Think of something then, I’m losing my breath. My legs are going all shaky. I don’t think I can run much further.
‘Oh, that’s right, leave the thinking up to me.’
You’re a passenger. That’s what you do.
‘I suppose.’
Over the boxes and old furniture to the rear of them the voodoo dolls come scuttling like crabs over seashore rocks. The needles in their small hands flash ominously as they cross areas of sharp light. The expressions on their tiny faces are intent. They were made purely to carry pain and pass it to another. Their hatred for humans surpasses even that of the mannequins.
‘They’re gaining on us.’
You’re supposed to be thinking of something – I’ll keep tabs on where they are.
‘No need to get upset.’
Yes, yes, there is a need. A great need.
‘There, up ahead! Low rafters.’
Indeed, there is a canopy of low rafters ahead, one of those areas where the roof needs extra support and the timbers criss-cross in a network of beams. The board-comber runs for this area, his oversized boots slopping on its feet, his Venetian carnival mask bouncing up and down on his face. He leaps upwards, a supreme effort fuelled by terror, and grasps the lowest rafter. His broad-brimmed floppy hat is askew and his musty old clothes hang from his body like curtains from a rail. Splinters in his fingers are the least of his worries. He hauls itself up and climbs. One boot falls, dropping to the ground like a bomb from an aeroplane, to bounce on the boards below. However, his precious bag of Inuit carvings is safely strapped to his back. Nothing must happen to that or the board-comber would have no reason to save himself. The bat dangles outwards, his sensors tuned to the oncoming hordes. He is aware of hundreds of voodoo effigies swarming over the boards, looking up at the figure of the board-comber as he lodges himself in the sharp-angled crook of two rafters.
‘They’re trying to think of a way of getting up to us.’
I can see that. No step-ladders around, are there? I hope not. I wish I had fire. I’d melt them voodoos to a puddle of wax.
‘Well, you haven’t and a good job too. You’d burn the place down, you would. Uh-oh, they’re going to make a totem pole – they’re standing on each other’s shoulders.’
After looking about for something to use as a ladder and finding nothing, the voodoo dolls are indeed hopping on each other’s shoulders. Poles of dolls begin forming and growing upwards. The voodoo dolls do not have enough knowledge of shapes to know to form a pyramid or some other more stable figure. They simply go one on top of the other until they are several figures high, swaying precariously, some of the towers falling and sending the voodoo dolls shooting across the boards.
Serve you right, says the board-comber. Hope you break your nasty little backs.
One or two of the fallers lie stuck to the floor by their own needles and thrash furiously until they release themselves. Once back on their feet they gather themselves and try again. Those towers which have not fallen come within range of the board-comber’s boot. He kicks out, toppling them, sending them flying. The towers hit the floor and explode into their separate parts, the voodoo dolls scattering everywhere. One or two dolls jump for the rafter, scramble up and manage to keep their footing. The board-comber kicks out at these, catches one and sends it hurtling downwards. The second doll stabs him viciously several times in the foot with no boot on it.
Ow! Ow! Ow!
‘I’ll get him.’
The bat flies into the face of the voodoo effigy, unbalancing it. The doll drops backwards off the rafter. Its snarling face is visible all the way down. It hits the boards and breaks into several bits, an arm going one way, its head going another, a foot flying into the face of a fellow doll. The other dolls kick the bits away into a dark area. The victim was only a warrior: no one of any importance. They now stand at the bottom staring up. Their faces are twisted in fury but they do not seem to be able to reason how to get up there. One or two of them try to launch their needles like spears, but the needles fall short and drop down among them again.
That hurts.
The board-comber pulls two needles out of its foot, left there