Mr. Mayer lay down his tong sword and dustbin lid shield and patted its bare branches fondly.

“It’s all right, little one,” he said. “We’ll start again come spring…”

THE VICAR AND VERGER were preparing the Church of St.Timidus for the following day’s early morning service when they heard what sounded like a brick dislodging from the stonework high above their heads and falling to the ground outside. Both men looked a little concerned, as well they might. The church was very old, and in a poor state of repair. Reverend Ussher was always worried about the roof falling in, or the brickwork collapsing. Now it seemed that his worst fears were coming true.

“What was that?” he asked the verger. “A slate falling?”

“It sounded a bit heavier than a slate,” said Mr. Berkeley, who was a fat little man. Both the vicar and the verger were fat little men. They had played Tweedledum and Tweedledee in the local drama society’s version of Alice in Wonderland earlier that year, and very good they were too.

The two men went to the front door of the church and unlocked it. They were about to step outside when a small, stunned stone gargoyle staggered from a nearby holly bush, its heavy wings beating slowly. It was a most ugly creature, more so even than the average gargoyle. Bishop Bernard the Bad had supervised its creation, just as he had every other detail of the church’s construction. This explained why it was a dark, gloomy building, and why all of the faces and creatures carved on its stonework were hideous and scary.

The vicar and verger watched, openmouthed, as the gargoyle rubbed its head. Small streaks of blue lightning flashed across its body. It coughed once, and spat out what looked like old pigeon feathers.

The gargoyle was very confused. It had wings, but it didn’t seem able to fly. When it had come to life, the first thing it had done was attempt to soar elegantly into the air. Unfortunately, things made out of stone don’t tend to soar terribly well, so the gargoyle had simply dropped off its perch. Even though it wasn’t very intelligent, it knew the difference between flying and falling. It now also knew the difference between landing and just hitting the ground very hard.

More gargoyles, each one uglier than the last, began to descend upon the church lawn. One of them struck a tree and broke on impact, but most seemed to survive the drop more or less intact. Once they had recovered from their shock, they began to converge on the main door of the church where Reverend Ussher and Mr. Berkeley were standing, rooted to the spot in amazement. They might have remained that way too, had the verger not been hit on the side of the head with a sharp piece of masonry.

“Oh, you’re in trouble now,” said a voice. Mr. Berkeley looked to his left and saw that the faces carved into the stonework of the church had also come to life, and the head of a monk, with a pair of hands supporting his chin, was talking to him. At least the hands should have been supporting his chin, but one of them had clearly just thrown a piece of brickwork at the verger’s head.

The verger tapped the vicar’s shoulder.

“The monk on the wall is talking to us,” he said.

“Oh,” said the vicar. He tried to sound surprised, but couldn’t quite manage it.

“Oi!” said the stone monk. “Fatties! I said, You’re in trouble now.’”

“Why would that be?” asked the vicar, tearing his eyes from the approaching gargoyles.

“End of the world,” said the stone monk. “Hell is opening up. The Big Bad is coming. The Great Malevolence. Wouldn’t want to be in your shoes. He doesn’t like humans.”

The stone monk seemed to consider something for a moment.

“Actually he doesn’t like anyone, but especially not humans.”

“I say,” said the vicar, “you’re part of the church’s stonework. Aren’t you supposed to be on our side?”

“Nah,” said the stone monk. “Infused with the bishop’s evil, we are. Couldn’t be nice if we tried.”

“The bishop’s evil?” said Reverend Ussher. He thought about that for a moment, until another piece of masonry was picked from the church and thrown hard at the verger, who did a little skip in order to avoid it.

“Oooh,” said the monk. “Tubby’s a dancer.”

“You’re a nasty piece of stonework!” said the verger.

The monk stuck its fingers in its ears and blew a raspberry at him.

“Sticks and stones, Tubby,” it said. “Sticks and stones…”

One of the gargoyles reached the vicar’s foot, opened its mouth, and bit down hard. Fortunately, the vicar had been working in his garden that afternoon, and was still wearing his favorite steel-toed work boots. The gargoyle lost its fangs and immediately looked a bit sorry for itself.

“Inside,” said Reverend Ussher. “Quickly!”

He and the verger retreated into the church and locked the door. Outside, they could hear gargoyles beating against the wood and scratching at the lock, but the door was very old and very thick, and it would take more than a bunch of foot-high stone monsters to break it down.

“What do we do now?” asked the verger.

“We’ll call the police,” said the vicar.

“And what’ll we tell them?”

“That the church is under siege from gargoyles,” said the vicar, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Right,” said the verger. “That’ll work.”

But before he could say anything else he was distracted by another sound, as of one stone rubbing against another, coming from the little room, to the right of the main altar, used mainly to store old candlesticks, spare chairs, and the verger’s broken bicycle. The room was kept unlocked, since there was little in it that anyone would be bothered to steal. The floor was made entirely of stone, but one of the slabs had a name on it, and it was this slab that was now moving up and down, as though something was pushing at it from beneath.

After almost seven hundred years, Bishop Bernard the Bad had woken up.

NURD WAS ALTERNATING BETWEEN jubilation and absolute terror. He had discovered a crucial detail about fast cars: they can go fast. When he touched a foot to the accelerator the Porsche shot off like a speeding bullet, and Nurd’s braking technique, like his driving, left a lot to be desired. The first time Nurd hit the brake, he bashed his face against the windshield since he had neglected to fasten his seat belt. Now his already injured nose had swollen painfully, and there was blood on his hands where he had tried to wipe it. He had thus confirmed an interesting, if alarming, fact about this world: while he was an immortal being, theoretically incapable of being killed, he could experience pain here. Pain and, if he wasn’t careful, something a bit like death, except without the nice long rest afterward. Still, he was having the time of his very long life, and the Wasteland and Wormwood seemed to belong to another, far-off era.

Not for the first time, a pair of red lights whizzed by on either side of the road. Sometimes, those lights were green, or even amber, but Nurd liked the red ones best. They reminded him of the fires of Hell, fires that he might never have to see again if he could terrify this world, or even a little part of it, into submission. But before that there was more driving to be done.

A pair of flashing blue lights appeared in Nurd’s rearview mirror, accompanied by a howling noise. Despite his speed, they appeared to be drawing closer and closer. Hmmm, thought Nurd, I wonder what they are. Then the blue lights came near enough for him to see that they were stuck on the top of another car. Nurd wondered if the lights came in red. If they did, he might try to find some and stick them on the top of his car as well. They would look splendid.