Last Stand of Dead Men

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f its estimations were correct – and of course they were correct, they were never wrong – then the Engineer was going to make it. From the instant that warning ping had sounded in its head, it had had exactly four weeks to implement the shutdown procedure before catastrophe became somewhat inevitable. It used the caveat ‘somewhat’ because of course nothing was inevitable, not really. There were always hidden clauses to every eventuality. This the Engineer had learned in its travels, in what it called ‘life experience’. That the Engineer was not, technically, alive, mattered not. It existed, and it had sentience, and as such it had life experience. Moving on …

If it had been where it was supposed to be when the ping had sounded, the four-week countdown would have mattered not one jot. Unfortunately, the Engineer was not where it was supposed to be. A regrettable unfolding of events, to be sure. The Engineer felt most bad about that. Not that it was the Engineer’s fault. No one could possibly lay the blame at the Engineer’s mechanical feet. Had it not stood guard for almost three decades? Had it not fulfilled its duty for the most part? Was it really the fault of the Engineer that its advanced programming, a wonderful mixture of technology and magic, enabled it to experience the human phenomenon of ‘boredom’? Was it really the fault of the Engineer that it had decided to go for a walk, or that when the ping sounded, when the Engineer was finally needed to leap into action, instead of being right there, ready to help, it was on a beach in Italy looking for unusual shells?

No, the Engineer thought not.

It was making good time now, though. The magical symbols carved into its metal body erased it from the memories of mortals the instant they saw it, allowing the Engineer to travel in broad daylight, through busy city streets. The Engineer smiled (internally, for of course it had no mouth). It was feeling good. It was feeling optimistic. Moving at its current speed, it would arrive back in Ireland in plenty of time to shut everything down before a series of overloads and power loops inevitably led to a sequence of events which would, in turn, eventually lead to the probable destruction of the world. The Engineer wasn’t worried.

And then the truck hit it.

War is the business of barbarians.

—Napoleon Bonaparte

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he sky was clear and the stars were bright and Gracious had fallen asleep on the grass. Donegan nudged him and he murmured and came round.

“You were supposed to be keeping an eye on the place,” Donegan said.

“I was,” Gracious yawned.

“You were asleep.”

“I was resting my eyes.”

“You were snoring.”

“I was exercising my lungs.”

“Get up.”

Grumbling, he got to his feet and stretched. He didn’t have to stretch very far. He wasn’t that tall. Still, what Gracious O’Callahan lacked in height he made up for in muscle and cool hair. “Hi, Valkyrie,” he said.

“Hi, Gracious.”

“So is this your first time meeting a witch?”

She nodded.

“You’ll do fine, don’t worry. Witches are more afraid of you than you are of them.”

“I thought that was bees.”

He blinked. “You might be right. Yes, you are right. Bees are fine, witches are horrible. Always get those two mixed up.” He was wearing baggy jeans and a faded Star Wars T-shirt. Valkyrie imagined that he had a special nerd room at home where he kept all of his weird clothes that referenced old movies, and she imagined him standing in the middle of that room for hours, slowly rotating on the spot, an unsettling smile on his face. By contrast, Donegan Bane, a tall and slender Englishman, favoured sports coats and narrow ties with his skinny jeans.

He glared at Gracious. “I can’t believe you fell asleep.”

“I didn’t fall asleep.”

“Then do you know if she’s home or not?”

“I haven’t a clue,” Gracious admitted. “I fell asleep.”

Valkyrie had first met them only a few months earlier, but she felt she knew them well enough by now to know that, if given the opportunity, they would stand on this hill and bicker for hours. So she turned and walked down to the cottage, and after a moment they followed her.

They arrived at the door and Donegan knocked three times. They waited and the door was opened by a frowning girl.

“Hello,” Donegan said with a smile she didn’t return.

“Do you know what time it is?” the girl asked. Valkyrie judged her to be around her age, maybe seventeen or eighteen. She had pale skin and full lips and luxuriant red hair that framed her face.

“Why no,” Donegan replied as if it were a game. “What time is it?”

She scowled. “What do you want?”

“My name is Donegan Bane and this is my colleague Gracious O’Callahan – we’re Monster Hunters. We’re here with our associate Valkyrie Cain, and we were wondering if your grandmother was home.”

“You’re Monster Hunters?”

“Indeed we are. You’ve probably heard of us. Writers of Monster Hunting for Beginners,The Definitive Study of Were-Creatures, and The Passions of Greta Grey, our first work of romantic fiction.”

“And you want my grandmother?”

“If your grandmother is Dubhóg Ni Broin, yes.”

“Are you going to kill her?”

“I’m sorry? Oh, no! No, nothing like that. We just want to talk to her.”

“So you’re not going to kill her?”

“No,” Donegan said with a laugh. “I assure you, she’s quite safe.”

The girl’s eyes narrowed. “How do I know I can trust you?”

“We came here unarmed,” Donegan said cheerfully, and Gracious looked at him.

“You’re unarmed?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes,” Donegan said. “Aren’t you?”

“Well, I suppose so. Apart from my gun.”

Donegan glared at him. “What? Why did you bring a gun? I told you to come unarmed.”

“I thought you were joking.”