Fogbound- Empire in Flames

by Gareth Clegg

  Dent looked over towards Bazalgette then back to Simmons. “I can make a stand when the next guards come down. A final act of defiance.” He called over to Bazalgette. “Please tell my brother I’m sorry. It should have been me pushing him to safety, not the other way around. I was the elder brother—I should have saved him.”

  Bazalgette nodded. “Of course.”

  “Yes, Good luck,” Simmons said. He turned to leave, knowing the charade had all been for Bazalgette’s benefit. “Come on,” he said, placing his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We need to get moving.”

  As they began the long climb back up the dark stairs, there was a single quiet crack from the pistol below.

  20

  Simmons and Bazalgette made their way through the darkness into the West End. They moved between the shadows avoiding the arc lights lining the silent early morning streets. With Simmons leading they bypassed the main checkpoints, keeping to the less travelled routes.

  The droning of the foghorns masked the chimes of Big Ben as the thick fog continued its attempts to breach the city walls. In response, the whirring fans atop the barricades whispered their ceaseless song as they pushed it away, back towards the Thames.

  They arrived at an intersection with The Strand. The dark alleyway opened into a blaze of light which crept along the main thoroughfare. Simmons held up his hand to warn his friend to wait as he inched his way toward the corner of the alley.

  The luminous circle scaled the walls of the buildings across the street, and he tracked it to the watchtower atop the Inner-City wall. He reached under his jacket and retrieved his pocket watch, flipping the gold cover open to inspect the wedding gift from his late wife. He almost laughed, recalling Surita’s insistence that his timekeeping must improve, but the lump in his throat made him swallow back any signs of mirth. With the grim determination he’d come to rely on to get him through the day, he checked the time. The glowing digits bright in the darkness, four forty-seven am. The glow was from some chemical elements, phosphor or something similar—no doubt Bazalgette would know.

  Simmons motioned for his friend to approach, his attention locked on the progress of the searchlight. There was a rustle as Bazalgette sat on the ground next to him. It took five minutes for the spotlight to complete its circuit and return its stark light to scanning their side of the street.

  “We’ll wait until they illuminate the shops over there, then we can cross to that alleyway,” Simmons said pointing. “From there, we have four minutes of darkness to move further toward number sixty-one.”

  Bazalgette pointed along the dark street. “That’s it, past that collapsed shopfront with the green sign.”

  They waited as the bright light inched across the cobbles. As it hit the edge of the building opposite, Simmons stood. “Ready?”

  “Yes,” Bazalgette said, taking the outstretched hand and allowing the older man to pull him up.

  They crossed and squeezed into the alleyway. The recess was only three feet before rubble and old wooden supports filled it, sharp edges poking at them.

  “Do we wait here for the next cycle?” Bazalgette asked.

  “No, let’s make progress while we have the chance.”

  They moved out onto the street and along the storefronts. Number sixty-one was a mess. Instead of the elegant exterior he had expected, rough wooden planks boarded over the door and windows. Several lay shattered on the pavement.

  Stepping around them, Simmons checked the sweep of the spotlight. It was transitioning back down the shopfronts on the other side of the street. They had about two minutes before it would illuminate them.

  The remains of the sign proclaiming ‘E. Dent & Co. Master Watchmaker by Royal Appointment’ hung at an odd angle, weathered but still showing signs of quality. The background was a lustrous black and the writing in vibrant white cut through the gloom.

  Not enough time to break into the doorway, boarded as it was, they needed another option. The ticking of the second hand on his pocket watch screamed at him as he continued further down the street. They had less than a minute now. Calm, he thought, scanning for somewhere they might gain cover from the approaching beam.

  There. An alley entrance led between the buildings a few shops ahead. They could take shelter there. Simmons broke into a run, looking back to see Bazalgette peering between the boarded windows of Dent’s store.

  “Bazalgette, hurry.”

  His friend’s feet hit the cobbled roadway as he hustled to catch up. Simmons rounded the corner into the passageway between the shops and glanced back. The light streaked up the street towards them like the first rays of the morning sun cresting the horizon.

  He’s not going to make it.

  He grabbed Bazalgette by the arm, dragging him into the alley and out of the beam that rushed past them. They both stood, hands on knees, breathing hard.

  “That was closer than I had hoped,” Simmons said, pressing his back into the cold brick.

  “Sorry, I thought I saw movement in the shop.”

  “Someone inside?”

  “I don’t think so. More like a reflection.”

  “We need to get in if we are to find these schematics. We might as well be direct about it.”

  Bazalgette seemed to have caught his breath, so Simmons pushed further along the alley which opened out to a series of shabby backyards behind the stores.

  A rickety fence prevented them from seeing the rear of Dent’s store in the dimly lit space. Simmons found a section where the slats hung loose and peered through.

  The back of the shop was much like the front, barred windows obscured by poor quality boards. The stains, cracks and warping spoke of them being around for some time. A metal sign swung by the doorway stating ‘RESTRICTED AREA - STRICTLY NO ADMITTANCE - BY ORDER OF THE BLACK GUARD’ in large white stencilled letters.

  As he pushed his way in through the wooden gate, a damp, musty smell reaffirmed the age of the material used to board up the building. Dark shadows shrouded the yard as they headed toward the rear entrance. Simmons reached a gloved hand to try the handle, but it didn’t budge. “Any chance you know how to open a locked door?”

  “It depends on the quality of the lock, old chap,” his friend replied. “Let me take a look.”

  Bazalgette moved past, pulling something from his tool-belt and tinkered with the mechanism.

  Simmons turned his gaze back to the area behind the building. All was quiet. Every few minutes, searchlight beams passed over roofs, shadows stretched and danced for a few seconds before the place returned to its natural blackness.

  A dull glow and the telltale crackle of the arc-lamp sundered the darkness. He spun. “Do we have to announce our presence to everyone?”

  “Sorry,” Bazalgette said. “I didn’t design it for secrecy. I need light to see more detail of the mechanism.”

  “Very well. Are you making any progress?”

  “Yes, I think so.” A metallic clink signalled something breaking. “Ah.”

  “What is it?”

  “The pick broke in the lock. It’s tougher than I thought.”

  “Can you fix it?”

  “I’m not sure I have anything else to use.”

  Simmons poked his head out of the gate, scanning up and down the alley. All remained quiet. “So, what now?”

  Bazalgette let out a deep breath. “I could try to remove the fragment and see if I can botch something together.”

  “How long will it take?”

  Bazalgette checked the tool-belt. “I couldn’t say. Thirty minutes? An hour perhaps?”

  “We don’t have time. Move over.”

  Bazalgette had removed the boards so there was clear access to the lock and the door looked to open inwards.

  “What’s your plan?”

  Simmons smiled. “The old-fashioned heavy boot method.”

  He aimed, just below the handle, then launched his right boot. It made a loud crack as it struck the solid wood, but remained intact. “Damn,
that’s tough.”

  Bazalgette inspected it. “I don’t think kicking it will be sufficient.”

  “Okay, let’s move to Plan B.”

  Bazalgette gave him a quizzical glance as Simmons shrugged his rifle from his shoulder. “Oh, I see.”

  The wood shredded from the double barrel blast, the sound echoing through the silent alley like thunder. With a clunk, the shattered lock mechanism fell to the floor.

  “Inside,” Simmons said, kicking the ruined door inwards.

  “Won’t someone have heard that?”

  “It’s possible, so let’s make haste. Though they might not identify where it came from.”

  The room beyond was a kitchen, lit only by the arc-lamp’s diffuse soft glow from outside. Simmons scanned it for any sign of danger before moving further into the building.

  The doorway on the opposite wall opened onto a dark hallway. From there, stairs led off to his left both rising and descending into gloomy darkness. The only other exit was a fractured doorframe leading to the shopfront. Shards of wood and glass littered the corridor. Simmons stepped over the splintered remains of the door that once occupied the frame, lying battered and twisted on the plush carpet.

  A check of the storefront showed a scene of carnage. Not as much wanton destruction as Simmons encountered at Cooper’s house, but the search had been brutal and efficient. Cabinets lay devoid of any items to lure the wealthy and discerning customers of the West End. Glass shards crunched under his feet as he moved across the room.

  He returned to the hall and stood in silence, straining to pick out any sounds of life in the building, before moving back to Bazalgette. He beckoned, miming for him to close the door behind him.

  “The Black Guard searched the place,” Simmons said, keeping his voice low. “There are stairs up and down, but no sound of anyone about.”

  “What now?” Bazalgette said, scanning the kitchen with the arc-lamp. “It looks abandoned. Look at the mess.”

  The light picked out the remains of breakfast plates piled beside the ceramic sink. Filthy grey mould grew over them all.

  “Yes. Dent said it was about six months ago when they arrested him. We need to find that basement and the toy with the microfilm.”

  They descended the stairs which opened out into a workshop, two long benches lined the shelved walls, but it was a shambles—ransacked like the front room.

  Tools littered the area. Tiny brass cogs and complex silver workings lay strewn across the floor, crushed underfoot. Intricate gears and mechanisms, some not much larger than a pinhead, twisted and ruined on the dark hardwood flooring.

  “This must have been amazing before they wrecked it,” Bazalgette said, his eyes wide as he scanned the tools and fixtures around the room.

  “I’m sure it was,” Simmons replied. Heaven knows how long Bazalgette would moon over the mess given free rein. “How do we find the schematics?”

  “Well, Dent spoke of the mechanical toy. Perhaps we should focus on finding that?”

  “That makes sense, but where do we look?”

  Bazalgette mumbled something to himself and scanned the room, moving this way and that until stopping near the wall opposite the stairs. “Aha.”

  Simmons waited for the usual explanation that followed outbursts like this, and waited.

  Bazalgette dropped to his knees, looking below a section of workbench. “Here it is.”

  “All right, I’ll bite,” Simmons said, crossing to get a better view. “Here what is?”

  “A vent.”

  Simmons spotted the small grill in the wall an inch above floor level. “So what’s so exciting about it?”

  Bazalgette looked at him as if astounded that he should have asked such an absurd question. “The interior is metal. That’s strange.”

  “And?”

  “Did you hear that?” Bazalgette said.

  “Hear wh—”

  “Shh.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “You’re forgiven. Now, listen.”

  As gob-smacked as he could ever remember being, Simmons stood trying to work out how to respond. A soft metallic tapping and scraping started within the vent.

  Kneeling beside Bazalgette, he peered inside. There, about three feet in, was a flash of red light caught in the beam from the arc-lamp. “What is—”

  As soon as the words left his mouth, the scuffling disappeared around an intersecting passage. He spotted a glimpse of brass and silver as segmented legs propelled the thing out of sight.

  Bazalgette smiled at him. “I think we’ve found Otto.”

  After some time trying to coax the mechanical beast back into the light, they couldn’t get Otto to make another appearance.

  Something drew it towards the arc-lamp, but it never came close enough to capture, preferring to lie out of reach beyond the corner of the intersection. They caught sight of the glittering red eyes, but it retreated as soon as they tried to open the vent.

  “This is useless,” Simmons said. “What’s the point of having a toy that hides from you?”

  “Well, it’s incredibly intelligent for a construct—”

  “Yes, yes, but how do we get the incredibly intelligent little construct out here, where we can grab it?”

  “We need to think of something to coax it out.”

  What I wouldn’t do for a few ArcRounds—that would sort the little sod out. “Why don’t you prod it with the arc-lamp?”

  Bazalgette looked mortified. “I’m not doing that. It might damage it. It’s shocking you’d even suggest such a thing.”

  Oh, so now I’m the bad guy? Typical.

  “Right,” Simmons said. “If you haven’t got a better idea, then I’ll shoot at the little devil to scare it out. You get ready at the next vent to catch it.”

  “We can’t do that, Simmons,” Bazalgette said, and he sighed. “All right, I’ll try the arc-lamp if that’s what you want, but we’ll do it my way, on the vent.”

  “What’s that going to achieve?”

  Bazalgette’s voice was quiet, resigned. “It’s conductive and won’t be as dangerous as directly shocking its frame. Maybe that will be enough to overload its systems.”

  Simmons blew out a breath. “Fine. Let’s get this done.”

  Touching the lamp to the metallic interior seemed to work as expected. Blue waves of electricity flowed onto the surface and rippled through the vents. Otto emitted a high-pitched scream and leapt into frenzied motion. Its legs skittered as it disappeared, the sounds receding as the creature escaped upwards.

  Simmons sat ready to grab the beast if it fled in his direction. A strong electrical surge arced into his gloved hand, jolting through the fingers into his palm. The muscles contracted to produce a claw-like grip he couldn’t release.

  “Damned thing,” Simmons hissed through gritted teeth. His hand soon recovered, turning to cramp as he regained feeling. He stretched and rubbed his fingers, sharp flickers of pain rushing down into his wrist. Thank the lord I’m wearing gloves. He turned his eyes towards Bazalgette, just waiting for some intellectual quip.

  “Perhaps we should try something else?” was all his friend had to say as he stood and moved toward the stairs.

  They found the creature on the top floor after an extensive search for its telltale clicking. It had rammed itself deep into a section well out of reach and cowered there. Red light reflected from its eyes, and an occasional tremor made one leg tap wildly for a few seconds.

  Simmons stood and stretched. Looking around the bedroom, he noticed something amongst the tangled bedding, which now lay on the floor by the window.

  There in the twisted sheets was a broken phonograph horn. Idiot, he thought, Music, Dent said it liked music. “Bazalgette, there’s a battered phonograph over here, do you think you could fix it?”

  Bazalgette studied the remains for a moment, then brought his hand up to slap his forehead, eyes rolling. “How could I be so dense? We need music.” He returned his attention to th
e device. “Hmm,” his tone spoke of concern. “It’s taken a beating, but might be repairable. Can you find any Tchaikovsky?”

  Simmons made room for Bazalgette to work and began the search for record tubes. Half an hour later, it was playing, albeit manually. The clockwork mechanism was far beyond repair. With the device ready to wind and a wax tube recording of the 1812 Overture, they set forth to lure the reclusive beast.

  Bazalgette wound the phonograph. After the initial crackles and hissing, music burst forth. A little slow at first, but he soon had the tempo adjusted to produce a recognisable tune.

  There was an instant change in the noise from the vent, all the tapping stopped, and the mechanical device seemed rooted in place. As the overture reached its crescendo, with bells and cannon echoing around the room from the patched speaker cone, a corresponding clanking began. The creature tapped out a steady marching rhythm with all eight legs. At first, it marched on the spot and then propelled itself forward.

  “It’s working,” Bazalgette said with unbridled joy in his voice.

  “Yes, but what now?” Simmons replied, watching the thing approaching down the narrow metal corridor.

  “Open the vent, let it come out here.”

  Simmons took a screwdriver from the tool-belt and unscrewed the metallic plate as he had seen his friend do downstairs.

  The grille swivelled clockwise once he’d removed the third screw and the intricate silver and brass automaton dropped a few inches to the carpet and continued towards the phonograph. It marched to the edge of the repaired wood and metal device, and stopped in place, legs still rising and falling to the music.

  Bazalgette reached out with his free hand, lifting the spider. As soon as it left the ground, it ceased moving. “Oh, I wasn’t expecting that.”

  He rotated the torso to reveal the underside. The limbs hung loose like a bicycle chain no longer under tension, victims to gravity.

  “It has several small screws holding the thorax in place. I’ll need the jeweller’s instruments we saw in the basement,” Bazalgette said scrutinising the item with a glow of wonder on his face as he rose.