Horror High 2 by Paul Stafford Read Free Book Online

captain noticed the headless vampire through the darkness, slumped beside the pitch.
    No ball?
    No head!

Jason-Jock smacked the next ball through the slips for a crafty single, and finally Fleabag was facing his first ball.
    Fleabag was always scared to some fair degree but now he was peaking out. The whole team’s future rested on his hairy head, and between the captain and himself they had to get another fifteen runs. He wasn’t sure he could do it.
    Fleabag had been scared stiff of the cricket ball until WG Grace came along. He and WG had practised heaps with a soft red Nerf ball, and soon Fleabag overcame his fear – of Nerf balls.
    And that Nerf ball had been bowled by Fleabag’s everlovin’ coach, an elderly gent with a funny, flappy beard, and both gent and beard had been dead nearly 100 years.
    Now Fleabag had to face a killer pace attack with a real, rock-hard ball, launched by an angry, beardless vampire who was his sworn enemy and a paid-up member of the Werewolf Wasters. Fleabag whimpered and his face crinkled up like an overstuffed taco.
    He was about to cry.
    Jason-Jock met Fleabag halfway up the pitch and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t panic, Fleabag. What’s the worst that can happen?’
    â€˜I could be killed!’ wailed Fleabag.
    â€˜You’re a werewolf! You can only be killed by a silver bullet – not a red ball.’
    â€˜I could be severely maimed,’ Fleabag countered.
    â€˜Well,’ replied Jason-Jock, ‘I’ll take my chances with that. You’ll be alright. Just try to block the ball and give me the strike. Just don’t get out. I’ll do the rest.’
    â€˜Easier said than done,’ replied Fleabag, gritting his teeth and facing up to the bowler.
    First ball he faced was an evil in-swinger that literally shaved the bails and left them rocking in the dark. Had the slightest breeze blown, the whole show would’ve been all over Red Rover, call your aunt who lives in Dover.
    Second ball was a yorker that luckily wasn’t on stump, or it would’ve spelt death, D.E.T.H.
    Third ball Fleabag played a blocking shot. It worked. Cripes, he thought – I’m not that bad. Which was a lie, but we’ll let it go. Everybody needs a dream, even werewolves.
    Considering what a monumental wuss he was, Fleabag did really well. Admittedlyhe was very lucky, closing his eyes and poking his bat out mostly, but he didn’t get out.
    If there hadn’t been so much at stake, Jason-Jock would’ve been enjoying himself. He cracked the ball to the boundary a couple of times and nearly hit another six, causing the vampire cheer squad to hiss and fizz with savage rage and exhibit symptoms of a broad spectrum of anger management issues.
    JJ slipped as he played a cut shot and ran a snappy single, nearly getting himself run out, but finally they were level score with the vampires, and one run away from victory.
    Trouble was, Fleabag was the batsman on strike. Could he hold out for one more run? Could he save the day, salvage their chances, rekindle their lives?
    Oh, the tension. Oh, the humanity. Oh, my haemorrhoids.
    Â 
    The vampires sent their nastiest bowler in, desperate to uproot Fleabag. The vampire’sspeciality bowl was dead-bodyline, and his even specialer specialty was slinging deliveries straight into the batsman’s head. Now he slowly paced out his run-up, a full 200 metres, 200 steps, so far back he was starting from the ladies’ queues at the members’ toilets, in a neighbouring stadium.
    Fleabag, meantime, was laying down skidmarks in his cricket whites that not even a full bore exorcism would ever remove.
    The run-up began, slowly, gathering pace. Flecks of blood sprayed from the bowler’s murderous fangs, jolting in time with the pistons that were his legs. Closer, closer, closer, the dark gleaming eyes, the fangs, the inevitability of Fleabag’s horrible death.
    Fleabag