DISCLAIMER: Well, I just got back from my whirlwind weekend at DragonCon. Many interesting things were seen and heard. It was pretty much three days of sensory overload. But I got autographs from all the Firefly cast members in attendance, and got to meet several of my online friends from the SEBC Yahoo group, so I'm a happy Browncoat.
Oh, and they had a Shaun of the Dead poster displayed prominently in the room where the British track programs were being held. Sweet!
Shaun and Sara proceeded up the stairs quickly. Light bulbs and decorative vases began to shatter, and they had to shield themselves from the showers of sharp shards. When they arrived at Room 34, Shaun tried the door. "It's locked!"
He backed up and threw his shoulder against it, but the door didn't budge. "Alright, ouch." He staggered back, holding his aching arm. "I suppose that works better on weather-beaten sheds."
"Generally, but thanks. That was sweet of you." Sara delivered a swift kick but the door still didn't budge. She stumbled back onto her now-sore leg. "Ow! What the—"
"Think she's using some kind of magic to keep us out?" he asked.
"That's totally cheating," she grumbled.
Shaun surveyed the hall, paced for a moment. "We should try the rooms on either side. Maybe there's an adjoining door, or we could climb out onto the balcony somehow?"
"Good idea. Which room do you want, right or left?"
"Uh, the first one. Be careful."
"You, too."
Shaun and Sara approached their respective doors, reached for the doorknobs - both were unlocked. Convenient. They shared a glance and then walked inside. Sara immediately felt cold. Her eyes adjusted to the light gradually, and the room became clearer…oddly, it didn't look like every other room in the hotel. And yet it was familiar. In a way she didn't like at all. She tightened her grip on the fire poker and took a few steps forward.
Meanwhile, Shaun closed the door behind him, took a deep breath and then turned to face the room. But it didn't look like a hotel room at all. The walls were dark, wooden, inset with large windows. To his right, a pool table and dartboard; to his left, a bar stretched along the wall. Looking across the debris to the windows, he saw silhouettes of outstretched hands through the curtains, against the pale yellow light of a street lamp. A deeply pained sigh escaped his lungs as he realized exactly where he was.
Sara was in the midst of surveying her surroundings--an open and airy flat with a breathtaking view of a river, ornately furnished and decorated with artifacts and antiques from every corner of the world—when she saw something that stopped her in her tracks. She looked on in astonished amazement as her former handler came into view and began to search Professor Malcolm Ryland's flat. Only it wasn't Will's ghost…he was alive, just as he was the last time she saw him before…
"Will, can you….hear me? Will?" Sara approached as he continued leafing through the artifacts but it was as though he couldn't hear her. "No, this isn't possible," she whispered.
"Actually it is," a posh voice at her shoulder explained. She turned slowly to see Ryland's smug grin. Dead Ryland, the one who had attacked her in her room; she startled and backed off into a fighting stance but he simply removed his broken, dusty glasses and wiped them fastidiously with a handkerchief. "You see, there are a lot of cracks starting to appear in the walls around here. Between the living and the dead. Some things are bound to slip through."
"Why am I seeing this?" she asked, as Will examined a laptop on Ryland's desk and then began shuffling through the desk drawers.
"Well, my dear Miss Cross, only you know the answer to that. Even though you might try to deny it."
"Is Pru doing this?"
"It's possible."
"Tell her the show is cancelled."
"No, no, wait. We're just getting to the good part."
With the arrogant ghost at her side, Sara watched helplessly as the events of that horrible night played out before her. Ryland's living doppelganger suddenly appeared in the far doorway.
"Can I help you with something?" Professor Ryland asked, confronting the ginger-haired intruder.
Will lifted his head slowly to face Ryland. "Ah, Professor Ryland, this probably looks a bit odd."
"A bit, yes."
"You're probably wondering why I, a complete stranger, am rifling through your desk."
"The thought had occurred to me." Ryland moved to stand behind the desk, so Will retreated back toward the center of the room. "Are you from the museum?"
"Uhh, yes, actually."
"No doubt looking for your lost casket," Ryland sighed, starting to straighten out the papers on the desk with a look of frustration. "I've already told you people a hundred times that I didn't take it."
"Right, yes. But you can understand the museum's concern in finding it. The casket is a priceless artifact."
"The casket is merely a box. A simple structure of wood and metal. What was in it is far more valuable."
"I see. And would you mind telling me what was in it?"
Ryland smirked. "I'll do better than that. I'll show you."
Will reacted to a presence behind him. He turned to face a large, muscular figure clad in armor, holding a broadsword in his armor-plated gloves. "Allow me to introduce Davrok Sakkari."
Davrok plunged the sword into Will's abdomen, and he cried out in agony.
No longer able to stand it, Sara lunged forward but Ryland's ghost grabbed her arm. "Ah, ah, ah. You can't change the past, Miss Cross. What's done is done," he stated. Then a self-satisfied smile lit up his face. "Ooh, this is my favorite bit…"
"You're not really from the museum, are you, Mr. Collins?" Ryland asked, calling him by name as he moved to stand by his side. "In fact, I think that you're from the Council. A bunch of bleeding-heart do-gooders sent by the Catholic Church to battle evil. Am I right?"
Will shook his head, despite the pain.
"It's no good, you know. Sure, you and your slayers might have killed a few of our vampires. But there are more, and there will be more. This city has never known the devastation that we will wreak upon it. The streets will be awash with the blood of those who will not submit to the rule of Davrok. Starting with yours..."
Davrok withdrew the sword. Will sank to the floor, blood pouring from the open wound in his torso and through to his back. He tried futilely to cover the wound with his arm as his breath grew slow and labored. The color quickly began to fade from his already pale complexion.
Sara weakly sank to her knees, blinking back the tears. She wouldn't give Ryland the satisfaction of knowing how much the sight upset her.
"So there your compatriot lies bleeding, all over my priceless Persian rug," Ryland's ghost sighed. "He didn't die right away, as you can see. No, a stomach wound like that…takes hours for a man to die. I gather he was dead by the time you and Mr. Riley arrived on the scene. Must have been a horrible shock for you. Just agonizing to think of your cherished friend dying alone like that. But then everyone dies alone, don't they? Well, apart from me; there did happen to be a rather hungry zombie in the car."
He kneeled down beside her. "And I happen to have it on good authority that you won't be dying alone either." He took her chin in his icy hand. "There now, don't you feel all better?"
Two doors down, Shaun was still trying to come to grips with the sights and sounds he found himself faced with. From what seemed like a world away, he heard a familiarly angry voice: "She's finished! For a hero, you're quite a hypocrite." He looked away from the shadows at the window to see David holding a rifle, himself and Ed on either side of him armed with a broken bottle and a corkscrew, Dianne holding a bottle to his neck and Liz standing by the wall trying to keep the peace.
"You're the one who's gone from being a chartered accountant to Charlton Heston!" Shaun shouted.
"I'm not a chartered accountant!" the spectacled man protested.
"Well, you look like one!"
"YeahI" Ed agreed.
"I'm a lecturer," David asserted.
"You're a twat!" Shaun countered.
"Yeah!" Ed seconded.
"She's not your mum anymore! In a minute, she'll be just another zombie," David desperately proclaimed.
"Stimulating conversation, isn't it?" said an Irish-accented voice at his shoulder. Shaun leapt at the site of David, intact - well, more or less - standing beside him.
"But you…were there… now… here…"
"Never one for metaphysics, were you?"
Shaun dropped the cricket bat, fumbled and backed into the pool table. "I saw you get torn to pieces."
"Yes, of course you did." David removed his glasses and wiped them on the sleeve of his blood-soaked-polo shirt; when he replaced them, one lens was dripping red, but he didn't seem to notice. "I won't try to explain, Shaun. Suffice it to say, I'm merely a manifestation. The embodiment of your doubts, fears, uncertainties."
"Why am I back at the Winchester?" Shaun demanded, not at all willing to go through the same nightmare he'd already experienced practically every night, only in even more vivid detail.
"Only you can know that for sure. Perhaps you're supposed to learn something from it. Perhaps witnessing this scene of massive misjudgment on your part will help you to avoid doing the same thing twice."
"Listen, you wanker…"
And then he heard the shot. Its deafening sound echoed around the walls of the pub. He turned and caught a glimpse of his undead mother falling to the ground, blood and brain matter sliding down the wall behind her. "Oh, Christ…" Shaun wrenched back a sob and stumbled away toward the back room.
"No one really blames you, Shaun," David's ghost blathered on, following him. "You tried. But in the end, it just wasn't enough to save your friends or your family. And now you've lost Emma. You almost let Sara get herself killed back at that shop. Are you starting to see a pattern emerge, here, Pickle?"
"What are you trying to say?"
"You were forever making promises to Liz that you were going to change. Quitting smoking, going to the gym, going on holiday. And maybe you did change for a while, tried to be the man that you thought she deserved. But when the chips are down, when you're actually faced with real mortal danger, isn't it so much easier to just be the underachieving slacker that you really are?"
Shaun crossed his arms and tilted his head in a confused look. "What, what, what, what, what?"
"Think about it, Shaun. Your best friend is even more of a loser than you. And when you do manage to get a girl, it's always one that's independent. Secure with being on her own. That way, if you screw up, they won't get hurt. They'll be fine. But if you don't screw up, then they'll be pleasantly surprised. Either way, you win and you don't have to be held accountable."
"Well, thank you, Dr. Phil. But things are different now, okay? I'm accountable. I am all kinds of accountable."
"Accountable to whom? To Sara? As I'm sure you may have noticed, she can take care of herself. You're just a liability to her."
"Sara loves me…"
"Which totally explains why she let you think she was dead," David retorted. "Because that's what normal people in a normal relationship do."
"Yeah, well, normal is in the eye of the beholder."
"Actually, I wonder what upsets you more. That she lied to you, or that you let her go. Sure, you asked a few questions, made a few phone calls. But then you accepted the completely irrefutable proof that she was gone. You disappointed her, you let her down. Just like your dearly departed mum whom you tried so hard to save. When are you going to stop trying, Shaun? Embrace your destiny."
"What destiny?"
"You're not the hero, Shaun. You want proof? Just look around. Take a long look at how well things go when you decide to take charge."
Meanwhile in Room 34, the bracelets on Pru's wrists jingled as she put her hands on her hips. An ectoplasmic residue had begun to settle on all the walls and furniture, but still no sign of her ancestor's spirit. "Oh, will you cross over already?" she huffed toward the ceiling. "For Hecate's sake…"
She couldn't understand what the delay was. She'd done the chant, she'd prepared Evelyn to be a host, but there was still no sign of Margaret's spirit. Most of her energy was being used to keep the dynamic duo occupied in the neighboring rooms but she couldn't keep that up forever.
"Right, this is taking too long. We'll just have to try a more…direct approach." She placed her hands under Evelyn's arms and dragged her unconscious form into the bathroom. "Alright, Auntie Maggie, we'll do it your way," Pru relented, turning on the tap for the bath.
Outside the Eden River Inn, two sleek black vans raced up the gravel driveway and skidded to a halt. The back doors swung open and black-clad men armed with various weapons hopped out of the van and onto the ground. They lined up and stood at attention, awaiting further orders.
Julian finished attaching the straps of his spell-proof vest and addressed the group. "Right, we're gonna' keep this hunting party tight. Your primary objectives are to apprehend Prunella Davies and Evelyn Fairfax; they are wanted in connection with four murders and several pan-dimensional transgressions. Remember, we have two Council operatives and an unknown number of civilians inside, so watch where you aim. I need one team to secure the perimeter, the rest of you are with me."
Another car pulled up behind them, discharging a frazzled Detective Ashford and a confused-looking Sergeant Murphy. "Mr. West, if I might have a word…" she insisted.
"We're past the time for words, detective. If you'll excuse me, I have work to do."
"You're not going in that building without me."
"We have no idea what's going on in there. And I can't be responsible for your safety."
"Mr. West," she said, loading a clip into her gun, "I didn't ask you to."
Back in The Crouch End Pub Formerly Known As Room 36, Shaun's misery had begun to dissipate while his anger reached a boiling point; without warning, he turned back to the ghost and punched him threateningly in the shoulder. He only shrieked lightly when David's arm fell off with a sick thud.
"Listen, you…whatever the hell you are," he stammered. "I'm finished with this. It's behind me. I know I did the right thing, she…I wasn't about to let her…" He tried to avoid looking back at the scene playing out behind him, until it occurred to him to use it to his advantage. "Oh, look, you're about to get eviscerated again."
David turned to look and Shaun spun a roundhouse kick straight into the bloody apparition's chest; but instead of falling backward, he crumpled into a pile of body parts. A smattering of blood hit Shaun in the face, and he wiped it off without so much as a whimper. Yeah, that was disgusting…but man, it felt good.
"Oh…well, that is just great. Look at the big hero!" shouted David's dismembered head from where it had landed, just south of his left armpit.
"How do I get out of here, Four-Eyes?" Shaun demanded, kneeling. "And don't say you don't know, or I'll do me best Pele on your noggin and see if that doesn't jog your memory."
"You see, that's your problem Shaun," David gurgled. "You give up too easily. Sure, you got bloody lucky in that basement when you were about to blow yours and Lizzie's heads clean off, but it was close, wasn't it? How're you ever going to make a go of this slaying-the-undead business if you aren't willing to take the initiative?"
"Oh, for fuck's sake…" Shaun stood up and reared back to deliver his swiftest kick…
"Mum would be so disappointed, wouldn't she?"
And just as he was about to strike…it dawned on him. She was here before. There was no reason to believe she wasn't still here, with the other ghosts outside, conspiring to help them find their way.
"That's it." Shaun stumbled backward, ignoring David's remains as he mumbled further insults and walked toward the back door of the pub. He placed one hand on the door knob and tried to clear his head. Blocking out the sounds of the zombies bursting through the windows behind him, of Dianne screaming like a banshee as she ran out of the pub, of himself and Liz and Ed shouting. He concentrated on the image of Sara in his head, somewhere else in the hotel. How now, more than ever, she needed him. How all this was a stupid bloody trick and the only thing standing between himself and freedom was a little bit of wood.
"Mum?" he gasped. "Bit of help here? Please?" A few seconds passed…and nothing. Alright, that was just foolish. He opened his eyes and sighed, letting go of the door knob…turning around and bumping smack into…Phillip!
"Oh, for God's sake, Shaun…" the ghostly visage of his stepfather rumbled. "Get on with you, eh?" And with that, Phillip raised up a plank of wood like the one he'd chased him 'round the garden with and whacked Shaun in the chest. He came completely off his feet, flying backward at full speed – only he didn't crash into the door. He flew through it, screaming for dear life, and landed on the hallway carpet outside Room 36. Hard.
Gasping for the breath that had been knocked out of him, Shaun curled up into a ball and spluttered until someone reached down and helped him to his feet. Blinking, he straightened slowly and realized the helping hand belonged to his mother.
"You see, Pickle, you could do it. I'm so proud of you." Barbara beamed. "Now go on, then…don't let them intimidate you, you're made of sterner stuff. I'll be with you." She kissed him on the cheek, and as quickly as she had appeared she misted away into the air.
"Mum, wait!" Shaun cried. But the only answer came from behind him, a bit more sarcastic than he would have liked.
"You've just demonstrated that you might you know what you're doing, Shaun, don't you think it's time to let go of the apron strings?"
"Will, I don't need…"
"No, what you need is a weapon. You left your cricket bat in the room," Will smirked, motioning toward the wall to Shaun's left; he turned and saw a fire extinguisher mounted on the wall next to a box containing an axe marked "In Case of Emergency."
"Right, cheers, thanks Collins," Shaun nodded. "Get back to helping the others."
"I'm sure they're just lost without me," Will sighed, and misted into the wall as Shaun raised his jacketed elbow and busted the plexiglass on the front of the box. He cleared the shards away gingerly and pulled the axe free, marching determinedly down the hall to the door of Room 32 and gritting his teeth.
"I'm coming, Sara!" he shouted, plunging the axe into the door; rearing back for another swing, he was well ready to smash the door to shreds…not for the handle to come off like David's arm had a minute ago. He fell backward on his arse, staring up at the blade of the axe where it had stuck in the door, then back to the handle in his grip.
"Bollocks."