by Gareth Clegg
He knelt behind the cover of a rotting elm and unslung his rifle. The Holland snuggled into his shoulder, comfortable like a well-worn pair of boots. His eyes roamed the front of the building, skipping between the leaded windows for any signs of movement.
Satisfied the place looked empty, Simmons marched through the passage and emerged into a large rear courtyard with archways lining the far wall. Through the central arch, steps climbed towards a thicket of trees that edged the cemetery.
Peeling paint and discoloured frames spoke of rot and decay in the windows and doors at the rear of the structure.
He crossed to the nearest door. It was locked but gave a little as he pushed. He stepped back, then thrust his shoulder into it. With a protest of straining timber and tortured metal, it snapped open, striking the inner wall with a crack. He dropped to one knee, rifle aimed into the dark interior.
Other than a few strips of rotted wood that fell from the door casing and the slow whisper of water dripping from his drenched clothes, the place was silent. He waited a full minute, counting slowly to himself, but nobody came to investigate his incursion.
He wound between dusty shafts of grey light from the broken windows, careful not to disturb the rotting furniture scattered inside. Taking his time, he made slow, methodical progress through the building, but found nothing to show recent activity.
The room over the tunnel must have been breathtaking once with its glorious view through the double-height bay window. Now, water poured through a gaping hole in the roof, bouncing off the shattered slates littering the floor. Sodden debris and rotten beams lay collapsed among the stinking remains of carpet and curtains, all infused with slimy grey mould.
Simmons returned to the room above the door he’d forced. All the windows remained glazed and intact. Yes, there were cracks, but it was dry.
It took a few minutes to find a solid chair which he placed by a table with a clear view of the rear courtyard. Next, he unbuckled a leather satchel and retrieved his prize possession, a Soyer’s Magic Stove. Now, this little beauty had been a saviour during several campaigns around the globe, a marvel of brass and copper, worth its weight in gold.
He set the stove on the table and primed it with a small piston. A quick twist of a valve rewarded him with a low hiss of pressurised gas. With a flick of his ArcLighter, a purple flame erupted with a pop and soon faded to a pale blue as the gas settled. Simmons smiled and rubbed his hands together, already basking in the heat radiating from the miraculous little device. It wasn’t called Magic for nothing.
The rain stopped soon after midday. Simmons sat holding his metal mug between both hands, savouring the warmth as much as the Darjeeling it contained. His coat was almost dry after his last outing an hour earlier.
He’d scouted the cemetery, learning his way around. The place held a tranquillity and natural beauty even among the trees and bushes peppered with the red weed. A series of beautiful marble statues lined the overgrown walkways silent in their eternal vigil. Their faces watched over the final resting places of beloved individuals and families. Some had names with new chisel marks, others weathered and faded by time.
Winged angels rubbed shoulders with all manners of ornate carvings, crosses of various size and style, eagles and even Egyptian needles thrusting into the overcast sky.
A sharp crack sounded outside. Simmons crossed to the nearest window, rifle in hand. It was nearing three o’clock, and a bedraggled group approached pushing the rear of the cart which had lurched sideways, one of its wheels stuck in a deep hole.
The driver jumped down to assess the problem, while another man, slighter in build, took the single black horse’s bridle. Pinkett the elder, he surmised from the man’s stature, though it was difficult to tell in the long coat and top hat he wore.
A few minutes of heaving and shoving ended with the wheel emerging from the ground, resulting in a small cheer from the group. It cut off after a moment as they realised why they were here on this awful day.
They continued their slow procession through the gatehouse entrance. The cart stopped at the far side of the rear courtyard, beside the steps up to the hill. The group, organised by Pinkett, lifted a shiny black coffin from the cart and hoisted it onto the shoulders of four of the mourners. They moved with an efficiency that spoke of practice, and Pinkett led them up into the tree line and out of sight.
Years of training and experience fell into place as Simmons grabbed his gear, pulled on his coat and hat, and was heading downstairs within the minute. He waited at the door for a few seconds, surveying the courtyard, before making his way to the tunnel that split the gatehouse. The front of the building was clear and, once satisfied there were no stragglers, he crossed the rear yard towards the stairs.
The group wasn’t hard to follow. They moved at the slow, respectful pace expected of pall-bearers, and Simmons took his time, leaving plenty of space between them and himself. He’d already scouted this part of the cemetery and knew there was a fork in the path ahead. He didn’t even need to keep within sight of them. With the mud, it would be obvious which route they chose.
He stood there, concealed behind a tall angelic statue, and mused. It might have been more prudent to press Pinkett for the precise location of the burial. Well, best-laid plans and all that.
Simmons allowed plenty of time for the slow procession to draw ahead, then continued up to where the path split. Churned mud showed they had taken the left fork which led towards a massive wall with a gated tunnel at its centre. The ground rose at both sides, forming a hill twenty feet high, topped with thick bushes and trees.
The large double gate lay open, and the cortege was approaching the end of the passage beyond. He took a position to the left and heard the rasping of chains pulled across metal. A clang and slither as they dropped onto the stone, then the sound of slow footsteps resumed.
The columns had plenty of handholds, and he realised he could climb to the hill while keeping out of sight. With a few well-placed footholds and the help of a dangling branch, he was soon pulling himself into the dense foliage and underbrush atop the hillside.
He picked his way forward, avoiding the thickest tangles until he could see open ground. The tunnel exit led into a circular walkway below. Ahead of him was a gap of ten feet and then a massive plateau of overgrown grass and, in the centre of that, an enormous cedar tree. A double trunk rose skyward to a thick thatch of spiky green foliage.
He took cover behind a sarcophagus and peered past to where the funeral party came to a halt. They stood outside a white stone cube of a mausoleum. Carved arches and intricate latticework made up the walls of the structure. A tall obelisk thrust from the roof pointing up to the heavens. If this was a family tomb, it was far more ornate than anyone would have expected for the working-class man that Cooper seemed to have been.
As the group waited outside the elegant resting place, Simmons noticed movement from the northern edge of the cemetery beyond the Cypress circle. Rows of tombs lined the area, and from the side of one of these large grey buildings appeared three figures. Two burly looking chaps in ill-fitting dark suits, and a few steps behind them, a young lady in formal mourning attire, complete with a veil and a black umbrella. Though it looked the part, the dress she wore was short and without a trail. It exposed boots that rose above the dresses hem halfway towards her knees. How shocking, but I suppose this is the verge of the twentieth century. Since the invasion, fashion had veered from the sublime to the downright scandalous, in his eyes anyway.
As they reached the mourners, the two burly gentlemen stood to one side, allowing the woman through to speak with Pinkett. She raised her veil, revealing the face and bright shock of red hair he recognised as Annabelle Pemberton.
A few words exchanged, and she passed Pinkett an object. She stepped back towards her chaperones, who took up positions flanking her. She seemed a tiny figure between the two brutes, just reaching their shoulders in height.
Pinkett moved to the mausoleum entr
ance and unlocked it. The door swung open into the tomb, displaying a marvel of vibrant red and blue frescos amidst ornate carving of angels lining the walls. The flooring was a black and white checkerboard of marble. It was a stunning piece of architecture reserved for those no longer of this world.
They bore the casket into the house of black and white and out of sight. The pall-bearers returned and resumed their position with the mourners. Pinkett stood before the two assembled groups and spoke sage and solemn words about the departed. No doubt anecdotes of how, though he hadn’t known the deceased, he had been a man of high moral fibre, and too early to depart this mortal coil. All the usual nonsense spoken of the dead regardless of their actual failings and depravities in life.
Quiet but steady footfalls echoed from the tunnel below and broke Simmons from his thoughts. The cortege was too distant to hear their stealthy approach, and Simmons winced as the unmistakable dark uniforms of the Black Guard exited the passage. They split to travel around the circular tomb. The officer motioned three of his men to move clockwise, while the other three followed him anti-clockwise towards steps to bring them up behind the gathered mourners.
A dull roar of distant thunder rolled across the dark sky, and the rain resumed its assault on those beneath. Could this day get any more unpleasant?
Simmons checked his rifle as an uneasy feeling filled his gut. One he always felt before a dangerous situation escalated into a deadly one.
He repositioned himself at the corner of his protective cover with a good view of the approach to the tomb. Several gravestones and statues nearby would offer protection if things got out of hand. The other group of guards reached a stairway to the north and positioned themselves in readiness. They now had a clear line of sight to the assembled mourners.
He focused back on the top of the stairs closest to the mausoleum as the officer lead his three-man team toward the group. The steady fall of rain slid down the tombs stone edge, dripping onto his hat’s brim as he sighted down his rifle.
“Rosemary Carrington,” the officer said. His voice carried across the distance. “You are under arrest for treason. Surrender now, and you will be treated fairly. Resist, and your punishment will be severe.”
Several mourners turned and looked on the group of Black Guard with shock. The two thugs beside Annabelle moved their hands towards inside pockets but stopped as she said something, her palms lowered in a calming gesture. She took a step forward looking a little puzzled.
“I’m sorry, officer. I fear you’ve made a mistake. There’s no Rosemary Carrington here. You must have the wrong cemetery.”
The officer halted, his head looking at the ground as he tried to speak. All he could manage was a short stutter. “N- N- No.”
He raised his face to look her in the eyes. “No, Miss Carrington,” his voice strengthening further. “Come now. We know who you are. This attempt at deception is beneath you.”
“I’m at a loss Lieutenant. My name is Elizabeth Cooper. We have gathered here today to pay our final respects to my poor deceased brother. Isn’t that right?” She looked to the other mourners, who nodded and murmured their assent.
“Your name is…” the officer started, forcing the words out. “Your name is Rosemary Carrington, and you are coming with me dead or alive.”
“Enough of this shit,” yelled the large man beside Annabelle. He stepped forward, pulling a revolver and fired it at the officer.
The bullet missed but caught the guard behind in the shoulder, spilling him to the wet ground. The officer was a blur of movement, and quicker than Simmons could follow, he had a boxy looking pistol in his hands. Three rapid cracks burst out, and the thug stumbled. Blood blossomed on his damp clothes from two areas high on his chest, and a stream leaked down into his eyes from a shot to his forehead. He crumpled and collapsed in a spreading pool of crimson, the revolver tumbling from his twitching fingers.
Several things happened in rapid succession. Someone pulled Annabelle behind the mausoleum out of sight. Screams broke from the assembled cortege as they tried to escape. Two slipped on the muddy ground, others cowered by the tomb, but all sought safety from the madness unfolding around them.
A familiar hum crossed the distance, then bright arcs of power surged from the heavy weapons of the two guards behind the officer. Thick shards of stone burst from the edge of the mausoleum where Annabelle had retreated.
“Arc-rifles,” Simmons said. “This just gets better and better.”
13
Pinkett waved, shouting, trying to catch the Black Guard officer’s attention. As he ran towards the officer, an arc of electricity struck him in the back flinging him through the air, impacting with a crunch against the white stone mausoleum. A red stain marred the pristine wall, streaking down to the crumpled form in the mud.
This has gone too far. Simmons aimed at the guard who had shot the old man. The thunderclap from the rifle echoed around the surrounding tombs. A large hole punched through the statue a few inches to the right of his target. Damned weather. He recalibrated his sight then peeked his head around to check if anyone had oriented on his location, but everything remained as it was. The guards to the north were still in cover and exchanging fire with an area to the rear of the mausoleum. The two with the officer moved towards the other side in a flanking manoeuvre, somehow ignorant of the shot Simmons had fired.
He aimed at the advancing guard, unleashing the second barrel. With the recalibration, his shot was true. The man dropped to his knees, clutching the stump of his severed right arm. It fell to the ground, blood spraying in bright arterial arcs, still gripping the arc-rifle. He collapsed forward never having uttered a sound.
This time there was a reaction. The other guard looked back towards his position and took cover behind a statue.
Simmons moved, keeping low and slid to an eight foot stone cross on a waist-high square base. He crouched there, reloading both barrels. So much for not getting involved.
His body swung around the base, sighting his rifle on the guard in a fluid motion. The wings of the angelic statue obscured his target, but that wouldn’t be a problem for the Holland. He waited, gauging the timing and position, then holding his breath, squeezed the first trigger. The wing shattered, spraying razor-sharp fragments at the hidden guard. The man tried to protect his face, but without the angel’s divine protection, he was exposed and the second shot punched through his chest, dropping him.
That last shot had been a risk, and Simmons felt a kick in the chest as his cover crumbled. The cross protected him from the brunt of the arc-rifle blast, but now, only a small stump remained of the upright jutting from the charred base.
His left arm burned, and he sucked in a breath, his entire body spasming. A long gouge tore his jacket down to the smouldering remains of his glove. The buckles at the cuff were molten slag, dripping and hissing onto the damp ground.
Damn fool, he thought, the first guard shot by Annabelle’s associate wasn’t dead after all.
The distant sound of thunder roared from arc-rifles. The clouds above replied with interest as they added their own flashes of lightning to make sure no-one forgot who really owned the largest guns.
Simmons pushed himself along on his back, trying to rub sensation into his left arm, making his way back to his original position. His body had ceased spasming, leaving him with an occasional muscle twitch. The feeling returned in his hand, but his wrist was sore as hell as if he’d caught it on a hot brazier.
Behind the protective cover of the sarcophagus again, he reloaded. Damn, but it was a beautiful weapon. The side-by-side twin barrels had saved his skin on more occasions than he cared to recall. It wasn’t a standard issue. He’d chosen and paid for it himself, custom made to fit his dimensions by Holland & Holland. Many might have said the price was ridiculously extravagant, but how much value could a man place on his own life?
A glance around the sarcophagus showed the guards from the northern stairs had advanced but lost one of their gro
up in the process. The officer now crouched at the far edge of the mausoleum exchanging fire around the corner, and there, behind the stone steps was the blighter who had shot him. The arc-rifle lay propped on the balustrade pointed in his direction, but the man appeared to be struggling with his right arm.
Simmons aimed for the man’s centre of mass, ignoring the stone railing, relying on the force the Holland would impart. Gently squeezing the trigger, Simmons felt the mechanism engage just as the figure slipped on the muddy ground.
The shot was accurate and would have hit the guard square in the chest. Instead, it punched through the stone, missing its target, sending shards and splinters flying. In his slip, the guardsman held onto his rifle, pulling it back over the balustrade and into the path of the rapidly moving stone fragments.
Metal shrieked, followed by a scream of electrical discharge and a massive explosion. The concussion wave hit Simmons like a punch in the stomach. Boxing had never been his thing, but he imagined this is how it would feel taking a blow from a regimental champion.
He lay on his back gasping for air and turned to see a steaming crater six feet across and a gaping hole in the stone staircase. His chest hurt like hell, but he surprised himself with a laugh. Modern technology is all well and good, but you can’t beat the reliability of a solid wood and steel rifle. Who in their right mind would want to carry something they were worried about dropping?
The cemetery fell quiet after the explosion, no signs of movement. Bodies lay scattered around the mausoleum amid rubble blown from its once beautiful facade. The pristine white tomb now stained with black scorch marks.
A woman’s scream split the air from the far side of the mausoleum, and Simmons raced towards it. A figure shuffled around the corner almost stumbling into him. He stepped back, raising his rifle. Her eyes widened, wincing as she moved the hand from her side. Lifting a gloved finger to his mouth, he motioned for her to get behind him.