The Unhappy Medium 3: Wretched Things: A Supernatural Comedy, page 38
‘You see?’ declared Homer. ‘A proper hero is a killer, a savage who bludgeons his way into history, not some tofu-eating Nancy boy in a toga.’
‘I’m a fighter and a lover,’ declared Achilles. ‘Aren’t I, Patroclus?’
Achilles and the poet were joined now by the rest of the possessed guests, each of the Bronze Age heroes doing their best to look suitably epic in their business suits.
‘Bow thee down before the heroes!’ commanded Homer.
‘I’d rather not, thanks,’ replied Newton.
‘Oh my God,’ gasped Vasilakis, recognising some of the faces. ‘They’ve possessed half the government.’
‘And we’d be possessing a lot more than that had we not been interrupted,’ said Homer.
‘Yeah, well, we’ve got more interruptions on the way,’ threatened Newton, seeking to buy some time.
‘We are warriors,’ snorted Achilles, twirling his rusty blade like a pro. ‘Numbers do not worry us. Let them come. More enemies for us to slaughter.’
‘If they have guns they’ll blow you to bits,’ warned Helena, being held firmly by two of the warriors at the back. ‘I don’t care how hard you think you are; if you stay here, you’ve had it.’
‘She’s right,’ agreed Andronicus. ‘I’ve seen these gun things. You don’t have to be close to take someone’s head clean off. We should get the hell out of here.’
‘Go?’ protested Homer. ‘But … but … I need more relics!’
‘If we stay,’ continued Andronicus, ‘we will be overwhelmed. I realise it would be more “heroic” to stand firm and slug it out to the last man, but we’ll kill the bigger plan if we do.’
‘What is your command, mighty Achilles?’ asked Ajax. ‘Do we stay, or do we go now?’
‘Tell us, handsome Achilles, what do we do?’ enquired Patroclus, looking for leadership. ‘Fight … or flight?’
Achilles hesitated, the blood of a thousand combats still in his nostrils, the need to regularly kill a habit he was desperate to rediscover.
‘We go,’ announced Achilles, finally. ‘I cannot fight without a proper sword in my hand. I mean, look at this lamentable relic. It would tear a nasty hole, sure, but that’s about all. I cannot contemplate the shame of it. To die in an unheroic way would be worse than an arrow through the ankle.’
‘But … the relics!’ wailed Homer.
‘I am sorry, sweet, sweet poet,’ sighed Achilles, ‘but Andronicus is right. We need to leg it, beat a tactical retreat that we may fight another day.’ The warrior lifted his rusting blade high above him. ‘Myrmidons!’ he bellowed reluctantly. ‘Form a ring!’
On command, the suited heroes of the Iliad formed into a human doughnut, blades outwards, Homer, Helena and Andronicus the Terrible penned in at the centre.
‘Myrmidons, forward!’
As one, the stern-faced Ancient Greeks began to bustle forward, their rusty blades pointed at the Purgatorians as they began moving decisively across the marble floor towards the exit.
Outnumbered, Newton, Bennet, and Vasilakis edged away, forced back through the entrance by the advancing Myrmidons and into the deep blue of a noisy Athenian evening. Summoned by Vasilakis, more Purgatorians were now arriving on the steps below. The newcomers, armed only with their enthusiasm, were at least in sufficient numbers to force the escaping Ancient Greeks to hesitate.
‘Achilles,’ demanded Ajax, spying the Greek monks manoeuvring to block their escape route below them. ‘What now?’
‘I’m working on it,’ answered Achilles, somewhat flustered. ‘I dunno. How about we rush them?’
‘There’s too many,’ observed Patroclus, watching another priest-filled minivan roll to a stop. They might not have swords or spears, but by Zeus, there’s a lot of ’em.’
‘What we need,’ said Andronicus, ‘is transport.’
‘Can you see any horses?’ yelled Ajax. ‘Cos I know I can’t.’
‘No, not horses,’ replied Andronicus, pointing at the traffic. ‘This isn’t the olden days. The things moving about on the road, go for those.’
‘Ye Gods!’ exclaimed Achilles. ‘What are they?’
‘Never mind what they are,’ barked Andronicus, ‘just go for them. They’re our ticket out of here.’
‘Right,’ cried Achilles, pointing his oxidised weapon towards the traffic. ‘Myrmidons … forward!’
The doughnut began to bustle away, edging down the steps towards the busy avenue. Bennet dashed back to retrieve his Berretta then caught up with Newton and the rest of the Purgatorians who followed closely behind the Ancient Greeks, inches out of range of the hostile Myrmidon blades.
‘We need to actually stop them,’ insisted Bennet, ‘not just follow them.’
‘With what, exactly?’ asked Newton. ‘No one’s brought anything more dangerous than a rosary.’
‘We have a rapid response team inbound,’ declared Vasilakis.
‘Great,’ said Newton. ‘How long till they get here?’
‘Dunno. They stuck in traffic,’ replied Vasilakis apologetically, as Newton looked back at him with disappointment. ‘Athens.’ He shrugged. ‘What can I tell you?’
‘Don’t tell me anything,’ sighed Newton. ‘I’m trying to manage my expectations.’
The Bronze-Age doughnut had now crossed the grassed concourse before scampering onto the uneven pavement beside the busy road. Passing tourists snapped pictures, their flashes illuminating what they reasonably assumed to be some kind of classical re-enactment.
Startled, the Myrmidons threw their hands across their eyes,
‘Lightning!’ shrieked Patroclus. ‘Zeus is angry with us.’
‘Ignore it, you sensitive but attractive fool!’ advised Achilles. ‘If it was Zeus, we’d all be dead … again.’
Seizing her moment, Helena ducked. As the Greeks fought to recover their vision, she heaved her way out of the doughnut before her blinded captors could stop her. Frantically, she dashed away towards Newton, exchanging one enemy for another. Understandably he began bracing himself for a repeat of her cliff-top performance.
‘Dammit!’ cried Andronicus, watching her go. ‘She’s got away.’
‘You hold it right there, missy!’ ordered Bennet, pointing his Berretta at the German.
‘I’m on your side,’ protested Helena.
‘Are you?’ replied Newton doubtfully.
‘I am now,’ said Helena, raising her hands. ‘They’ve taken mein papa. Possessed him. You have to help me.’
‘Oh, do I?’ asked Newton, as the monks searched her for weapons. ‘You want my help? Didn’t you kick me off a cliff?’
‘This is bigger than that,’ insisted Helena. ‘Mein papa … is gone! Taken by those … beasts. They’re mad! Mein great-grandpapa is still on die yacht! They vant to take over the vorld! Ve have to stop them.’
‘We’re working on that,’ said Bennet, edging back after the Myrmidon doughnut, pistol raised.
‘You expect me to trust you?' marvelled Newton. ‘You tried to kill me. You work for the Consortium. I don’t think so, honeybuns.’
‘Ve ver only obeying their orders,’ she pleaded. ‘Ve ver sub-contracted. I verk only for my family. But now my father is gone, and they have mein great-grandpapa captive, who knows vot they vill do vith him. Now I am vith you, against them. You have my vord. So give me a gun,’ demanded Helena. ‘Give me a verdammt gun!’
‘Yeah?’ replied Bennet, pointing his Beretta at the doughnut. Well, I’m afraid I’m the only one with a gun right now. We’re waiting on the cavalry.’
‘And they could be ages,’ added Newton. ‘Look at this traffic.’
‘But, you … ve, ve cannot let them escape!’ insisted Helena.
‘I love the “ve”,’ laughed Newton.
‘You have to listen to vot I am telling you,’ continued Helena. ‘Vot these bastards have planned … is terrible. Unthinkable! Ve have to stop them … together.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Newton. ‘For now … benefit of the doubt. But no gun. Vasilakis, … keep an eye on Lara Croft here. If she pulls a fast one, knock her out.’
Meanwhile, the Myrmidons, reassured that the camera flashes weren’t an attack by the Gods, briefly rallied. Then they stalled again, the chaos of night-time Athens overwhelming their Bronze Age sensibilities.
‘You,’ demanded the anxious Achilles, tapping Andronicus with the point of his sword. ‘For the love of Zeus, … think of something.’
‘Ok, … the big chariot thing … over there,’ replied Andronicus, pointing hopefully at an approaching tour bus. ‘You should go for that.’
‘Myrmidons, … HOLD!’ ordered Achilles.
Obeying like machines, the warriors locked in position, blades extended in a circle to keep the approaching Purgatorians at bay.
‘Let me through!’ yelled Achilles, breaking ranks.
The Greek hero bolted away, darting out in front of the half-full double-decker, causing it to brake sharply, its wheels squealing on the sunburnt asphalt. Achilles waved his sword above his head, banging his fist on the glass and violently gesturing at the confused driver to release the doors. Mistaking the business-suit-wearing Achilles for an authority figure, foolishly, the driver obliged. Storming aboard, Achilles began screaming hysterically at the terrified passengers. Racing up and down the aisle, the warrior started violently slinging the wide-eyed tourists out into the sultry evening air.
‘In the name of Apollo, be gone, ye peasants!’
The “peasants” needed little encouragement. Convinced there was an act of terrorism underway, they were past Achilles and out of the bus in seconds, leaving just the warrior and the petrified driver.
‘Everyone on,’ screamed Andronicus the Terrible. ‘Now!’
Dragging the blind and frail Homer with them, the Myrmidons piled loutishly onto the bus, spreading quickly onto both decks before the Purgatorians could stop them.
Andronicus rushed to the driver’s cabin. Achilles was placing a blade to the driver’s throat.
‘W… wh…. where to?’ whimpered the poor man as the doors clapped shut and the hydraulics hissed.
‘Yeah, … where to?’ repeated Achilles, turning to his colleague, as the hydraulics hissed and the Reverend Bennet through himself at the doors.
‘Piraeus,’ ordered Andronicus the Terrible. ‘And don’t spare the horses.’
Chapter 29
Congestion
The tour bus door had closed in Bennet’s face, leaving him staring right at Achilles through the shatterproof glass, unable to do anything about anything.
‘Dammit!’ yelled Bennet, banging his fist against the door in frustration.
Goading his enemy, Achilles grinned back, waving his hand like a little girl as the double-decker pulled into the bus lane bound for the harbour.
‘They’re getting away,’ cried Helena. ‘Do something.’
‘Over there!’ Newton pointed up the road. ‘There’s another bus.’
Bennet followed Newton’s arm to a second double-decker, creeping up to the museum stop, a scattering of sightseers still aboard.
‘On it!’ said Bennet, bolting over to its opening doors.
‘The tour, it finish,’ declared the driver, as Bennet appeared before him. ‘Come back tomorrow.’
‘Sorry, old chap,’ apologised Bennet, opening the driver’s door and urging him out. ‘I hate to appear heavy-handed and all that, but I’d be terribly grateful if you’d let us have your bus.’
‘Eh?’ asked the driver, looking utterly baffled.
‘Sorry,’ continued Bennet, grabbing him politely but firmly by his arms and lifting him clean out of his seat. ‘Terribly, terribly sorry.’
‘You stop!’ cried the driver, trying belatedly to resist. ‘This is my bus.’
‘Just going to borrow it for a little bit,’ promised Bennet, shooing him off the bus. ‘Off you go now. Sorry, sorry!’
With the driver removed, Vasilakis charged onto the bus, the Cretan throwing himself behind the wheel and gazing down at the unfamiliar controls.
‘Is the child’s play,’ insisted Vasilakis, revving the engine and crashing the gearbox. ‘Give me second … I get it.’
‘I hope so,’ replied Bennet, turning to address the confused passengers. 'Right, then folks, everybody OFF!’
Somewhat confused, the tourists remained in their seats.
‘NOW!’ barked Bennet when they remained dumbstruck in their seats. ‘Tour is OVER!’
‘You gotta work on your customer service, buddy,’ complained a plaid-wearing retiree from Arizona, as he bustled his wife urgently out through the doors. ‘This is going right on Tripadvisor.’
With the passengers gone, Newton joined Bennet on the bus, followed immediately by Helena Kraakenhausen and ten Orthodox monks.
‘Come on, Vasilakis!’ yelled Newton, as the Purgatorians began to fill the interior. ‘What are we waiting for? They’re getting away.’
‘I go!’ cried Vasilakis, jumping the unfamiliar vehicle forward into the bus lane like a hopping rabbit. Caught by the sudden lurch, Bennet and the monks tumbled backwards, only Helena and Newton having had the sense to hold on to the handles provided.
‘Bloody hell, mate!’ exclaimed Newton. ‘Easy on the pedal!’
‘I get it soon,’ said Vasilakis, fighting the gear stick. ‘I learn on job.’
The pursuit began. The Purgatorian double-decker slipped into the traffic just thirty metres behind the Ancient Greeks in their near-identical vehicle. Leaving Patroclus with his sword to the driver’s throat, Andronicus, Ajax, and Achilles clambered up to the top deck in time to witness their enemies pulling away in the second bus behind them.
‘By the beard of Poseidon!’ snarled Achilles. ‘These Purgatorians are persistent! Ajax, tell Patroclus to incentivise the peasant at the reins; we must outrun them.’
‘Aye, mighty Achilles,’ responded Ajax, dashing back down the stairs. ‘Faster!’ he yelled to his fellow Myrmidon. ‘Make him go faster.’
‘You heard the man,’ said Patroclus, waving his blade at the wide-eyed driver. ‘Make haste, lest I run thee through!’
‘Please, no! Don’t run me though!’ pleaded the driver, gesturing through the screen at the gridlock. ‘I’m going as fast as I can. Is rush hour. Look at traffic!’
‘Try harder,’ ordered Patroclus, ‘if you desire to live.’
‘They’re on us,’ Andronicus observed, looking back from the top deck at the looming Purgatorians.
Closing rapidly, the Purgatorians could be seen all too clearly, Bennet and Newton on the top deck, Vasilakis sitting grim-faced behind the wheel.
Andronicus pulled out his phone. Though he'd been coached by Astrid back on the superyacht, the technology was still utterly alien to him. Fumbling in his mind for a password in the jumble of memories left by the late Boris Nahrapov, he attempted to bring it to life. After way too many attempts, the oligarch’s phone came online and he dialled his henchman
‘Dima here,’ came the reply.
‘This is Andron…,’ began Andronicus the Terrible. ‘I mean, this is Boris Nahrapov. We are on our way back, and the Purgatorians are right behind us. I’ll message you when we are near. Get the boat ready to cast off as soon as we get there. It’s going to be tight.’
‘Will do, boss,’ promised Dima, ringing off.
‘Looks like they want to fight,’ observed Andronicus, looking at the steely-faced monks filing onto the top deck of the pursuing bus.
‘It does,’ agreed Achilles. ‘Good. We like to fight. Ajax!’ he shouted back down the stairs. ‘Get my Myrmidons up here!’
‘This should be interesting,’ said Bennet, watching the Ancient Greeks appearing on the top deck of their bus. ‘Can we get alongside them? If we can, we can board them, pirate style.’
‘But they have swords,’ warned Helena, joining them at the front of the top deck. ‘Ve have nothing. They’d cut us to bits as soon as ve get on board.’
‘Fair point,’ agreed Bennet. ‘Any other ideas?’
‘We’re barely above walking speed. Can’t we buy something in one of these?’ suggested Newton, pointing at the parade of shops edging along beside them.
‘We can’t do much damage to them with a desklamp,’ said Bennet, following Newton’s gaze to a furniture store.
‘Not that shop,’ replied Newton, rolling his eyes. ‘Look further down the road. What is up ahead?’
‘Vot about that vun?’ asked Helena, pointing further up the avenue. ‘Are those umbrellas?’
‘They are,’ confirmed Bennet, peering ahead. ‘And walking sticks. Hardly samurai swords, but we could certainly crack a few skulls.’
‘Follow me!’ yelled Newton, dashing back down the stairs. ‘Vasilakis, … open the doors!’
Bennet right behind him, Newton was out of the bus, careering along the busy pavement between the pedestrians. Seconds later, they were inside the shop.
‘Ten walking sticks, parakaló!’ urged Newton, dinging the bell on the counter, and waking a shopkeeper who’d fallen asleep waiting for closing time after a depressingly slow day up to this point.
‘I cannot,’ replied the man, holding up his hand. ‘Because I have only … five.’
‘What about umbrellas, then? Give me five of each.’
‘Sure,’ shrugged the shopkeeper. ‘What style you want?’
‘Style?’ replied Newton. ‘I don’t care what style … I dunno, BIG ones!’
‘We have many different types,’ answered the shopkeeper, ambling slowly over to the display. ‘There is this one, the rainbow multi-colour, for the Pride. Then we have this one, it say “Welcome to Greece”, and there is flag. Is twenty Euro.'
‘Yeah, those,’ said Newton impatiently.
‘Need to get a bloody move on,’ urged Bennet, looking back out of the door. ‘Or we’re gonna miss the bus.’
‘This one, it has the Acropolis on it,’ continued the shopkeeper. ‘Here, I open it up for you … so you see.’
‘Don’t!’ gasped Newton, losing the will to live. ‘Leave it. Just give me five of them.’
‘I have not got five. I can give you two Acropolis, two rainbow and one “Welcome to Greece”. That work for you, friend?’
