch lamp in one hand. He muttered quietly under his breath.
As they passed the neighbour’s house, Chris stopped the band. The house was dark. It was close to 11pm and night.
“Hey, you reckon that old ■■■■■ is home?” he asked.
The group shrugged. The neighbour was well known to them. Known for her vigorous complaints whenever the band practised in the garage any time past 10pm.
“Reckon we should give her the salute? For old times’ sake? For all the times she called the cops on us?”
Uninspired nods answered him
“C’mon, let’s do it. Count of three. One. Two. Three. ■■■■ YOU BATTY YOU BATTY OLD ■■■■.”
All four yelled, and those who could raised their middle fingers. The group laughed. At some point they had considered it genius of themselves to use her surname, being Batty, as a description of her. The wittiness of it had faded, but they never missed an opportunity to taunt her in as much as she never missed an opportunity to call the police if they practised too loud. Which was always.
The night sky carried a thick blanket of clouds. The cemetery lay well back from the street lights, making it surprisingly dark as they entered.
“Good thing we bought the ■■■■■■■ lamp” Joe noted.
They made their way through the lines of graves to the far end of the cemetery. The head stones there were older and higher, and would make a better destruction video. The added advantage, of course, was it also meant they farther back from the street and neighbouring houses and unlikely to be seen or heard.
Soon they came across a grassed area that would suit the shoot perfectly. The area was flanked by smaller headstones on either side, with a large central headstone at the back which would be prefect for the ‘drum’. The band quickly set up. Gav set the lamp to shine from the ground to cover them all clearly. They then set up the camera and sorted out what positions they would take. Damo linked is phone vie Bluetooth to the speaker.
“Hmm, strange” said Damo.
“What’s that?” asked Joe.
“No phone reception. Bluetooth works fine though, all good.”
Chris handed out beers, and they all downed them quickly.
“OK, here is how I see it” Chris began. “We play the song as normal, then we hit the groovy breakdown part. Hey Joe, are you paying attention?”
Joe was looking out into the darkness, beyond the light of the lamp.
“Sorry man, thought I heard something out there.”
“Dude, you’re always spooked when we come here, now pay attention. During the breakdown we down our instruments and we break ■■■■. Kick over the stones. They look easy to break here. Mosh like crazy. Cause as much destruction as possible, got it.”
All nodded.
The light flickered and began to fade.
“Aw ■■■■, anyone bring batteries?”
Blank faces all round. They all turned to Joe.
“You’re going to make me go, aren’t you?” Joe asked, eyes darting around at the enclosing darkness.
“Well, it is you ■■■■■■■ house” Chris responded, “and bring some more beers too.”
Joe looked at his bandmates, hoping for a volunteer to take his place. But there was none. With reluctance, Joe left the small circle of light.
The darkness wrapped Joe like a shroud, and he walked on with uncertainty. ■■■■■■■ Chris had been right, he hated walking through the cemetery at night. The place gave him the creeps. It was not that he believed in ghosts or anything, it’s just there was just something not right about being in a place filled with dead bodies.
An owl hooted, and he jumped.
Jesus Joe, he thought to himself, pull yourself together man. He walked on through the darkness, the long nails of his wristbands clinking quietly against each other.
It was a few steps further when he heard a sharp dry crack. He stopped instantly and turned. He could see nothing but the grey arches of headstones through the darkness.
“Hello?” he called, far more meekly than he had intended.
No answer.
“Look Chris, if this is you playing some stupid prank, it’s not funny.”
Still there was silence. Joe’s eyes darted left to right, scanning for movement. The dark night grew darker as a thicker part of cloud moved across the moon.
Joe turned. His heart rate had elevated markedly and he had begun to sweat despite the coolness of the night. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He opened his eyes and walked on.
As he walked, he could not shake the feeling he was being followed. The crack had broken his nerves as much as the stick it no doubt was. He began to quicken his pace, when he heard another crack from behind him. He stopped to turn again.
The moon briefly appeared from behind the thick cloud, illuminating the area he stood. His eyes were drawn immediately to a pink track suited figure a few yards away who had been slowly jogging parallel to him. The figure came to a stop as he turned. The tracksuit had two while trim lines down each leg and each arm. The hood was drawn over the head, covering the face in darkness, but there was no doubting who this might be. Her hands were covered with woollen aqua gloves.
Joe heaved a sigh of relief.
“Jesus Mrs Batty, you scared the ■■■■ out of me.”
Mrs Batty stood motionless, staring at Joe. Clouds began to drift in patches across the moon, making the light inconsistent. There was a small click, and something metallic glinted in Mrs Batty’s gloved hand.
“What the ■■■■?” Joe whispered as all his senses told him to run.
She stood still a moment longer. At the first hint of movement his nerve broke and he ran.
He sprinted in the direction of the road. It was still far. He looked over his shoulder to see Mrs Batty was in chase, the switchblade gleaming with menace in her hand.
The thick cloud drifted once more across the moon and the cemetery was plunged into darkness. Joe could barely make out the ground in from of him and stumbled on an uneven patch of ground. A sharp pain knifed his ankle from a minor sprain. He hazarded another glance over his shoulder to see Mrs Batty had closed.
He renewed his efforts, gritting his teeth from the thrumming pain that reverberated from his ankle with each step. He closed his eyes in a grimace. His left leg hit something hard just above the knee and he fell forward.
The world slowed. Joe saw the ground rushing up to his face. Instinctively, he reached out his hands to cushion the fall. He realised in an instant what a terrible mistake that was. The four-inch-long nails of his wrist bands glimmered, their sharp points protruding at every angle. Joe could do nothing as he hit the ground, his face twisting in horror. With the weight and momentum of his body against him, there was no way he could stop himself from impaling his face with his favourite metal fashion item. His last memory was that of a nail piercing his eyeballs before all went black.
The pink track suited figure crouched over the unmoving figure. Blood seeped from the wreckage of Joe’s face. If the irony of Joe falling of his own fashion amused the person in the pink tracksuit, they did not show it. Joe was probably dead, but the figure gave a quick couple of knife jabs into the body’s back to be sure, before turning back to the clearing.
“Oh, for ■■■■’s sake, how long is he going to take?” bemoaned Damo.
He sat on the ground, back leaning against the headstone he would use for drums. Gav stood not far away, strumming a riff on his unplugged guitar. Chris stood alone, finishing his third beer. It was the last one in the six pack and he had finished three to their one. He threw the empty bottle against a headstone where it shattered.
“■■■■ it” he announced, “let’s start without him. You can’t hear the bass on the album anyway. Let’s just do it.”
“But the light…”
“There’s enough light.”
Chris looked at their doubting faces.
“Let’s just take some footage now. The light is fine. We’ll take some more when he gets back. We can cut the two clips together later. No biggie.”
Damo and Gav exchanged glances, then shrugs.
“OK, OK, how about this? We do the moshing bit now, and do the song miming when he gets back. How about that?”
Gav shrugged, removed the guitar strap from over his shoulder and rested the guitar against a nearby headstone.
“■■■■ it, better that than doing nothing” he said.
Damo struggled up, sank the remaining dregs of his beer and threw it crashing into a nearby headstone. He threw his cap aside.
“Yeah” Chris shouted, and started limbering up.
Damo pulled his phone from his pocket, thumbing various options on the screen. The atmospheric intro to ‘Graveyard Mosh’ began creeping forth from the speaker. Creaking trees, a wolf’s howl, and finally a cackle of hideous laughter. Damo set down his phone.
“I still say that intro is too cheesy” he said.
The pounding main rhythm of the drums kicked in and he started nodding his head. A grin formed on his lips.
Chris was now skipping around the centre of the clearing in a mini circle pit. Gav had switched on the struggling light and was fiddling with the camera. Damo stretched his arms and shoulders, waiting. Gav then looked up at Damo and nodded. It was on!
The main guitar riff in the song now started. The fast chugging rhythm was one of the best pieces on the album. Gav had written a killer riff here, perfect for moshing. Damo joined Chris in the mock circle pit, banging his head as he did so. The vocals kicked in. Damo loved Chris’ vocals. Perfect mix of falsetto screams and deathly growls. It reminded him of a lot of his heroes on the ‘80s metal albums of his teenage years. Ahead of him there was a slapping sound of meat hitting meat, and he looked up to see Chris and Gav had started ramming shoulders against each other. Chris’ eyes were alight and he bore a manic grin.
“Yeah” he screamed.
The tempo of the song shifted as it moved into the chorus section. Damo raised his arms to the air and sang along with the chorus:
“Mosh, mosh, graveyard mosh, you are moshing with the dead,
“Mosh, mosh, graveyard mosh, they will hit you like lead,
“Mosh, mosh, graveyard mosh, get up here and stage dive,
“Mosh, mosh, graveyard mosh, only the lucky get out alive’’.
Not the wittiest lyrics on their album, but certainly one of the catchiest choruses. The groove driven breakdown post chorus kicked in, and Damo stopped in place to do some serious head banging. As head thrashed his head up and down, he was suddenly hit from the side in the moshing. He had not stood with his legs far enough apart and was knocked completely off balance. Bent over, his feet quickly scrambled to keep himself standing. He looked ridiculous, like a man running in normal shoes across a sheet of ice, but moving. Scuttle as he might, he could not avoid falling. Losing the battle, he pitched forward. In his struggle to stay upright, Damo failed to see the stone cross he had been running towards, and dove head first into it.
A loud thump could be heard over the music, like a mallet slapping brick.
“Aw ■■■■” Chris exclaimed loudly.
Gav stopped is circular skipping and turned. Chris held his hands on his heads and looked to a motionless Damo who lay face down on the ground, the top of his head pressed against a stone cross.
“What the ■■■■?”
“I hit him with my shoulder, not too hard, but must had caught him off balance” Chris said.
Gav walked to the speaker to switch off the song, now entering the chorus for the second time. Chris rolled Damo over. Damo gave a yelp of pain as he was turned. As he lay on his back, Damo’s eyes lolled, but he was awake. There did not seem to be any blood on him.
“■■■■” he groaned.
Chris looked up to Gav who now approached.
“What do we do, man? He might have a concussion or something” Chris asked, his voice high with panic.
Gav crouched down to look closer. Damo lifted his hand weakly to give a thumbs up. Gav pulled his phone from his pocket.
“I don’t know ■■■■ man. I’ll have to look online. Hold on“.
Gav thumbed his phone, then frowned. Damo gave a smile which appeared more as a grimace.
“Told you” he said weakly. ”No reception”.
Gav ran his fingers through his hair and looked around. He mouthed a profanity. He turned back to Damo.
“OK don’t move. I’ll walk around and try to find some reception and web search what to do. Chris, you stay here with him, try to distract him. I think you need to try to keep him awake or something.”
Damo gave a thumbs up. Gav nodded to Chris, whose face was neutral.
Gav left he clearing, bearing his phone before him. The light from his phone filled his vision, making it difficult for his eyes to penetrate contrasting darkness that surrounded him. He soon felt quite alone, and the slow walk was bearing no fruit as no reception was forthcoming.
Gav knew the cemetery well enough to know that there was a small hill not far from where he was. He set out for it, hoping the extra height might get him a signal. When he reached the base, he realised he was aching for a ■■■■. He tucked the phone in his back pocket. He had to lift the bullet belt that hang around his waist to get it in. He had to wiggle and shift his hips just to squeeze the phone home. The damn belt never fitted well and, if he didn’t need it for the look, he would abandon it altogether. Six-inch bullets were hardly a great thing to have hanging around your waist anyway.
He removed the belt and slung it onto a nearby headstone. He did not need it getting in the way while he ■■■■■■. He looked around and found a space with no graves or headstones. It was out in the open, but he was alone and he did not feel comfortable in ■■■■■■■ on stones or graves.
It was as he began relieving himself, he sensed he was being watched. It was a normal feeling, he supposed, when one exposed themselves in the open, but it was a feeling he could not shake. His right eye caught movement, and was drawn to a strange colour for a graveyard setting. The colour pink.
A figure was standing and watching him, dressed from head to foot in a pink tracksuit. A hood was drawn over the face, but he knew who it was. He had seen her many times running along the street in that same tracksuit.
“Getting a good look, Mrs Batty?” he called.
The figure stood a moment longer, then began walking behind him, out of his field of vision. He looked down and continued to urinate.
“Old pervert” he muttered.
It was as he was reaching the end, he sensed someone standing behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see her again, standing and looking at the bullet belt he had hung on the grave stone. What was wrong with this crazy lady? All the time pestering them about how noisy their music was, now creeping around him while he ■■■■■■?
Gav took in a deep, frustrated breath through his nose. The last drips were coming out now and he gave himself a shake. He was considering the stream of profanity he would belch forth at Mrs Batty for invading a private moment when his bullet belt was thrown over his shoulder and around his chest.
“What the f…”
He did not have time to finish the utterance when the belt was pulled sharply. The belt slid quickly upwards, the sharp edge of the bullets ploughing into his neck. Gav fell backwards but hit something solid, which held him upright. The bullet belt was pulled tighter and tighter. Gav tried to get his fingers under the bullets to leverage them away, but their tips were pressed too deep into his flesh. Gav began to struggle to breath and panic started to overwhelm his thoughts. He tried twisting his body, but something ripped in his neck. Warm blood began to seep down his chest. He tried to scream, but he could not draw the air in. The bullet belt was pulled tighter and tighter, deeper and deeper into his throat until Gav could feel no more.
The pink track suited figure let Gav’s lifeless body drop to the ground. The bullets had driven deep into his throat, renting great holes. As the pressure now eased the blood began to spurt in gouts. The hooded killer considered the body for a moment, then moved on.
Damo’s consciousness swam before coming back to clarity.
He remained laid on his back, head against the cross. The night sky had cleared somewhat, and above he could see stars shining down. It would have been a serene moment, but for the sound.
What was it? It sounded as though someone was sanding wood. A curious sound. There was no one about that he could see.
“Chris? You there man?” he called.
The sanding sound stopped for a moment, then became more vigorous. Damo felt something was wrong. Chris was supposed to stay here and keep him awake. Where was he?
His head ached tremendously and his grasp on the world was shaky, but Damo felt he needed to move. He tried to lift his head, but something tugged at his hair and prevented him. He tried a second time, again he was restricted.
His lifted his hands to feel the top of his head. His scalp was tender and he felt small crystalline shapes in hair. Possibly dried blood, he though. He followed the line of his long hair. It stretched tautly up and behind the stone. The hair stretched on both sides. He reached further and further back, arching his back to reach. His hands crawled their way around the base of the stone cross, following the tightly strung hair. At the back of the cross was a ball of his hair. A large knot.
“What the hell?” he muttered. Someone had tied him, with his own hair, to the cross.
The sanding sound continued unabated.
“Chris, are you there?” he asked again, but still no answer. “Chris, dude, this isn’t funny. What the ■■■■ have you done to my hair man?”
Nothing but the sanding sound.
“Chris!” Damo shouted, but his voice betrayed him, resonating fear not anger.
The sanding stopped, and Damo could make out the soft padding of feet moving towards him. Damo tried to twist to see the approaching figure, but was restricted by the sharp pains of pulled hair. Eventually a hooded figure in a pink tracksuit came into view, face shrouded by darkness. The figure carried one drumstick in each hard. The figure played a mock drum fill in their air.
Damo frowned, confused. But his confusion soon turned to fear. The figure spun the drumsticks in their hands, revealing the other side had been sharpened to a point. The figure twisted the sharpened sticks in their hands, holding them point down in a clenched fist like daggers. The figure then lurched forward.
Chris watched on from the opposite end of the clearing, gently puffing in a cigarette. The pink track suited figure repeatedly stabbed down the sharpened drumsticks on the prostrate figure of Damo, puncturing flesh and splashing blood. Damo feebly held out his arms to push his attacker away, but to no avail. The relentless attack continued, until eventually Damo’s body shuddered, and ceased moving altogether.
Chris stubbed out the cigarette on a nearby headstone, and walked in to the clearing. The track suited figure stabbed down the drumsticks one last time, leaving one stick in the victim’s chest and the other piercing his eye.
The figure stood and turned to the approaching Chris, its pink track suit now spattered with blood. The figure stepped forward to meet Chris, pulling back the hood. Chris smiled as he saw his brother’s face.
“So that’s it then? All of them dead?” Chris asked.
His brother nodded as he wiped at the blood that covered the tracksuit with a gloved hand, achieving nothing but a dark smear.
“That’s it bro, all done.”
He looked up at Chris, who wore a broad grin.
“You know, I still don’t know why you did this. I thought you liked this band. They made good music.”
“Yeah, they did. But we were never going to sell fifty thousand units” said Chris.
The brother raised an eyebrow.
“Fifty thousand? I thought you were only making five thousand?”
“Yeah, we were.” Chris moved over to Damo’s motionless corpse, and kicked it. “We were until this idiot added an extra zero to the order. We are a good band, sorry, were a good band, but we’re never shifting fifty thousand units.”
“Unless you become famous” the brother prodded.
“Exactly. And what better way to make the band famous like a mass slaying. It will be all over the news. National headlines everywhere. Bloodwolf will be famous, and dumb ■■■■ metalheads all over will eat it up. It’s the only way we’ll ever sell the units.”
“And make you, the sole owner of the music and merch, get all the profits to yourself.”
“You got it bro. Hey, don’t look so cynical. Everyone remembers those church burners from Norway. Bloodwolf will be just as famous. Maybe even more famous.”
Chris smiled, and his brother just shook his head.
“Don’t look so glum bro. It’s just like the album title says. They died for metal. Now come on, bro, sing the chorus with me just one time. I know you know it.”
Chris starting making mock guitar sounds with his mouth, and the two began singing the chorus in unison.
“You live for the songs, you live for the lifestyle,
“You go to every concert, that’s you in the front row,
“But now the reaper’s here he’s come for you,
“You lived your life for it, but now you must,
“DIE
“FOR
“METAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLL!”
4 Likes
It was good. I liked the concept, liked the twist.
As you said, could use some tightening up to improve a good story.
Thanks for the comments wim. I think I’m definitely getting by on my ideas more than scintillating skillz. Good editors make a difference, and i can see the work the editor did to one of my accepted stories really improved the writing.
1 Like
This is one of the short stories in my recently published collection.
ALL REPEAT WORKDAYS
“So how does this end exactly?”
I was perplexed.
“You damn well know how this ends. He sings She’s all good lovin’ at once over and over again until the song fades out.”
We were at hour two of listening to ‘She Makes My Day’ on repeat so the subtleties of the song should have sunk in by now.
“Not the song you imbecile. This situation.”
The situation in question was quite simple really.
Cameron Daddo was playing a Robert Palmer song live to air on Smoothfm on a loop because I had a gun pointed at him. The reason I had a gun pointed at him was because I wanted the company that he worked for to put Smooth TV back on Foxtel. Given the gun was still pointed in his direction, I was surprised he had the minerals to call me an imbecile.
Then again, this was the same guy who released the country flop ‘15 Minutes of Fame’ and still had a successful career so perhaps I shouldn’t have been too shocked.
“Cam…can I call you Cam?”
Cam shrugged.
“You’re the one with the gun man.”
“Cam, my best-case scenario is that your corporate overlords cede to my demand and they restore what they wrongfully took from us.”
“Us?”
I laughed mockingly.
“Despite your current predicament, don’t paint me as some lone nutcase with a loaded gun and an axe to grind okay?”
“Sure.”
“I am representing men and women across the country who have no idea what to put on in the background whilst they clean the house or host a dinner party.”
Daddo appeared confused.
“You are still talking about the Smooth TV music video channel, right?”
I shook my head.
“And here I was thinking you were the smart brother.”
“Why wouldn’t you just play Smoothfm?”
“Who the ■■■■ listens to radio anymore?”
“I can assure you there are enough people listening right now to start wondering why they have heard nothing but Robert Palmer’s fifth most popular single for the past ninety minutes.”
“You say that like it is a bad thing.”
"Added to that, we are now entering the danger zone in terms of the station’s programming. If I don’t play a Spandau Ballet tune in the next fifteen minutes, then our back to base alarm is triggered and then you are up ■■■■ creek pal.”
He was bluffing.
“So, I will ask you again: How does this all end? Because…”
“Shut it Cam.”
My attention had turned towards the speakers as Robert approached the end of the second chorus.
Chuck Findley’s trumpet solo had just kicked in and the song had entered the stratosphere.
I waited for it to end before commenting.
“Have you ever heard such a sublime trumpet solo in all your life?”
“Uh, yeah. About four and a half minutes ago.”
I tutted.
“I don’t care for your tone, Cam. It is quite unbecoming to be frank.”
"Okay, so why this song then? What is it about it that elevates it over…I don’t know, ‘Stay’ by Shakespeare’s Sister or bloody ‘Goodnight Girl’ by Wet Wet Wet?
I felt obliged to give him a literal ‘Chef’s Kiss’.
“Exquisite taste sir. Some real deep cuts there. Look, they are all fine songs, but they are not what was playing when I asked Becca Samuels to dance with me at the blue light disco in December 1988.”
“Let me guess, she said no, and you have been haunted by it ever since.”
“■■■■ you Daddo.”
He had touched a thousand nerves.
“Becca was the very epitome of a ‘Summer Girl’. It was as special a few months as a twelve-year-old could have. But by the first few weeks of the new school year, I was yesterday’s news. Which was fine because by then I had found the love of my life.”
“That song?”
I nodded towards the computer.
“This song.”
I looked wistfully into the middle distance.
“Do you know the line that gets me every single time? It’s the one where he sings:
She’s like a new girl every day / And all the rest don’t bother me / I’m far too busy lovin’ her”
Daddo exhaled.
“Truly touching, I really mean it. But I don’t think I can get the big wigs to do what you want.”
Cameron reached for his leather satchel on the desk where he pulled out what looked to be a little black book.
Turned out it was.
“How about I offer you some free concert tickets? I have the number of Sam Smith’s agent. André Rieu’s? P!nk’s? They are all touring this year. Who do you fancy?”
“You can’t fob me off like I’m the fifth caller who hit speed dial as soon as you played Mister Mister’s ‘Broken Wings’. I WANT MIDDLE AGED MEN IN DINNER SUITS CROONING IN VIDEOS! I WANT THE COMFORT IN KNOWING I AM ALWAYS THREE SONGS AWAY FROM A ROBBIE WILLIAMS BALLAD! I WANT MY SMOOTH TV!”
The Flying Squad took advantage of my momentary lapse into rage by busting the door down and overpowering me before I knew what was going on.
As they led me out of the studio, I took one last shot at explaining myself.
“It’s the same hundred ■■■■■■■ videos on shuffle all damn day. How expensive is it to run Daddo?”
Cam had already moved on to queueing up Simple Minds.
You know when you have been to the cinemas and you have completely lost track of time so when you walk outside you are genuinely surprised either way if it is day or night?
Replace a Fast & The Furious movie with constantly listening to a Robert Palmer song in a dimly lit studio with a Daddo brother and it is pretty much the same thing.
The sun was fading but still packing a punch. I went to shield my eyes, but it took me a second to remember my hands were in cuffs behind my back.
The sun was aided by the lights of news cameras set up on the footpath out the front of the studios.
Hostage situations are still newsworthy it appears.
The cops paused at the top of the stairs down to the street, making sure the cameras could get enough film for the perp walk.
Ghouls.
I gaze out to the street, behind the cameras and journos to see barricades set up. Behind them were hundreds of people. Regular people like me.
Housewives, Executives, Librarians, Boomers, Grey Nomads, Tradesmen, Bikers, Hipsters (both ironic and unironic), Gen Xers, Ed Sheeran fans, Richard Wilkins.
Mind you, I wasn’t sure if he was here in an official capacity.
They were holding crudely made placards in support of my crusade.
SAVE SMOOTH!
CRAPTEL CAN GO GET STUFFED!
TAKE ON ME (INSTEAD)!
The last one was a stretch, but I appreciated the sentiment. I wanted to raise my hands to acknowledge their support but had to make do with a polite nod.
It appeared that people had read my manifesto that I had posted on the ‘Save Smooth!!!’ page on Facebook.
Then, suddenly, a lone woman from the crowd started singing.
“She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once.”
The woman was joined by the beefy baritone of a bricklayer.
“She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once.”
Then a ten-year-old piped up.
“She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once.”
I was no choir boy, but I had to respond.
“She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once.”
Very soon, dozens of voices came together in imperfect harmony.
“She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once.”
Those who weren’t singing were at least clapping along on the one and the three.
It was a most glorious sight. I didn’t know whether to smile or cry tears of joy, so I split the difference.
“Okay ■■■■■■■■, let’s move it.” said the constable.
“She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She all good…”
6 Likes
I love this.
Thank you sir.