Timothy Williams The Infernal Shadow (The Timothy Williams Saga Book 2), page 17
Timothy was more than happy. Much like the lair beneath his father’s shed, this was another fine example of a wartime facility proving its worth for a new generation of survivors. Timothy assumed this ghostly subterranean haven was once used by the teachers and pupils of Great Underwood Middle when the Nazi bombs had fallen.
Within the pages of Timothy’s favourite book, The History of War, was a chapter dedicated to the story of the Blitz. Timothy could relate to their fear. Not knowing when a bomb might fall wasn’t so different to not knowing when Lucifer might attack or when a dream battle might suck his soul into another of its deadly games. Down here, there was safety. Although Timothy wasn’t sure for how long. Still, it was more than he and his friends could have hoped for…
‘I can’t believe this is our new hideout. It took over ten minutes to get down here. Ruddy cold too. Can’t we do something about the draft? It feels like a morgue. We may as well carry on going down for all the good any of this will make. At least Hell would be warmer.’
…except for Rupert.
George rolled his eyes. There was no pleasing some people.
During the next fortnight, PALS established itself deep underground. Timothy’s demon resistance club was a hit. Numbers swelled to bursting. Members were educated, armed and trained. Timothy’s Great Auntie Isabella joined them for meetings. Sometimes Timothy’s father would come too ― but usually only when Isabella required something moved or something fixed.
The shelter was restored to operational order, stocked with supplies and made fit for purpose. Spud guns, crucifixes, vials of holy water and anti-dark-magic bracelets issued. Teachers ― including Miss May, Mr Borenett, Mr Fitzgerald, Mr Farp, Miss Dainty and Madame Moineau ― were nominated as group leaders, each responsible for a small detachment of students under their command. Rupert put himself forward for the position of commander-in-chief of all resistance forces. Sigrid and Gunda laughed so hard they cried.
Their mission was threefold:
• Prevent further demonic possession.
• Reclaim possessed students.
• Take back the school.
It was strangely odd how school life continued as normal. Teachers taught and students studied, irrespective of whether or not they were demons or PALS members. A charade that fooled the outside world, but underneath the surface, it was war. Something terrible lurked below, waiting for its moment to emerge, and unless it could be stopped, Great Underwood Upper would only be the beginning.
On the Friday before half term, PALS launched its biggest offensive yet. The move was an audacious bid designed to disrupt Trumpton’s plans and swing the pendulum back in their favour. The elite force ― as Rupert called them ― consisted of Timothy’s best shots and seasoned campaigners and were to be used as a diversionary tactic while a second teacher-led group hit a designated school target. Originally, the plan had involved switching Underwood Upper’s water supply with holy water before activating the school’s sprinkler system. Depossessing the possessed in the blink of an eye whilst subjecting the enemy to an agonising acid shower for good measure. Holy water was deadly to demons. Yet, the implementation of such a plan was beyond them.
‘How about something on a smaller scale? Why not a series of water pistol attacks? We could hit classes simultaneously across the school?’ suggested Timothy.
‘Yeah, depossess with holy water and prevent repossession with ADM bracelets,’ added Rupert enthusiastically. Rupert found the term ‘anti-dark-magic’ something of a mouthful. He could picture the phrase correctly inside his head, but every time he attempted to convert the three words into speech, something went wrong: ‘danti-ark-ragic’ or ‘andy-lark-tragic’. To save face, Rupert coined the abbreviated ADM instead.
‘How many do we have?’
‘Not enough.’
A further shipment of ADM bracelets arrived next month, and the holy water offensive would only be a short-term solution without them.
‘Well, if nothing else, it will buy us more time and give Trumpton something to think about,’ said Timothy.
After a short discussion, Timothy’s water pistol plan was tweaked and approved.
‘Assembly is too risky. Trumpton and his big guns will be there. Lunchbreak is the better option. The demons all seem to feed in the staffroom ― God knows what on ― and if we can keep them there, we’ll have a good chance of doing some real damage in the canteen,’ said Timothy.
George was having second thoughts. ‘I’m beginning to think this isn’t such a good idea. Aren’t we just going to provoke them? I mean, we know they have the ways and means to take us all out if they wanted to. And if we pull a stunt like this, I’m thinking there will be consequences.’
Timothy understood George’s concerns. Intentionally harassing demons from Hell was a risky business, but it needed to be done.
Soon mission day arrived. During Friday lunchtime, armed with water pistols and paintball guns, PALS mobilised its forces. Operation ‘holy deluge’ was on.
Timothy’s ‘elite force’ headed straight for the staffroom. Streaked with boot polish and brandishing not one but two automatic paintball guns, Tommy gun was on point. Rupert, not wanting the younger boy to steal his thunder, joined him at the front. Well, almost. He positioned himself ever so slightly behind Tommy, just in case they ran into trouble and he needed to use the year 9 student as cover. George begged to stay behind and guard the headquarters. His request was denied. Instead, George wedged himself in between Sigrid and Gunda for protection, his face a picture of discontent.
On arrival, the team spread out. Covering the staffroom with their water pistols and paintball guns primed, they waited for the action to start. Their task: to hold the demons for as long as possible.
Meanwhile, Miss May led the remainder of the resistance fighters into the canteen hall, where they swiftly circled the room. Inside Miss May’s perimeter, students sat at their tables like robots, methodically consuming their lunches without commotion or conversation. It wasn’t until Mr Borenett accidentally shot Madame Moineau on the rump did anyone take notice. ‘My apologies, Madame,’ whispered the contrite history teacher.
Victoria Holbrook-Smyth paused from nibbling the corners of a cucumber sandwich to glance up with dark eyes. A shifty ensemble of students and teachers stood at the edge of the canteen. What are they up to? Twisting around, Victoria followed them with her narrowing eyes a full three-sixty. Her mouth dropped. She recognised them. They were Williams’ rebel scum, and they were armed!
Victoria nudged Emilia. As usual, Emilia appeared to be in something of a sulk and not even the delicious delights of the cream horn stuffed inside her mouth seemed to lighten her sour demeanour. ‘What?’ she hissed, sucking a creamy finger, but then she noticed the newcomers too. ‘What the―’
Knocking her chair over in her haste, Victoria surged to her feet. ‘We’re under attack!’ she cried in warning. ‘Tony! Vernon!’
Hunched low with heads down, the Sparrow brothers gnawed chicken meat from the bone. Life beyond the immediate proximity of their plates and the half-eaten drumsticks held between their greasy fingers was ignored entirely. Nothing came between the Sparrow brothers and food.
‘Emilia,’ implored Victoria, nudging the girl again, ‘do something!’ But it was too late.
On a call from Miss May, forty water pistols of varying shapes and sizes ranging from squirters to powerful super soakers began pumping streams of holy water into the possessed masses. The harmonic screams of hundreds of boys and girls filled the canteen hall. It was mayhem. The situation worsened when the possessed suddenly became the depossessed. Having no recollection since the moment of their turning, they now found themselves being blasted with cold water like infected cattle. The result was wholesale pandemonium.
Only after both they and the contents of their dinner plates were sopping wet did Tony and Vernon finally realise that something was going on. Yet holy water to demon huggers was no more harmful than what came out of the kitchen tap. However, the disruption and destruction of a good meal was to the Sparrow brothers what a red rag was to a bull. Tony and Vernon erupted from their seats like primeval cave dwellers who’d just caught their women folk frequenting a neighbour’s grotto. Transformed senseless with anger, the pair turned their savage attentions toward the nearest PALS members and charged.
Timothy’s ears pricked up. There was shouting and screaming coming from the canteen. The offensive was underway. There was no going back, not now. Steadying his shaking hands, Timothy concentrated on the staffroom door with gas-propelled paintball gun held ready. ‘Wait for it,’ he whispered. ‘Wait for it.’
Suddenly, the staffroom door exploded from its hinges and flew through the air at tremendous velocity. Like a pair of synchronised gymnasts at the Olympics, the two Daves split apart, dodging the incoming projectile with perfect timing.
‘Open fire!’ bellowed Timothy.
Mr Warbler, the first of the demons to commit himself through the smouldering gap where once the staffroom door had stood, took the full force of the resistance group’s firepower. The doppelganger was peppered pitilessly, his body jerking and jolting with each hit. Squealing in pain, his flesh seared and blistered from the acid-like holy water, the demon’s momentum was halted to a standstill. Yet suddenly ― and even though his tortured body was incapable of such an effort ― Mr Warbler was propelled forward once again. Mr Blight and Mr Grimstein shoved Warbler from behind, using his now wretched carcass as a makeshift shield. Mr Warbler had become nothing more than cannon fodder.
Timothy wondered why they hadn’t used the door as cover instead of one of their own? To be honest, it wasn’t surprising. It was another example of demonkind’s lack of respect for life on all levels, including its own.
Protected by their cadaverous shield, the demonic teachers pressed on. In moments, they’d advanced halfway across the hall, gaining valuable ground, and now Blight and Grimstein let loose with two blazing columns of hellfire. Not only did their burning assault incinerate the apparently dispensable Mr Warbler, but it raged on with deadly accuracy and speed to hammer straight into Timothy.
A split second before impact, Timothy flung his arms up to cover his face. It was a desperate final act of self-preservation. The roaring flame crackled all around him ― a heat so intense that he found the air too hot to inhale. With lungs burning in pain, he felt himself flying backwards. Then, crashing to the floor, he was skidding. Finally stopping, Timothy lay staring at the ceiling. Wisps of black smoke curled from his smouldering body. Yet somehow, he wasn’t dead. In an instant, his friends were at his side, peering down at him with worry.
Gingerly, Timothy sat up. He examined his left forearm and, in particular, the now blackened and cracked ADM bracelet coiled around his wrist. The skin beneath was red and blistered and hurt like hell, but he didn’t care. The bracelet had saved his life. He looked up at his friends and smiled. ‘They work.’
‘You call that working?’ replied Rupert helping Timothy to his feet. ‘Getting blown up, set alight and chucked thirty feet down a corridor isn’t working. Not in my book, at any rate.’ Rupert pointed to Timothy’s ruined bracelet. ‘And by the state of the thing, it’s going to work even less from now on.’
Timothy agreed with Rupert. The ADM bracelet was done for. Another direct hit and he would be a goner.
‘Quickly, we do not have much time,’ warned Sigrid. ‘We must move back.’ She glanced anxiously down the passage. The two Daves, supported by Baz, Tina and a spirited Tommy gun ― who like a crazed John Rambo pumped round after round at the demon teachers as they emerged from the staffroom ― bravely held their ground. But paintball guns and crucifixes were no match against hellfire and dark magic, even if they did have ADM bracelets.
At last, Trumpton himself stepped from the staffroom. Beside him, trailed a grim-faced Mr Vaden and a snarling Mrs Gruff. The headmaster was in no mood for troublemaking schoolchildren. He watched Mr Grey and Mrs Wrathburger flap pathetically underneath a barrage of water balls like amateurs. Bristling with irritation, he pushed past his demon underlings. Their ineptitude disgusted the demon prince. They were the fallen! Yet here they floundered against a group of teenagers. And in the name of all things unholy, what were Blight and Grimstein thinking? Yes, they were all eager to kill the boy, but if Lucifer decreed Timothy Williams untouchable, that was that. He was surrounded by fools!
As Mr Trumpton limped beyond his followers, black cane twirling and hairpiece twitching, he began attracting the bulk of the resistance fighters’ attacks. Yet the barrage of holy water didn’t reach him. The balls exploded in puffs of steam well before striking their target. Dark magic was at work.
Nonchalantly, Trumpton raised his cane. It was time to teach these runts a lesson. He was tired of having to toy with them. Williams wasn’t to be harmed, but Lucifer hadn’t mentioned anything about his friends. The headmaster grinned.
‘Get out of there!’ cried Timothy. ‘Fall back!’ He watched the two Daves break and run. Tina came next, but Tommy wouldn’t retreat.
Baz yelled in Tommy’s ear. ‘We need to run!’ He grabbed the younger boy by the shoulders. ‘Now!’
Tommy refused to budge and ― with eyes glazed, brow furrowed, grimace fixed and hysterical laughter engaged ― the year 9 student pumped the triggers of his guns even though his ammo was long since spent.
Baz couldn’t make Tommy listen. And then he saw something terrible ― Tommy’s pupils glowing a fiery red. Was he possessed? Had Trumpton’s demons turned him? But the longer Baz stared, the brighter the boy’s eyes became. It’s a refection!
Baz hurled himself at Tommy, toppling the youth to the floor. Like a rocket, a raging ball of flame roared over their heads to explode in a booming blast. Creaking and then cracking, the ceiling above gave out, collapsing in a cloud of dust and smoke to the corridor below. In the nick of time, Baz shoved Tommy aside just as the smouldering debris crashed down beside them. Coughing and spluttering, Baz hauled Tommy to his feet. From the corner of his eye, he could see more fireballs streaking toward them. ‘Run!’ But then he was on the floor again. The ADM bracelet burned the flesh of his forearm. He could see the device glowing a bright orange, and so was everything else around him.
Baz Pullman felt himself being lifted. He was dazed. Sigrid was on one side and Gunda on the other. The girls had wrapped their arms around his shoulders and were encouraging him to make haste with soothing words. Despite the circumstances, Baz found himself smiling. Sandwiched between two Swedish blondes! The experience almost seemed worth the pain.
Baz became aware of a light. Not the red glow of flame, but a shimmering white brilliance. The whole corridor shone so brightly that it looked like a tunnel to the afterlife. At first, Baz had assumed that he’d died, but further ahead, he could make out Rupert and Tina escorting a limping Timothy away into the glare, and beside them were the two Daves with little Tommy gun slung over big Dave’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes. But where was George?
En route to safety, Timothy’s beleaguered gang paused at the school canteen. The place was in turmoil. Like herds of startled wildebeest, children ran screaming in all directions. Amidst the chaos, Timothy saw girls and boys grappling with teachers. Mr Borenett held a writhing teenage girl to the floor while Miss May slipped an ADM bracelet onto her wrist. Elsewhere, armed with upturned chairs, Mr Fitzgerald and Mr Farp gamely fought off a group of rabid year 9 kids intent on bringing the teachers down. Madame Moineau and Miss Dainty worked together, tackling possessed stragglers straying too far from their diminishing pack. Miss Dainty sat on them while Madame Moineau thrust ADM bracelets onto their arms.
‘Retreat!’ called Timothy. ‘Get out!’
Miss May nodded. She began ushering pupils away from the canteen. ‘Come on, out to safety.’ And there was no time to waste, on the far side of the hall, Mrs Gruff’s prefects were rallying the last of the possessed in readiness for a final counterattack.
‘Hit the fire alarm!’ shouted Timothy. Nothing engaged the human brain more than a loud, repetitive noise, and nothing encouraged the body to run like hell more than a blaring security alarm.
Obligingly, Little Dave leapt high to put his fist through the nearest fire alarm. Once the ear-piercing bell began ringing, everyone rushed for the exits.
Hindered by their injured, Timothy’s elite force was last into the entrance hall ― except for one other.
‘Coming through!’ cried a voice on the brink of reason. It was George. ‘They’re behind me!’ he squawked over his shoulder as he blurred past them to safety.
‘It looks like the real George is back,’ lamented Rupert. ‘More’s the pity,’ he added under his breath. They had hoped that George’s latest spell of holy possession might have lasted at least until they’d all got out of the building. Yet they each understood that without George’s powerful alter-ego, they would probably all be dead. Timothy had seriously underestimated Trumpton’s response, but whatever was happening to George, Timothy was eternally grateful.
Running ahead, Little Dave pulled and held the doors open for the others to stagger through. Outside, the sun shone, and at first, Timothy struggled to comprehend what was going on. With rear doors splayed wide open, he could see Mina backed right up against the school’s concrete steps. Inside, manning the holy water cannon, was Timothy’s great auntie. ‘Quick,’ called Isabella. ‘Into Mina! Hurry!’
With Rupert’s assistance, Timothy hobbled down the steps as fast as he could go. Beside them, big Dave leapt to the bottom and slung the unconscious Tommy in through Mina’s side door before heading back to help the others. Sigrid and Gunda, half dragging, half carrying the lame Baz Pullman were next to reach sanctuary.
Behind Isabella’s van, the first of three buses ― all crammed full with traumatised schoolchildren and teachers ― roared from the parking lot. The second bus, with Timothy’s father at the helm, swiftly followed.
