PART 8: Trail of the Legion
In a way, it was again like old times. Just as in those days, so distant and wind-flown, there were the pieces that had to be gathered into a single mosaic. It was not just an adventure—it was a mystery, a phenomenon that released a sort of aura of nostalgia. He almost felt that two familiar shapes would materialize amidst them; a broad-shouldered young man with hair the color of wheat and a female, the ever-present spectacles on the nose and a long orange sweater her main distinction. Then would come the moment when they would be joined by a third addition, the one that would jump out of the shadows, the costume on his shoulders and mask on his face fright-striking and malicious.
None of this happened this time. The incarnation of the team was different, and the newest antagonists worked in original ways.
The trail led them back to the TV studio. Though it was a clue that once again guided them to their destination, it was gained in a manner that too confirmed the thought that they were not reliving a case similar to their past ones. In the past clues were not attained during run-ins with zombies…real ones…
The hall was gloomy, illuminated only by several light bulbs as if the management, short on cash, wanted to save on electricity.
"There it is," Daphne said, referring to the door.
Upon it two words were engraved, a simple sign of navigation: 'Boris Kreepoff''.
They did not have an invitation; they would not have received it had they asked, but they did not need it.
The redhead put her hand on the knob, and the door was open with one push. It seemed that the eccentric host was so overconfident that he forgot to close the door while he was basking in the thought of his cleverness.
Kreepoff was not a standard celebrity, and, non-surprisingly, his studio room tried to be simplest to the maximum. A desk with a chair stood against the wall opposite to them, a cheap-looking wardrobe in the corner, the almost monastic plainness was disturbed by a coffee table and a chair in a another spot.
Still one thing felt out of context. Above the desk hang a drawing that resembled a plan, the angles hinting on a building. Kreepoff was not an engineer, at least not to anybody's knowledge. Shaggy thought that perhaps it was a fantasy house the weird man dreamed of having and kept the drawing as eye-candy.
"Hey, that's the floor plan of the temple where the Chest of Demons was found," Daphne probably got a glimpse of the structure when their plane was taking off that fateful day; that was the only explanation why she recognized it.
So that was not a fantasy house…
When they entered the room itself, Flim Flam was the one to find a missing object.
"And that's the book Vincent was talking about," he directed their attention at a manuscript that lay on the table, the one called 'The Grand Tome of the Chest of Demons'.
So came the harvest of discoveries.
"And these are plane tickets to Tibet," Scrappy said upon picking upon the items from the coffee table.
"Now if we could only find a clue…" Shaggy commented.
"These are clues!" Daphne snapped, annoyance unclothed "Boris Kreepoff flew to Tibet and stole Mister van Ghoul's book."
Her reaction to his comment was like a wet floor beneath his feet. He did not like the tendency. Ever since the quarrel between them that followed the opening of the chest, the redhead had become less tolerant towards his more simplistic traits he had the misfortune of displaying, making cold remarks or snapping at him like just seconds before. And what was worse was that she did not bother hearing the second part. He meant a clue that revealed it was Kreepoff, and not another set-up, a few of those already happened in one evening…
The small but noticeable rips that had begun appearing in his relationship with Daphne distracted him from the main discussion. He heard the exchange of suspicions between his teammates. He did not take part until another person came forward with his own account.
As unexpectedly as usual, Vincent van Ghoul appeared out of thin air, making them aware of his own findings in the oddest source…
"This TV guide states," he said holding the paper in his hand, "tonight Boris Kreepoff will open the fabled Chest of Demons on national television."
A few seconds after reading the new info out, the sorcerer made a revelation.
"Tonight is the Winter Solstice. Whoever opens the chest tonight will wield all the power in the universe."
The mystery was now solved and the culprit revealed, but the real deal was only beginning. Kreepoff had to be stopped. Mere minutes at their disposal, the gang exited the room in a race with astrology.
They ran through the narrow halls of the station until they found themselves in a familiar sector. The bright light of the projectors reached out to them from the open entrance of one of the studios. They were almost there. The team entered the room as the host was giving an introduction to the edition's main feature in his accented, semi-moaning voice.
"You can't do this, Boris!" Vince proclaimed when the gang made their grand entrance on the stage.
"Hasn't stopped him before," sounded a voice, non-caring but neither antagonistic.
Shaggy looked at its wielder. It was not Boris. His face as deformed as Nosferatu's, he stood beside the camera, the cap on his head giving away his status. He was the director.
"If you open the chest, you will unleash unspeakable horrors," the sorcerer explained, no doubt hoping to get to his friend that was lost somewhere in Kreepoff's twisted conscience.
"Hideous demons will be set free!" Daphne sang along.
"And the world as we know it will end," van Ghoul's voice took on a deeper note as he gave the warning. In those moments, curiosity itself begged the question of how far the sorcerer was ready to go in order to prevent the looming catastrophe.
"I don't believe you!" Boris denounced him, but then disregarded his own sentence, "Besides, I will finally be able to get back at you for humiliating me back at Terror Tech!"
"So much for their friendship," Shaggy could not help but formulate a witty conclusion.
"That's not true," Vincent tried to protest.
"You were always popular with the ghouls!"
If that last statement had carried a gun, Shaggy would have been lying dead on the studio's floor. There were many reasons which were capable of descending a man into madness. Yet this one went over all expectations. It would have been funny had the world not been endangered.
"Can I help it that I'm so irresistible?" as if armageddons were a trivial thing, Vincent made an ego-trips
"Can we get the show going?" the director, afraid they were off-schedule urged. It seemed like Boris was not the only insane member of staff.
"And what a show it will be," Boris said, his gaze turned to the camera, "For when I open this chest, all the power in the universe will be mine!" he had a show to host, and he would remain dedicated to his objective until the final shot.
"Correction. The power is mine!" they were joined by a new voice, a high-pitched one this time.
Everybody turned towards the entrance and the newcomer. She stood there leaning against the wall. Her cold features agreed with her make-up style and tasteless green robe.
"Tallulah, what are you doing here?" Daphne asked.
The soothsayer remained silent for several seconds.
"I have come to claim my prize," she then explained, "The Chest of Demons!"
The predatory manner in which she pronounced the last four words hinted that she too stood on the opposite barricade.
"Foolish mortals! You thought I was a mere medium. But in reality I'm…" a gold-green aura engulfed her as she was about to finish.
"…Zimbulu, the Lion Demon!" roared the being that replaced her.
The creature's self-introducing made the best summary. Incredibly muscular, its torso united human and cat-like features. Its limbs ended with paws. His head was that of a lion, mane his hair, though a pair of horns on the side was a deviance from the standard image of the wild cat.
To Shaggy, its chimeran appearance raised an association with someone else….the Jaguaro, the half-ape, half-feline beast they came across in the Amazonian jungles years before. However, that abomination at least had a redeeming side: it was fake. Zimbulu on the other hand, was true supernatural evil.
"You're a lying demon alright," Scrappy went into feisty mood.
"Seize him!" Zimbulu gave the command, but he did not mean the pooch.
Two ghostly forms rose from underneath the floor by Kreepoff's sides, and grabbing the host by both hands, pulled him away from the chest.
Perhaps it would have been possible to snatch the chest…had not the demon cast a spell that made immobile for several seconds, just enough time he needed.
With heavy stomps Zimbulu walked to the chest and kneeled before it.
"Now all the power in the universe will be mine!" he unleashed a throaty laughter.
Putting his massive paw on the lid, he roughly pulled it open. Those who dwelled inside the chest immediately gave greetings. They burst out of the container, once more incarnated in joint never before seen temporary forms, these time three rather than a single one. Flapping their leather wings heavily, the gargoyles of hell were circling around Zimbulu in celebration of their victory. The demons knew how to present themselves in ways that made their spectacle shake the viewer to the core.
"All is lost!" Vincent said, assessing the direness of the situation.
It was almost over; the only thing left for The Lion Demon to do was to turn the power he was one step from harvesting against them in order to secure his future.
However, even the mightiest titan had a weak spot. Zimbulu too was not invincible. Flim Flam, who managed to make a strategic retreat when the ordeal began returned reequipped. His choice of weapon would have made an adversary laugh on the battlefield, but they were not at a theatre of war, and the enemies were far from the average. It resembled a vacuum cleaner, the most ordinary appliance.
He addressed the heralds of darkness with a sharp comment and turned the switch. Luckily for the team, Zimbulu had not gained full power by that moment; his defeat was sealed.
The winged monstrosities were quickly sucked into the device. Their hybrid comrade was more enduring. He saw his plan crumble around and his two ghostly aides, the ever-lackeys Bogle and Weerd, abandon him, fearing their own imprisonment.
"Cowards!" his curse was directed at his disrespected servants before he lost his stance and rejoined his kin in the trap. The kid then disposed of the contents of the vacuum spook by putting them in the chest.
"Flim Flam, you saved the day!" Daphne congratulated the boy.
Cheers were followed by Boris' remorse and apology before Vincent and the gang.
"How can I ever make it up to you for all the trouble I caused?" his asked, speech accompanied by gesticulations.
"I runno," Scooby who was sitting beside him said.
"And why am I talking to a dog?" he questioned himself in a surprised tone as if he had not done more insane acts that night.
Shaggy later wondered how the host managed to get away with only an apology. But it happened; a mixed result of his celebrity status and an absence of laws that regulated supernatural activity.
Time continued its flow, and the seasons changed as it did. The Winter Solstice had passed along with the remnants of the year's coldest period.
Spring made a return several days before, but it still needed time to redecorate the surroundings. The trees stood devoid of leaves, and the barren ground was still to lay out its green carpet.
The pair walked out of the hotel, the interview with a visiting performer complete. In an uncommon reverse of traditional seating, Shaggy took the place behind the steering wheel.
"Want to go have lunch?" he asked, turning to his partner.
"Sure, why not," Daphne nodded as she put the audio recorder away.
There were only two of them—the dogs stayed at home in order to help Flim Flam keep an eye on the chest. That had been the tendency since the day the accursed container was opened. Shaggy was amazed at how they had been able to achieve this—fitting ghost-chasing around their work. He was actually happy, in a way, at having this opportunity of spending time only in her company.
He parked the van near the café, they only had to make several dozen steps and they were inside. The weather outside was not of the most pleasing sort, but the joint's interior gave a feel of coziness. Warm lights brightened the place. The chairs and brown polished wooden tables looked so elegant that they could have been the designer's specialty. The distant wall was decorated by a mosaic of a thematic that fitted the room. It depicted the surface of a table, nearly identical to those in the café. Upon it, fruit of different kinds, oranges and grapes, pomegranates and papaya, lay spread, their forms mere plaster but not without appeal.
He picked up a menu, studying it as if it was an accountant's report. He never denied that it was also an entertaining thing. Had he been asked why, he would probably have not found an answer, but fun took different shapes, and that was a point in his defense. He also admired the portrayals of several of the orders on the culinary brochure's pages as if those were real art. It took them a bit to decide on their choices. The couple made orders and went to one of the tables by the wall.
The redhead was first to sit down; he did the same seconds later. They were sitting by one side, their backs to the wall; most of the large room was open to them. The café could not be considered half-empty—it was almost empty, except for several other people. But change still had a chance; standard lunchtime had not yet arrived, and soon suit-clad employees on their breaks would start gathering here from nearby offices.
He gave Daphne a look. He noticed that her lips curved into a smile as beautiful as all her features.
"What's the smile about?" he asked her tenderly, playfully.
"I'm waiting," she answered.
"I'm waiting for my order too," he chuckled, "but unfortunately, my stomach doesn't allow me to smile during waiting time," he exposed her to one of his jokes.
Daphne raised an eyebrow that made her grin even more explicit but just as adorable.
"I am not talking about lunch."
Shaggy thought that the lights in the room went off for a moment before returning with a sharp flash that stings the eyes.
"Do you mean you're…" he needed a clear answer, metaphors unacceptable.
"Yes, I am," she cut off his sentence, aware of what he was about to ask.
Perhaps there really was a problem with power supply in the café since a repeat of the incident took place. But, if that was the case, then why was he the only one to notice? And how did the blackout block daylight from coming through the glass windows?
Another question was begging to be answered. Why was that blackout the only thing on his mind? And no matter how much he tried, he found himself incapable of concentrating on anything else as if the café was not the only thing that went through a blackout.
"Earth to Shaggy," a distant transmission brought him out of this stasis.
Mechanically, Shaggy drew a hand and put it on her stomach.
"For how long?" he asked, still not fully in his senses.
"Two months," she replied.
There were another several moments of silence.
"You still haven't gotten over it?" Daphne satirized him.
"Sorta. Such big info isn't churned in an instant."
"So any comments?" she placed her hand on top of his.
"Great news, what else…" he smiled in response.
Few surprises he had gone through had a chance against this one. Moreover, it was probably the only positive one since the incident in the Himalayas. The news remained on the headlines of his mind right into the next day.
They stood gathered in the foyer around the crystal ball in through which, like an anchor in front of a camera, Vincent van Ghoul was giving a report.
"Ever since Zimbulu's capture, the remaining two ghosts seem to have decided to lurk for a while," the sorcerer said, "but I believe I have gotten on trail of one of them."
"Expect more information in the upcoming days," with that the projection faded away.
The news got different perceptions. Scrappy was happy at an opportunity of splatting another villain, Scooby was being his traditionally panicking self, Flim Flam accepted it with realism, and Shaggy, as always, had numerous reservations about it.
"Are you sure it would be wise for you to take part in the upcoming case?" he asked Daphne when they were alone in their room.
The others had not been informed yet; Daphne wanted to wait a bit more before revealing it to the rest.
"I don't see why not," she replied as she put the comb back next to the mirror.
"You sure you don't see?" he remarked.
"You mean my condition?" she turned towards him, "it's only been two months."
"But still it is a major factor…"
"It's an early stage," she interrupted him, "the side effects are minimum."
Still he had doubts.
"But it's dangerous," concerned for her well-being, he gave a reminder.
"All of our missions have been dangerous. Besides, what else should I do? Sit at home and eat pickles while watching TV?"
She just had to bring food into the equation…
"Sounds like a good idea to me," Shaggy commented, chuckling.
"And remind me the obstacle that prevented Zomba and Demondo from coming to this house?" she spoke with a hint.
She had a point. There was no obstacle; both ghouls had just dropped in on them.
"Well, you could go stay with your family at Blake Manor for the time being," he shared the most recent idea that came to her mind.
Daphne rolled her eyes.
"I am flattered by your concern, but don't you think your offers are somewhat off?" her voice took a slightly higher pitch.
"Nope," he responded with the most simplistic answer in the easiest tone.
"I already told you that there is nothing to worry about on this stage. Moreover, the faster we catch the remaining two ghosts, the safer the world will be for our baby. We'll think about what to do in this case if the job takes longer."
Her dedication to ghost-hunting was admirable but not necessarily wise.
"But we don't know anything about them. What if they carry some paranormal disease…what if you get contaminated?" concern had a habit of raising the least explored issues.
"Now you are being ridiculous," Daphne shook her head as she put a palm to her temple. It was evident she was becoming annoyed by his endless theories.
"No, I'm not," he gave a word that turned into a pocking one.
"Yes, you are," it felt almost like a tit-for-tat game.
"Oh, dear."
"What?"
"Seems like somebody is being a cranky mommy…" he gave his analysis of the situation in his ace manner.
"It's not nice to ridicule pregnant women," she said with a tutor-like tone, definitely not lightened up by the joke.
"I'm not…"
"I have an idea!" she suddenly proclaimed, "How about you start being overprotective when it's necessary?"
The sarcastic addition hinted that that she would not retreat from her position.