The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [239]
“Bastard. It’s like trying to snatch a trout from a mountain stream with a boxing glove. Never mind. I have a plan B which shouldn’t fail.”
“The metaphorical fox terrier?”
“Exactly so. Thursday, draw your weapon.”
“Now what?”
“Shoot me.”
“Where?”
“In the chest, head, anywhere fatal—where did you think? In my foot?”
“You’re joking!”
“Never been more serious.”
“Then what?”
“Good point. I should have explained that first.”
He opened the holdall to reveal a vacuum cleaner.
“Battery powered,” explained Spike. “As soon as his spirit makes an appearance, suck him up.”
“As simple as that?”
“As simple as that. SEB containment isn’t rocket science, Thursday—it’s just not for the squeamish. Now, kill me.”
“Spike—!”
“What?”
“I can’t do it!”
“But you promised—and what’s more you really promised.”
“If promising meant killing you,” I replied in an exasperated tone, “I wouldn’t have gone along with it!”
“SpecOps-17 work ain’t no bed of roses, Thursday. I’ve had enough, and believe me, having this little nurk coiled up in my head is not as easy as it looks. I should have never let him in in the first place, but what’s done is done. You have to kill me and kill me well.”
“You’re crazy!”
“Undoubtedly. But look around you. You followed me in here. Who’s crazier? The crazy or the crazy who follows him?”
“Listen—” I began. “What’s that?”
There was a thump on the church door.
“Blast!” replied Spike. “The undead. Not necessarily fatal, and severely handicapped by that slow swagger—but they can be troublesome if you get cornered. After you have killed me and captured Chuckles up here, you may have to shoot your way out. Take my keys; these two here are for the inner and outer gates. It’s a bit stiff, and you have to turn it to the left—”
“I get the picture.”
Another thump echoed the first. There was a crash from the vestry, and a shape moved past one of the lower windows.
“They are gathering!” said Spike ominously. “You’d better get a move on.”
“I can’t!”
“You can, Thursday. I forgive you. It’s been a good career. Did you know that out of the three hundred and twenty-nine SpecOps-17 operatives who have ever been, only two ever made it to retirement age?”
“Did they tell you that when you joined?”
There was the sound of stone against stone as one of the graves from the floor was pushed aside. The undead who was thumping on the door was joined by another—and then another. Outside we could hear the noises of the awakening. Despite the moonlit night, the Evil One was calling to his servants—and they were coming running, or shambling, at the very least.
“Do it!” said Spike in a more urgent manner. “Do it now before it’s too late!”
I raised my gun and pointed it at Spike.
“Do it!”
I increased the pressure on the trigger as a shaky form stood up from the open grave behind him. I pointed the gun at the figure instead—the pathetic creature was so far dried out it could barely move—but it sensed our presence and teetered in our direction anyway.
“Don’t shoot it, shoot me!” said Spike with some alarm in his voice. “The job in hand, Thursday, please!”
I ignored him and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell harmlessly with a dull thock.
“Eh?” I said, rechambering the next round. Spike was quicker than I and loosed off a shot that disintegrated the head of the abomination, who then collapsed in a heap of dried skin and powdery bone. The sound of scrabbling increased from the door.
“God damn and blast, Next, why couldn’t you do as I told you?!”
“What?”
“I put that dud on the top of your clip, idiot!”
“Why?”
He tapped his head.
“So I could trick Chuckles in here to come out—he’s not going to stay in a host he thinks is about to croak! You pull the trigger, out he comes, dud bullet, Stoker lives, SEB sucked up—QED.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, my temper