The Second Adventure: A Cat Called Britain (A Caper in Time Part 1)
by Evan Forman and Michael Robertson - 22.12.14
~ 200 Years Later... ~
"Th...that
wasn't a dream?"
"That wasn't a dream."
"...I'm in a coffin."
Boss tossed the shovel out onto the ground above. "You're in a
coffin."
Aerin sat up in shock. "JOHN, I FUCKING DIED!"
"Well...I DID warn you." Boss pulled Aerin out of the hole, his
entire body was caked in mud having clawed his way out of six
feet of collapsing soil. "I thought to myself 'this is the
comfiest coffin I've ever slept in! Box this size, assuming I've
just started breathing again, should give me about five hours of
air. And I could do with another fifteen minutes.' But then I
thought, 'Oh wait, if I'm up, Aerin's probably shitting himself
over in his coffin, I should probably go and get him.'"
Aerin tried to smack some of the damp muck off of his breeches
and white linen shirt as John scanned their new surroundings.
The sky was a featureless sheet of dull gray, and beyond the
mossy stone walls of the graveyard, the world was choked with
dead and gnarled trees. Everything was silent except for the
faint rustle of the faraway wind in the forest. Aerin walked
over to Boss "Any idea where we are?"
"Going by the boggy smell and the freaky Spindletrees, I'd say
we're somewhere in Dryadora. Assuming that creature sent us
forward exactly 200 years to the day, there shouldn't be this
chill in the air yet, so we're up north a bit; probably right in
the middle of the country."
"And you're fine with that? Two centuries gone in the blink of
an eye, everyone we know is dead and you're off 'judging by the
wind' and communing with the trees? Anyway, it's not like ugly
forests are unique to here, is it?"
"Not everyone we know." John was still staring out at the
horizon peeking over the trees. "We have each other."
Aerin audibly groaned. "And my heart is singing, but I'd rather
like to fuck off back home now." He looked back at his grave "D'you
think I could just crawl back in there?"
"Okay, I'll admit, all of the headstones here being written in
Elvish was a slight giveaway."
"Wait, what?" Aerin impatiently walked over to the nearest row
of stones to inspect them. "They speak Elvish in the future?"
John looked confused. "I would have assumed so, yes. Shouldn't
they?"
"Some backwater towns and villages to the Wallside, yes, but
most of them just speak..." Aerin made hand gestures as if he
were trying to reel the word in with a rod. "...Normal."
"You mean Henry."
"What?"
"This language. Usually referred to as 'The Common Tongue' or,
indeed, 'Normal', but it was originally named 'Henry'. After its
originator: Henry English."
Aerin was quiet for a moment. "That's probably the most sensible
thing I've heard all day."
"You speak of the elves like you aren't one of them."
"Well, I'm not Dryadoran. I'm from Lautusshire, only been to
Dryadora once when I was little. Other than that, all I really
know of the place comes from a dying language I was forced to
learn for the privilege of reading mind-numbing Elvish poetry."
"Hm." John raised his eyebrows a little, intrigued by what Aerin
might teach him about the one kingdom he'd seemed to neglect in
his adventures across Wurld. "What's Elvish poetry about?"
"Mushrooms, generally. Big mushrooms, small mushrooms; lusty
long-legged mushrooms that slip into the tents of sleeping
travellers and abscond before dawn."
Boss made a mental note to himself. "Okay then, The Forest of
The Fungal Harlots: new holiday destination." He started to walk
down the graveyard's stone path, down the slight hill towards
the rusty iron gate.
Aerin followed. "Aren't you always on holiday?"
"I have a real job!"
"Where?"
"I'm self-employed!"
"What do you do at your real job?"
"...things!"
"What's your job title?"
John leaned confidently against the tall, wiry gate which had
rusted shut. "I...am a Freelance, Privately
Contracted...Investigative...Mercenarial...Action-Adventure
Solutions...Limited."
Boss turned around and kicked the unmoving gate off its ancient
hinges with a clattering death cry, and strode down the dirt
path that wound far into the murky forest. "Besides, what's your
job?"
"I'm a writer."
"What do you write?"
"Poems, short stories, autobiographical...things."
"Exactly."
"What do you mean 'exactly'? I'm writing a novel!"
"What's your novel about?"
"You!"
John gasped with delight. "Ooooh right! That's what you're for!"
Aerin sighed in between trying to avoid the large puddles on the
road. "It's a real job."
Boss stopped to look at something laying by the side of the
track. "Translator, get over here!"
Aerin gracelessly jumped over a puddle and walked over to the
curiosity. "What is it?"
"It's a sign in Elvish, can you read it?"
He kneeled down to inspect the faded inscription, carved into a
stone slab which had fallen over and was being slowly consumed
by moss. "Here deceitful the...here-" He turned to John. "I can
basically read it, but remember that my knowledge of this
language is 200 years out of date." He continued, "here lie the
graves of Elvin warriors who died...protecting their kingdom in
the War of The Dead? Against those unholy demons,
the...desecrating soldiers of the heathen nations? What!?"
Boss looked up, inspecting the horizon behind the trees as he
heard the wind picking up in the creaky branches. "Keep
reading."
"On the top of the hill, below the Bloodied Oak lie the graves
of the legendary heroes..." Aerin squinted his eyes, the
original text seemed to have been messily filled in and engraved
over "...Wüps and Soriboise."
At exactly the same time, both of them looked over at the graves
they had emerged out of. They were at the top of the hill, in
the shadow of an old oak tree. Boss took a few steps towards the
graveyard, out from beneath the crooked canopy of Spindletrees.
"Woops, and sorry boys..."
Aerin's heart sank in his chest. "Sorry for what?"
In the distance, the twisting branches began to rustle and
squeak, the rising wind became a screech of blasting air as the
thing came into view: the metal beast. Its thundering spinning
blades were deafening and it stared down at John and Aerin with
black glass eyes and a spotlight which blinded them to most of
its other features. "PUT YOUR HANDS UP AND STEP AWAY FROM THE
FUGITIVE. YOU HAVE FIVE SECONDS TO COMPLY OR WE WILL SHOOT."
shouted the creature. Aerin immediately raised his hands as John
instinctively felt around at his belt for his red scimitar, then
looked down to see that it wasn't there.
"I think it means you!" Aerin shouted over the beast's constant
roar.
"FIVE!"
"Why me?!"
"You're the most wanted man in Wurld!"
"That was two centuries ago! That doesn't make any..."
"FOUR!"
"...oh." Boss grinned and turned back towards the hovering
gunship. "Of course! Right, I'm going to run across the
graveyard to distract this shouty thing while you run-"
"THREE!"
"-down that dirt path and find civilisation. We'll meet up in a
day or-"
"TWO!"
"-and figure it out from there, okay?" He looked to his right to
face Aerin, then looked backwards to find that Aerin had been
sprinting down the dirt path for the past three seconds.
"ONE."
In the blink of an eye, Boss was in full sprint, bounding over
rows of gravestones which were blown apart by the stream of
white-hot bullets. Chunks of dirt were thrown into the air in a
trail that tore across the graveyard, to the old stone wall
which Boss somersaulted over with a smile on his face. The wind
was whistling in his ears, he was surrounded by nature, and a
giant flying death machine from the future was ripping through
the trees and trying to shoot him into pulp; John Boss was
having a nice day.
The forest had become too thick to sprint through, Boss was now
leaping over twisted roots and through gaps in the crowded
trees. The hail of bullets had stopped as the metal beast lost
sight of him. He crouched down low in some bushes behind a trunk
to catch his breath. The machine was quite a distance away. He
was slightly disappointed this chase would end with him simply
getting away; John Boss believed it wasn't a real chase unless
it climaxed in a thrilling fistfight. On the spire of a
cathedral. With a four-armed demon. Who'd just lost at Bingo.
His reminiscing was interrupted by the overlapping shadows of
trees growing darker and longer from behind him. He peeked out
from behind the foliage to see the bright light staring down at
him. The tree was shot to bits, the chase continued. The thick
forest meant he could avoid the wild stream of bullets with
relative ease, but John realised he was being guided as the
trees opened up onto a wide open clearing. It was too late to
turn back into the cover of the woods, he had no choice but to
push on through. To hope that he could run faster than bullets.
As soon as John was out in the open, the firing stopped. He
tried to run even faster, to try and get to the other side of
the field as he heard the machine's spinning blades get louder
and whip the wind across the back of his neck. All this came to
a sudden stop as he felt a sharp pain in his back. His legs
began to feel physically heavier. He reached around and tore the
thing out of his back: a long, thin dart whose clear casing
showed the half-empty vial of green liquid inside the metal
shell. His vision started to blur, Boss turned around to see the
vague mass of gray had landed on the field and opened up at the
side. Five faceless shadows were marching towards him through
the long grass. John's head hit the ground with a dull thud, and
the world tumbled into darkness.