No Plan B!

As the fearful five skidded out onto the High Street a cloud of paragliders rose above Mam Tor and swept towards the fleeing heroes.  

“It is Le Régiment Étranger de Chats Parachutists, known colloquially as The Flying Eyebrows; a nick-name deriving from the appearance of the curved, hollow fabric wing of each chute above the eye-like dot of le chat de combat,” explained Boz, hurriedly.   “They side with the Dark Forces, so we might have a bit of a problem.”

The paras swooped down onto the town, landing on their feet running, jettisoning their parachutes and firing their PPSh-41s from the hip.   The carnival crowd scattered with a depressed mumble, a few shrieks or screams, the odd groan and thud, to take shelter, for the most part, in the cellars of local hostelries.   The crunch of the shock troops’ hobnail boots, rattle of their blazing submachine guns and zip zipping of randomly scattering 7.62mm Tokarev rounds terrified our heroes.

“Don’t let me die dressed like this!” cried Slasher, momentarily shedding his customary cool.

“Amen to that.” sympathised Ferdinand.

With lead and splinters ricocheting all around them the fleeing gang dove into the Rose Cottage Tea Rooms.

 “I hear they do an excellent lemon meringue pie,” cried Phoebles excitedly.

They were just putting in an order with a nippy waitress in very short black dress, black stockings, lacy white apron and starched doily perched and pinned to the top of her head when the teashop windows were stove-in by a thunderous barrage of sound.   An intense pressure wave was shattering plate glass along the length of Cross Street.   Outside, the massed Dark Agents of the Merovingian Lizard Kings stopped their advance, clutching at their ears, then fell back and soon were in full retreat.

Down the road from the neighbouring village of Hope, at full throttle, hurtled the legendary Vicecream van, black and menacing.   Its jingle system had been upgraded and a bank of Marshall 350-watt vacuum tube amplifiers was feeding The Kittens of Chaos Mariachi Band’s insanely abandoned live rendition of La Cucaracha into an array of horn woofers and tweeters flanked by twin Megadeath Bass Boomer Geo-Frackers.   Consuella was riding the roof, unplugged on tambourine, and Dark Flo squatted behind the driver, wringing every last decibel out of the sound desk.   The vehicle squealed to a halt half way down the shop lined, devastated high street and the Snake Pass Zapatistas charged past, guiding their mounts with their knees, firing off bursts of 7.62 from their AK47s or accompanying the Kittens of Chaos’ in La Cucaracha on their guitars and singing till their lungs ached.   Riders and chargers alike had their ears plugged with cotton wool, twists of Bronco toilet paper, or solidified and manipulated dairy products.

Snowdrop’s Techanka drew up alongside Phoebles.

“Jump up!” she signed, over the earth-pounding music.   And he swung aboard to man the Maschinengewehr 08, heavy machine gun, its 250-round fabric belt of 7.9mm ammunition snaking wildly.   He, in turn, collared a passing teddy, yanked him into the landau and yelled, “Feed me, Ginsberbear!”

Tac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac-atac!

Throwing the van door open, Dark Flo sprang onto the street, dressed in full oyster-grey Ninja kit and armed with an 18inch feather duster crowned with pheasant plumage.   She took off after a small cluster of Les Chats Souterrains that looked as if it might rally.

“And what exactly does she intend to do with that?” queried Slasher McGoogs.

“Don’t ask.   The last man to face the feather duster of Dark Flo spent the next eight weeks in a full body cast and still has to suck his sustenance through a straw,” muttered Boz.

Above the retreating Chats the sky-blue and dusty pink, angular dazzle camouflaged, Merovingian Flying Frisbee had doubled back and was moving slowly and systematically towards the partisans, waiting for them to come within range of its death-ray, when it met the full, reverberating force of the 'Wall of Din'©.   It tottered, dropped suddenly, partially recovered in time to avoid hitting the ground and withdrew, spinning erratically.   It also started to glow - an unhealthy, bilious glow - as its magneto-shield overheated and the stricken craft wobbled away towards Winnat’s Pass.   A writhing bundle of Kittens of Chaos fell out of the Vicecream van, the trumpeters and a lone soprano saxophonist now playing an unbridled Marseillaise whilst the remainder threw their sombreros into the air, jeering, mooning and making rude paw gestures after the retreating UFO.

As Cross Street began to calm, and the action moved into the distance, Snowdrop returned; the horses were lathered up and panting, the machine gun overheated and out of ammunition, Ginsbergbear and Phoebles babbling in adrenaline fuelled over excitement.   Aunty Stella, in matching honey-beige pith helmet, snake boots and safari suit, climbed down from the cab of the Vicecream van.   She pushed her Halcyon Mk49 goggles up above the rim of her hat and met the charging rush of squealing cats and dodo.   There were relieved hugs and enthusiastic welcomes all round, then she explained to the group that Googleberry had gone missing again.   Before she had become really worried however she had received a text message from him saying that he was visiting relatives at Chatsworth Hall and to come up, urgently, with the Vicecream van, the Kittens, Consuella and Dark Flo, all would be required and much would be revealed.

“Who’s running the shop?” enquired a fiscally worried Boz.

“Doo not deesturb yoorselv Meester Bozzz,” chipped in Consuella Starcluster, “Sam assurrres us hee ees ayble to hold thee forrrt forrr ay day orrr two.”

“…We were met, en route, by the Zapatistas,” continued Aunty Stella, “and so here we all are.”

“That’ll be ginger beer and lemon meringue all round then.   Job well done,” exclaimed Phoebles, fresh from the fray.   “Is there a litter tray out the back?   I may have got a bit over excited.”

Cave Dale

Next morning the company awoke to the smells of yet more cooking.   Gallons of kedgeree, mountains of snorkers and fresh baked bread attracted small, eager faced children, fed-up with gluten-free muesli, who were beginning to gather hopefully around the field-ovens.   As the aroma of toasting crumpets spread round the camp troopers began to emerge.   Boz an Co. had been cosy in their allotted yurt with its central, pot-bellied stove, but the shrieking of owls, barking of foxes and coughing of feral mountain sheep had intermittently disturbed their slumber.   They rose to be greeted by an infuriatingly boisterous Slasher.

“Are we all fired up for the mission?” he asked, to be answered with general mumblings, scratchings and yawnings.   Ginsbergbear was grabbing a quick fix of catnip shag as Phoebles emerged, wide eyed, from behind the latrine screens.

“It’s disgustingly primitive in there.”

However a good breakfast soon saw the heroes raring to go.

In preparation for their foray into Castleton our quintet disguised themselves as ramblers in heavily dubbined hiking boots, red socks, knee-length corduroy shorts, anoraks and bobble hats. To his outfit Slasher McGoogs had added Groucho Marx specs complete with moustache, eyebrows and nose.   They carried Leki Treckies and Bergen rucksacks packed with Kendal Mintcake, Ginger Beer, a Saturator AK-47 water pistol each and several fully loaded magazines.

“I have put fresh batteries in all the assault rifles.”   Boz took out his one-inch OS map - somewhat out of date, but true enough; the natives of the Dales only reluctantly embrace change - folded it neatly to expose the section covering Edale and the Hope Valley, and slid it into his map-case.   He consulted his trusty Dan Dare Space Cadet compass and waving the others to follow set off on foot over Hollins Cross into Castleton.   It was a tough climb along the winding path taken in older times by the deceased of Edale to the cemetery in Castleton.   But the view from the ridge was spectacular.   The descent was paved for much of the way and easier, though precipitous.

Once they reached the outskirts of Castleton the gang could see that the Goth Festival was still in full swing.   In the centre of town they squeezed their way between blue haired, dark eyed maidens in black lace; shock haired, pale faced youths in black frock coats and dead man toppers; tall vampires with even whiter skin, redder lips and yellow fangs.   They pushed betwixt cyberpunks and diesel punks; noted pale cats with brass goggles, dark glazed in ruby or purple, swathed in white leather great coats, mingling conspicuously with the glum revellers; and veered away from zombies that jerkily lurched in festering groups from one pub to the next.   Once they were over Cross Street, Castleton’s Main Drag, and out of the crowds the ramblers ducked up Castle Street where Phoebles managed to trip over the slumped and sobbing form of a diminutive EMO.   As they lay in a heap together, and she rubbed a nasty bruise that was developing on her ankle, she observed Phoebles through her tears, “You can’t win you know.   We are all flushing headlong down the toilet-pan of existential ennui towards the cesspit of despair.   Our fate is inevitable.   Turn back!   …Oh, and avoid the zombies.”

The gang were disappearing up the road apparently unaware of Phoebles’ absence and the wan and excessively body-pierced creature was inconsolable.

“I’m really sorry.   Wish I could cheer you up.   Try not to fret.   We’re going to do our best.   Got to go now.

“Er… Guys!” Phoebles cried as he rushed to catch up, “There’s a sad heap down here might have something important to tell us.”

By the time Phoebles had caught up with his companions the zebra haired harbinger of doom was out of sight and all but out of mind.   He was gasping for breath but managed to recount a redacted version of her warning.   Boz was the first to reply.

“Don’t worry about the zombies.   The Chats Souterrains should prove more than enough to contend with.   Impending doom is undermining people’s confidence.   Action – that’s what’s required.   Let’s crack on.”

The little group made for Bargate and soon found the claustrophobic canyon entrance to the jagged gash of Cave Dale which, carved by melt water at the end of a long past ice age, climbs south from the town to the moorland above.   The narrow gateway, hemmed in by limestone cliffs had boasted a natural arch well into the age of industry, though it was now but a memory.   The lower reaches of the dale are overseen by the glowering Norman cliff-top castle and Ferdy could make out white-furred and darkly begoggled faces under pickelhaubes and sallets peering down from the crenulated battlements at the jolly hikers so very far below.

Ginsbergbear broke into ‘I Love to Go A Wandering’ in a growly basso profundo.

“Try to look happy.” Wheezed Boz; for theirs was a relentless, up-hill slog.   The party hunched their shoulders, stomped down with their Leki poles and whistled along with the bear.

As they climbed, the dale widened.   Where the steep rocky sides met the grassy bottom tubby, brown birds chattered, fed and fluttered.   Gnarled and stunted trees clung to damp crevices in the moss-cloaked rock.   Meadow flowers buzzed with pollinating bees.   Soon the hiking party had rounded a bare pinnacle and were out of sight of the watchers on the keep.   Pausing to peruse his map and check his compass Boz veered off along an indistinct track and with the gang following as quickly as they could, discovered a low orifice at the base of the cliff.   On reaching the small cave mouth they found the apparently deep but restricted vent was secured by an iron gate which bore a yellow sign inscribed:

Danger of death!

A low frequency hum welled up towards the intrepid group from the depths of the dank cavern.

Ferdy produced his Victorinox Spymaster Multi-tool Swiss Army Ensemble and, utilising the magnifying glass attachment, examined the lock.   He considered for a moment and then folding out two long thin lock-picking tools began to fiddle.   After a fruitless few minutes he re-examined the lock under the magnifying glass, flicked out two more attachments with twiddly bits on the ends and began again.   Several tense minutes of deft manipulation later there was a click, the gate swung back in well-greased silence and they had gained access to a steep ventilation shaft.

 Pausing only to take out their Petzl Pathfinder 21 head torches and fix them firmly over their bobble hats they warily began their penetration of the realm of Les Chats Souterrains.