A New York Nightmare! Read online

  “Run!” Denzel cried, turning and racing the other way. Smithy clattered along behind him as the first of the bats came whistling past, leathery wings frantically beating the air.

  Denzel’s torch flickered again. He stumbled on, slamming it against his hip, trying to hammer it back into life.

  BAM! He collided with something, face-first, and staggered backwards. The glow from the ring illuminated a green-skinned zombie standing directly in front of him. Denzel had his mouth all the way open and a scream racing halfway up his windpipe before he realised the zombie was painted on to a wall.

  “Here they come!” yelped Smithy, barrelling along the tunnel. Behind him, the darkness heaved with the vast cloud of bats.

  “Dead end!” Denzel howled.

  “Not for long!” cried Smithy, throwing himself into a rugby tackle and slamming his shoulder into Denzel’s stomach.

  Denzel oofed as all the air was knocked out of him, then he flew backwards through the wall, stumbled over a ledge on the other side and fell with a thump on to another set of tracks.

  Smithy rolled off him and they both lay on the rotten tracks, catching their breath. At least, Denzel caught his breath. Smithy hadn’t breathed in years.

  “Oh, man,” Denzel wheezed. “That was close. Nice save.”

  “Thanks,” said Smithy. He raised his head, looked around, then let it flop back down again. “I think we’re safe here.”

  Denzel’s ring let out a high-pitched whine as the red glow grew brighter and more vibrant. There was a bang as the ring exploded and darkness rushed in around them.

  A moment later, the darkness was pierced by a single white light shining along the tracks. A whistle echoed down the line.

  CHOO-CHOOOOO!

  Smithy glanced across to Denzel and smiled nervously. “Although ‘safe’ might be a bit of an exaggeration.”

  Smithy and Denzel were both screaming when they tumbled through the final wall of the Ghost Train. They stumbled on for a few desperate paces, then collapsed in a trembling heap on the ground.

  “Are … are we alive?” Smith asked.

  “I am,” wheezed Denzel, although his voice was muffled thanks to Smithy having landed on top of him. “Pretty sure you’re still dead.”

  “Say cheese!”

  Denzel’s face was mostly covered by Smithy’s butt. He wriggled free in time for a bright-white flash to go off in his face.

  “Hey!” he protested.

  “Oh, man, that is so going on the notice board,” said Boyle, looking at the screen of his camera. He showed Samara and they both grinned.

  “Oh, yeah. That’s getting blown up,” Samara agreed. “Poster size.”

  Denzel and Smithy clambered to their feet. “What? No! What are you…?” Denzel shook his head. “There’s no time to muck around,” he told them, pointing back in the direction of the Ghost Train. “That place is, like, ghost central.”

  “He’s right. It’s hoaching in there!” agreed Smithy.

  We saw this shark—”

  “Bear—”

  “Monkey thing!” Denzel finished. “With big teeth and claws, and—”

  “Bats!” Smithy yelped, his whole body convulsing. “Lots of bats!”

  Denzel nodded. “Lots of bats! So many bats! And … and…”

  His voice trailed off when he saw the expressions on Boyle and Samara’s faces. “What?” he asked. “What’s so funny?”

  “Hmm?” Samara squeaked, pinching the side of her mouth between finger and thumb. “Hmm? Funny? No, nothing.”

  “Nothing,” agreed Boyle, but then both Spectre Collectors erupted into howls of laughter. “Oh, man. Their faces,” said Boyle, his reddening face clashing with the blue and silver camouflage of his Vulteron uniform.

  Samara wiped her eyes on the hem of her Oberon cloak. “Oh, that was beautiful. I’m sorry, guys,” she said, but the way she gasped and snorted suggested she wasn’t actually that sorry at all. “You see, well, the thing is… We set you up.”

  Denzel and Smithy exchanged a glance. “What do you mean?” demanded Denzel.

  “We do this with all new recruits,” Boyle wheezed. “Not just us, I mean. Everyone.”

  “It’s Spectre Collectors tradition, really. We went through it too,” Samara said, trying – without much success – to bring her hysterics under control. “Think of it as your initiation ceremony.”

  Smithy sniffed and nodded. “Yep. Yep, that’s what I thought. I didn’t believe it for a second.”

  Denzel frowned. “Oh yeah? Then why were you screaming?”

  “I wasn’t screaming,” said Smithy. He shifted uncomfortably. “I was … communicating with dolphins.”

  Denzel held up his hand, showing the black soot-mark where the ring had been. “What about the ring? You said it detected Spectral Energy.”

  Boyle held up a little remote control, no bigger than his thumb. He clicked a series of buttons on the front. “Purple. Red. Boom!”

  “That’s just … mean,” said Denzel. He jabbed a thumb back in the direction of the Ghost Train again. “So … all of that was fake? The monster? The bats?”

  Boyle grinned. It was possibly the first time Denzel had ever seen the older boy smile. It didn’t suit him. “Yup!”

  “The train?”

  Samara’s smile flickered, just a fraction. “The what?” she asked, but before Denzel could answer, an ancient old steam locomotive exploded through the wall behind him.

  Smithy covered his head with his hands, dropped to his knees and began loudly communicating with dolphins again. The train bore down on them, its headlight blazing in the late-evening gloom, sulphurous green smoke billowing from its chimney.

  CHOOOOOOOO!

  Denzel froze, his hands raised in front of his face, his eyes tightly shut as the train hurtled directly towards him.

  And then, with a crackle from Boyle’s assault rifle, the train exploded. Denzel ducked and a tidal wave of ectoplasmic goo hurtled over his head. He heard a loud, wet KERSPLAT, then Samara and Boyle both yelped in shock.

  When Denzel and Smithy straightened up, they saw the two Spectre Collectors standing in a slowly expanding puddle of gloop, their faces a picture of surprised horror. They stood with their arms at their sides, their legs slightly apart, and were covered from head to toe in what looked like the contents of a particularly violent sneeze. It plastered their hair to their heads and dribbled down their faces, before dripping into the puddle at their feet.

  “N-no,” said Samara, waddling uncomfortably on the spot. “The train? That’s a new one on us.”

  “What, that’s never happened before?” said Denzel. “Then why did it happen to us?”

  “I don’t think it did happen to you,” said Boyle, scooping goo from his face. “I think it happened to you.”

  Smithy and Denzel exchanged puzzled looks. “You think it happened to us but not to us?” Denzel asked. “In what world does that make sense?”

  “No!” Boyle snapped. “I mean it didn’t happen to both of you. I think it was drawn to you, Denzel, specifically.”

  “You really should have made that clearer,” Smithy said. “It was quite confusing.”

  “And why would it be drawn to me?” Denzel wondered.

  “Why can you see poltergeists?” Boyle asked.

  “I don’t know,” Denzel said.

  “Nor do I,” Boyle replied. He blew a wad of ectoplasm from one nostril. It landed on the ground with a splut. “But I’m going to find out.”

  A Vulteron girl with a big sneer and a bigger gun eyed Samara and Boyle as they shuffled from the elevator, ectoplasm squelching from their boots with every step.

  Knightley had been waiting for Denzel and Smithy the first time they’d ever descended the lift into the Spectre Collectors’ HQ. Unlike then, this time she didn’t stick her gun in their faces and scream at them to get on the floor, but she did wear an expression that suggested she’d quite like to.

  Denzel wasn’t exactly sur
e why Knightley hated him so much. He had some ideas, mainly because she’d shouted them at him over the past few days. He didn’t belong, he shouldn’t be there, he didn’t have what it took to be a Spectre Collector – that sort of thing.

  Luckily for Denzel, she disliked Smithy even more, and regularly complained that having a ghost as part of the world’s premier ghost-hunting organisation made a complete mockery of it. Fortunately, not many others seemed to share her opinion.

  “What happened to you two?” Knightley snorted, looking Boyle and Samara up and down.

  “Ghost Train,” muttered Boyle through his clenched jaw.

  “Oh yeah. Initiation,” said Knightley, shooting Denzel and Smithy just the briefest of glances. Even in that fraction of a second, though, she managed to convey her disapproval. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re gunked.”

  “No, he means it was an actual Ghost Train,” said Samara. “It came after Denzel. Boyle shot it and…” She gestured down at herself. “Ta-daa!”

  Knightley frowned. “Since when was the fairground actually haunted? We’ve never picked up any activity there before, and we’ve been using that place for initiation since forever.”

  “Don’t know. Right now, don’t care,” Boyle growled. “Send a squad to check it out. Right now, I just need a shower.”

  Knightley stepped aside. “OK. While you’re doing that, Denzel will be packing his bags.”

  Denzel’s eyes widened. “You’re kicking me out?”

  “Ugh. I wish,” Knightley grunted. “You’re going to New York.”

  “What, like, in America?”

  Knightley tutted. “No, the other New York. Of course in America.”

  “But why?” asked Denzel. “What’s in New York?”

  “Loads of stuff,” said Smithy. “Buildings. Cars. A zoo, probably.” He gasped with excitement and turned to Knightley. “Is there a zoo?”

  “The Cult of Sh’grath has an outpost there,” Knightley explained, blanking Smithy completely.

  Denzel and Smithy exchanged a glance. “Who’s the Cult of Sh’grath.”

  Knightley squeezed the bridge of her nose between finger and thumb and muttered below her breath. “We are,” she said. “The Cult of Sh’grath, the Messengers of the Allwhere, the Seventh Army of the Enlightened.” She threw up her hands in despair and turned to Samara and Boyle. “Seriously, have you taught them anything? Anything at all?”

  “I don’t get it,” said Denzel. “Why would New York want to see me?”

  Knightley shrugged. “Because you’re a freak,” she said. “Because for centuries the Spectre Collectors has been made up of Vulterons, like me and Boyle, and Oberons like her” – she snapped her head in Samara’s direction – “and then you come along and you don’t fit anywhere.”

  She shot a glare in Smithy’s direction. If the way she looked at Denzel was bad, the way she scowled at Smithy was even worse. “So I guess that’s why they want to see you. Both of you. Frankly, if it means you’re out of our hair, I’m all in favour.”

  “We could play baseball,” said Smithy. He swung an imaginary baseball bat. “Batter up!”

  “You’re not going on holiday,” Knightley told them. “Besides, if they’ve got any sense over there, they’ll stick you in a cage and poke you with sticks.”

  “Still, it’ll be a nice change, won’t it?” said Smithy, without even a hint of sarcasm. “I’ve never been to America.”

  “Nor me,” said Denzel.

  The thought of it excited him. He’d seen New York hundreds of times in movies and on TV, and now he was going to see it in person. After the whole Ghost Train fiasco, the day – late as it now was – was shaping up to be pretty good, after all.

  “How are we getting there?” he asked. “One of those magic shortcut tunnels you use? Do they hurt?”

  “No, they don’t, and no, you won’t be. All tech- or magic-based transportation is short range only,” said Samara. She had kicked off her boots and was removing her slime-soaked socks. “We use … another method for travelling long distances.”

  Denzel looked across the faces of the three Spectre Collectors. “Oh?” he said. “And what might that be?”

  “I bet it’s a big bubble thing,” said Smithy. “Or, like, a flying horse. Or a jetpack. Or—”

  “None of those,” said Knightley, cutting him short. She smiled. It was not a kind smile. It wasn’t even a particularly happy one. But it was a smile, all the same. “But trust me,” she said. “You’re going to love it.”

  Denzel wriggled in his seat, trying in vain to get comfortable. The space between his chair and the one in front was ridiculously small, and the ridges of the plastic tray fixed to the other seat’s back were digging into his knees.

  “This is nice, isn’t it?” said Smithy. He reached up and twisted a little dial on the ceiling panel above Denzel’s head. A blast of icy-cold air hit Denzel in the face.

  “Not really,” Denzel said, switching the air off again. He fumbled with his seat belt. “How do you get this to clip together? It keeps coming apart.”

  “Dunno. I didn’t bother,” said Smithy, taking a tatty and worn in-flight magazine from the seat pocket in front, and flicking through its torn pages. “I figure if we crash, it probably won’t do me a lot of harm.”

  Across the aisle on Smithy’s left, a young girl burst into tears. Smithy and Denzel both looked over to find the girl’s mother glaring back. “Can you please not say that word?” she spat.

  Smithy frowned. “What word?”

  “That word. The word you just said,” the woman continued. “You’ve upset my daughter.”

  “What, ‘figure’?” Smithy guessed.

  “No!”

  “‘Me’? ‘Lot’? ‘Probably’?”

  “No!” hissed the woman.

  “‘It’? Surely not ‘it’,” said Smithy. “I won’t get very far not saying ‘it’.”

  “Crash!” the woman snapped. “OK? Don’t say ‘crash’!”

  Beside her, her daughter’s screaming became louder and more hysterical. “Now look what you’ve done,” said the girl’s mother, then she busied herself trying to distract the girl with a colouring book.

  Denzel wriggled in his seat again, had a frantic moment when he wondered if he still had the passports, then relaxed when he found them in his inside pocket.

  When Knightley had told them they’d be flying to New York, Denzel had been quick to point out that he didn’t have a passport, and Smithy – being dead – didn’t have one either.

  To his surprise, Knightley had produced documents for each of them, along with plane tickets for them to fly to New York in “Economy E Class”. Once they’d arrived at the airport check-in desk, Denzel asked what the “E” was for, and was told it stood for “Economy”.

  He and Smithy had laughed about flying “Economy Economy Class”, convinced it couldn’t possibly be as bad as it sounded.

  They were wrong.

  “Here’s one for you,” said Smithy. “What would you rather, right? Spend the next six hours on this plane…?”

  “Or?”

  “Or be impaled on a big spike?”

  It said a lot for the plane that Denzel had to give the question some serious thought. He already felt like his body was being permanently bent out of shape, and they hadn’t even taken off yet.

  Still, at least the seat on his right was empty. It was the one closest to the window, which meant he’d get a pretty decent view once they were in the air. It also gave him a bit of desperately needed extra leg room.

  He turned to Smithy and was about to deliver his answer when an enormously overweight man with a bright-red face shambled to a stop beside Smithy’s seat. The man gasped and wheezed as he tried to get his breath back, before wiping the sweat from his forehead with a spotted handkerchief.

  “Excuse me, lads,” he panted, nodding to the empty seat beside Denzel. “I think that’s mine.”

  Denzel looked at the enormous m
an. He looked at the little seat beside him. “Out of interest,” he said, turning to Smithy. “Just how big a spike are we talking?”

  Denzel descended the escalator, his suitcase upright on the step beside him. Smithy stood behind him, clinging to the handrail with both hands, and whimpering quietly. They were approaching the bottom, and the airport exit was just a short walk away.

  Picking up his suitcase, Denzel stepped smoothly on to solid ground. He walked on a few paces, then turned in time to see Smithy leap awkwardly from the bottom step, do a sort of half-splits, then stagger forwards and fall flat on his face.

  Smithy leapt to his feet immediately. “Meant that, totally meant that,” he announced to the crowd of other escalator riders building up behind him, then he pulled the handle up on his case and wheeled it over to where Denzel was waiting.

  “Smooth,” Denzel said.

  “Moving stairs. It’s not right,” said Smithy. He looked around. Several people in suits stood around the bottom of the escalator, holding up cards with names on the front. “Isn’t there supposed to be someone here to collect us?”

  “Yeah, supposed to be,” said Denzel, scanning the cards. He didn’t find his or Smithy’s name anywhere. He dug in his inside pocket until he found the notes Knightley had given him. “Someone called … Weinberg.”

  “Could that be him?” Smithy asked, pointing to a man on the escalator.

  “No, that’s the guy who was sitting next to us on the plane,” said Denzel. “For six hours.”

  Smithy nodded. “I thought I recognised him.” He waved enthusiastically but the man just glared at him as he waddled past. “He doesn’t look happy, does he?”

  “No,” Denzel agreed.

  “Probably still angry at you for spilling your drink on him.”

  Denzel sighed. “That was you. You spilled your drink on him.”

  Smithy considered this. “Oh yeah. Yeah, so it was.”

  “Come on,” said Denzel, pulling his case behind him. “We’ll go outside. Maybe this Weinberg guy is waiting out there.”

  They headed for the doors but the airport crowds made progress difficult. Everyone seemed to be in a rush as they bustled past, lost in their own little worlds, their cases clipping the ankles of everyone else around them.