Fogbound- Empire in Flames

by Gareth Clegg

  “So, what next?”

  “Not sure,” Bazalgette replied, unbuckling the arc-rifle bag he’d dragged along tied to his boot to make travelling with the bulky device a little easier.

  Simmons felt a clenching in his gut. “Wait a minute. What are you doing?”

  “I thought I might try the arc-rifle, see if that can loosen anything.”

  “Is that a good idea in such a confined space?”

  “Well the bars are iron, so it should draw the arc towards them and contain the reaction as far as I can see.”

  “And how far is that?”

  The quip soared over Bazalgette’s head. “What?”

  “Never mind,” Simmons replied, trying to keep his voice calm, just about managing it. “If you’re confident it won’t cause us any danger.”

  “Danger? Nothing to worry about, old chap. I’ll get it set up, and with luck, it might produce enough flex in the bar via conduction to crack the housing. Then we can use leverage to force the grille.”

  “I’ll stay down here then shall I?”

  “It’s probably for the best. In case of anything untoward.”

  With that, Bazalgette disappeared upward with the rifle. Simmons mused for a moment. Well, he’s a scientist and bright, he wouldn’t do anything too dangerous, would he? Instinct got the better of him, and he pushed forward looking up into the vertical shaft. “Bazalgette—”

  An ear-splitting explosion shattered the silence, and a massive shock-wave knocked him flat onto the tunnel floor. An ominous creaking sounded from behind as dirt rained down around him.

  “Bazalgette,” he shouted, grabbing the sides of the vertical wall forcing himself to his feet. “Bazalgette, are you all right?” The tunnel remained silent as he thrust his way up the shaft. He reached the top rung and poked his head into a swirling dust storm. One boot lay exposed on the ground, the rest of his friend’s body covered in a mixture of grey dust and raw brown earth. Five feet ahead stood a gaping hole where the grille Bazalgette described must once have been. All that remained was a ruin of concrete and plaster where a ragged hole opened out onto the splintered remains of a dust-enshrouded cupboard.

  Simmons grabbed the boot and pulled Bazalgette’s body from the mound of earth. As his friend’s head emerged, he fell into a fit of coughing.

  “Are you hurt?” Simmons asked.

  Another couple of coughs, then a hoarse voice replied. “No, I’m fine. Just a little winded. It was a touch more energetic than I expected.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  “It was difficult to see much with all the dust. The iron heated in an instant, the arcing between the rods was amazing. They must have expanded faster than the surrounding concrete could absorb and exploded.”

  “So just as planned then? Nothing for me to worry about?”

  “Well—”

  “Bloody hell, man. You could have drowned under a sea of dirt.”

  “Suffocated,” Bazalgette said.

  “What?”

  “I would have suffocated,” he said. “Drowning is the process of asphyxiation by inhaling liquid. I would suffocate in a tunnel collapse—” He stopped when he noticed Simmons red-faced glare.

  “Are you really going to quibble over semantics? Right here and now?”

  “Yes, you are probably correct. This might not be the best time—”

  “Damn right this isn’t the bloody time. I wonder how you are still alive at all?”

  “Well, I took precautions. I was a good five feet from the grille—”

  “I don’t mean now, I mean in bloody general,” Simmons’ eyes were wide with disbelief. “You play with high voltage electrics, and God only knows what other dangerous compounds. How the hell have you survived this long? Everything around you seems to explode.”

  “It’s not the voltage—”

  “If you tell me it’s amperage, I’ll bloody swing for you.”

  Bazalgette remained silent. Simmons could see he was biting his tongue.

  “Perhaps we should make our way through the bloody great hole I blew in the wall before anything else—”

  A loud thump echoed from below, and dust particles leapt into the air around the edge of the vertical shaft. They both watched the lazy motes drift for a second. Simmons hung his head in disbelief. A few dull rumbles followed along with accompanying tremors through the packed earth.

  “Collapses,” Bazalgette finished.

  They dragged themselves through the hole into a mess of splintered furniture. The explosion had launched the wooden cupboard, that stood before the grill, right across the shabby room. It looked to have been a hospital ward, but the furnishings were old, rusted and rotten. Six beds lay scattered around along with mouldy mattresses strewn in the corner. A simple desk took pride of place before them with a doorway beside it.

  The building smelled of mildew and neglect mixed with the dry powdered dust from their extravagant entrance. Barred windows lined the wall on the left. Shafts of dusty light pierced the broken shutters where a few wooden slats had fallen free.

  Bazalgette remained a dirty grey colour, despite trying his best to brush it from his coat. Instead, he made a cloud of the fine particles which engulfed him, leading to yet more sneezing and coughing.

  Simmons dusted off his clothes, checking his rifle for any problems. Content that the weapon was undamaged, he shouldered it and crossed the room past broken chairs towards the door.

  Bazalgette packed the dirt-encrusted arc-rifle back into its makeshift case. “Perhaps I’ll leave it until I’ve had time to get it cleaned up.”

  “Yes, that might be for the best,” Simmons said. His voice had a weary, resigned tone, which he didn’t like. Bazalgette’s eyes darted away when he looked his way. Damn, why do I feel like I just kicked a puppy?

  “Look, Bazalgette. I didn’t mean to be so harsh back there. It’s—”

  “No, you’re right. I can get a little distracted and sometimes act before thinking through all the consequences. It was too dangerous doing what I did while you were still in the tunnel. You could have… drowned.”

  Simmons stifled a laugh. “What am I to do with you? I’ve dragged you into this mess and now berate you for having ideas on how to help.”

  “I’ll be more careful, Simmons. Sorry about—”

  “Don’t go there. It’s not your fault. You’ve killed a man because of me.”

  “Yes, but he would have shot you, and Rosie. No doubt I would have been soon after if he’d had the chance.”

  “That’s true. Let’s find the information we came here for.”

  Simmons turned the handle and found the door opened into a long hallway. Several others lined the corridor, some of them were open into similar rooms. At the far end stood a pair of oversized double-doors.

  Faded paint fell away in thick flakes with a strong odour of damp and decay. A lot of the furniture was rotting, and when tested, it crunched like dry paper. Splintered wooden panels and picture frames lay cracked on the scratched tiled floors. Apart from their soft footsteps and the low hum from the arc-lamp, there wasn’t a sound.

  They continued through the eerie silence. Elongated shadows grew and shifted as they travelled along the corridor. Patches of pale green paint showed in bright squares where photographs once lined the walls. They now stood conspicuous against the dull grey of the wall after years of exposure to the elements.

  Simmons tried the handle on the double-doors, hoping they too would open without resistance but found them locked. They were heavy with a large circular window at eye level. It was intact but opaque from dust and grime. Simmons peered through, trying to make out what lay beyond, but it was too dark on the other side. He rubbed at the dirty glass, his gloved fingers clearing a small spot.

  There was a flash of light from outside, bright enough to see, but the dirt obscured any detail. It looked like rays of sunlight cutting through the grimy darkness, a voice followed it.

  “Bertie, is that you?”
It was a child, a young girl if he wasn’t mistaken. He raised one finger to his lips as he motioned for Bazalgette to move back.

  The girl approached, singing something as her footsteps skipped along the tiled hallway. “Rachel, Rupert, is that you in there?”

  She stopped outside. As Simmons stared at Bazalgette, unsure what to do, a quiet rasping noise accompanied the slow turning of the handle.

  It pushed down and held there for a few seconds. A soft rattle of the door, then a second, stronger shake. “Huh, not in there,” the girl said with a tone of disappointment. The handle sprang upright with a loud clack. A slight pause, then skipping and the singsong voice receded. “Bertie, Rachel, you’ll soon see, you can’t hide that long from me.”

  Simmons hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath until he heard Bazalgette exhale beside him. He looked over at his friend. “What was that?”

  “A young girl at play?”

  “In an abandoned asylum?”

  “Maybe she discovered a way in somewhere with her friends, and they are playing hide-and-seek.”

  “Doesn’t that seem a little strange, with the birds being so territorial? If they are enough to scare away two sets of gangs, what are children doing here?”

  “When you put it like that, I’m not sure,” Bazalgette replied.

  “Found you. Oh.”

  Simmons spun to find a small figure peeking around a door on the corridor wall behind them. The girl looked about ten-years-old, perhaps younger. She wore a simple short-sleeved green dress down to her knees, showing her dirt-stained legs and filthy bare feet. Her hair was a shoulder-length tangle of black and stuck out at odd angles as if it hadn’t seen a brush in months. She waited, surprise painted across her grimy features, but not an ounce of fear in her dark eyes.

  “You’re not Bertie or Rachel,” she said. “Who are you?”

  Bazalgette turned to the young girl. “I’m Nathaniel, and this chap is Mr Simmons. What’s your name?”

  The girl squinted at the two men. “Lily.”

  “Hello, Lily. What are you doing here?”

  “Playing.”

  “With your friends? Bertie and Rachel?”

  “That’s right. Do you know them too? Have you come to play with us?”

  Bazalgette shook his head. “No, we’re looking for someone called the Ravenmaster. Have you heard of him?”

  The girl peered back, a frown creasing her young forehead. “Do you mean father? Some people call him that, but it’s not his real name.”

  “Father?” Bazalgette said, shock clear in his voice. “So, you live here?”

  She beamed him a smile. “Yes, this is my house.”

  “So, who else lives here?”

  “There’s father, Bertie, Rachel, Carrie-Anne, Rupert, Geoffrey, Alice—”

  “So quite a few of you?” Bazalgette asked.

  “Lots, I can’t remember all their names. Not all of them have them yet.”

  Bazalgette looked a little confused. “So these are your brothers and sisters?”

  “No, silly,” the girl replied, “they’re my friends. We play together all the time. Oh and there’s Ravenna - but she doesn’t join in much, she likes to watch, and she looks out for all of us, keeps everyone safe.”

  Simmons crossed to where his friend was standing. “Lily, you mentioned about your father. He’s sometimes called the Ravenmaster?”

  “That’s right,” the girl replied. “I’m not allowed to say his real name. Ravenna said it was dangerous.”

  “So where is he now?” Simmons asked.

  “Oh, he’ll be in his lab-ora…” Lily struggled with the word. “Lab-rat-or… La-boro-torium.” A satisfied grin crossed her face. “He spends most of his time there. That’s when I play. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to join in, you could be my friends too.”

  Bazalgette smiled at her. “That would be lovely Lily, but we need to speak with your father rather urgently. Could you take us to see him, please? Then perhaps you could find us later?”

  “All right,” she replied, a big smile spreading across her face again, “follow me.”

  She led them back into the room from which she’d emerged. The door was metal, strips of peeling white paint and three heavy security bolts lined the outer side. Inside, the filthy grey padding hung from the walls, rotten, torn and damp. In the far corner, the wall was bare brick which had fallen away, leaving a small hole.

  Lily squeezed through the gap then stuck her head through to peer back at them. “Can you fit? You look too fat to get through.”

  Bazalgette laughed. “Yes, I suppose we are a little large for that. Let me check.”

  He bent to inspect the bricks around the opening and soon found some loose enough to remove. With the help of his crowbar, he enlarged the hole allowing both men to crawl out to the hallway. Lily skipped on ahead, past the locked double-doors, oblivious to the discussions of her two new friends.

  “So we follow her to her father and hope he is this Ravenmaster then?” Simmons asked.

  “I suppose so, who better to introduce us?”

  Simmons shrugged, and they quickened their pace to catch up with the Ravenmaster’s daughter.

  18

  Lily led them through the maze of dark corridors. The gloom was broken only by occasional gleaming rays from cracks in the ill-fitting window shutters.

  The young girl skipped and sang throughout the journey. She spoke of her friends and how they played together. As far as Simmons could tell, there was no sign of anyone else passing through the old abandoned hallways of the asylum.

  Their footfalls echoed through the place which held a dry but musty smell. Lily knew it inside-out, able to name every room and where each corridor led. She told them of particular areas of interest as they passed, most of them were her friends’ favourite hiding spots, the places she always searched first.

  “Here we are,” she said at the top of an ornate staircase. “Father’s study and workshop are through there.” She indicated a set of double-doors before them.

  “And should we just knock and enter?” Simmons asked the girl.

  “Oh no,” she replied. “I’ll let him know you are here. Come on.” She skipped over to the doors and flung them open with dramatic flair.

  “I’m home,” she called ahead, walking through the opening, leaving them to bounce from the walls. “Father, I’ve found some new friends, and they want to speak with you.”

  Floor-to-ceiling cabinets lined the office. Each housed an extensive collection of leather-bound volumes, set behind a protective layer of glass. A solid wooden desk sat in the middle of the room, several books lay piled on it, stacked and ready to compare notes between them.

  A figure turned towards them, affixing something to his face. Lily’s father was a tall man, a little over six feet, though it was difficult to tell due to the dark hooded robe he wore. A leathery beak of considerable length protruded from the hood. The table lamps lit enough to show an old-style plague-doctors mask. Constructed of black leather, with brass edgings and circles of light reflecting from the glass eye-sockets, it made him look like a strange bipedal bird. Fitting, Simmons thought.

  Light reflected in the glassy orbs as his view shifted between Simmons and Bazalgette. The thick stitching along the beak was precise in its style and spacing. A gentle voice issued from the figure, hardly muffled by the leather mask. “My daughter forgets that I prefer a little more notice before receiving visitors. She can be somewhat dramatic.” He spoke with a down-to-earth, but cultured tone. A man of learning, but not of the gentry.

  “Sorry if we are interrupting anything,” Simmons said. “We wished to talk with you, presuming you are The Ravenmaster?”

  “No, it is fine. Please forgive me, I don’t receive many visitors. Lily dear, you should go play. I’m sure these two gentlemen and I shall be awhile in discussion.”

  “But what will I do, father? Without my new friends, there isn’t anyone to play with.”


  The beaked mask tilted and held itself at an odd angle for a few seconds as if waiting for something. The girl shuffled her feet looking downward. Her features scrunched up in a mixture of thought and petulance. The room fell silent, and she seemed to look in every direction but at her father. With a soft tone, he prompted. “Lily?”

  She scuffed her left foot on the thick rug while trying to seem casual as she swung it back and forth. “All right,” she said, resigned to her fate. “I’ll talk to her if I must?”

  “You know there isn’t anything you must do,” her father replied in the same low, calm voice. “There are just things you should and should not do. You are old enough to understand the difference, and it is up to you to choose the path to follow.” He paused, waiting for the young girl to decide.

  When she spoke the negativity had left her. “You are right, father. I shall go to see Ravenna. She’ll teach me lots of new and wonderful things, and I will enjoy it as much as playing with any of my friends.” She looked up, and a grin crept across her tiny features. “Maybe we’ll talk about the taint again.” With that, she turned and skipped out the way they had entered.

  “Did you forget something, Lily?”

  She stopped at the doors, her face a picture of demure innocence, a huge smile, eyes wide. “Goodbye, Simmons. Goodbye, Bazalgette.” She executed a precise curtsey and pulled the double-doors shut behind her as she backed out into the hallway before any of them had the chance to reply.

  “Manners maketh man,” her father said. “Now how can I help you two gentlemen?”

  Simmons inspected the Ravenmaster. He seemed an ordinary enough fellow if you ignored the birdlike mask. “We hear you might know how to get us into The Tower and the location of the Black Cells.”

  “The Tower of London is the most secure prison in the realm,” he replied. “Well, it was before the invasion. Why should I divulge its secrets to you?”