Fogbound- Empire in Flames

by Gareth Clegg

  He checked his inside jacket pocket, but the microfilm wasn’t there. As he searched further, he winced. Broken ribs, he thought, or severe bruising—how had that happened?

  The pain lessened as his breathing slowed. If he kept still and concentrated, he could see shadows in the room resolve to patches of lighter and darker grey. They formed ideas of shape, but he couldn’t identify them. Maybe given a little more time to recover.

  His legs felt odd, crammed under him, and fearing them broken, he shifted position to test his hypothesis. Though they burned up as he tried to straighten them, it was the sharp, biting pain of blood flow rushing back to relieve cramped muscles. He grimaced for a second, but it faded into dull pins and needles with movement.

  Focus on your breathing. In through the nose seemed less painful than via the mouth. He wasn’t sure of the precise anatomical difference, the nasal passages joined the oesophagus, but who was he to argue with his body. Perhaps he could look it up later when he had the chance.

  He checked for any major injuries. But, other than feeling like he’d gone five rounds with a street fighter, the pain seemed superficial, and with extreme care, he lifted himself to his feet.

  Where was Simmons? The thought rushed into his mind unbidden, but then rattled around refusing to budge.

  The schematics were missing, so what did that mean? Had Simmons handed them over? Was he part of Josiah’s plan all along? No, he wasn’t willing to believe he would do that. Simmons was a man of honour, a man of his word. Everything he had experienced screamed that his friend wouldn’t turn on him.

  So what happened? He felt something slick under his boot and reached down to investigate. As he brought his fingers up to smell the slimy substance, he already had a good idea of what it would be. Blood, thickening a little, so it had been a while. Back on hands and knees, he followed it. If this was from Simmons, he could be bleeding out as Nathaniel fretted about their friendship.

  How could I be so self-absorbed when Simmons might be hurt?

  He crawled between stacks of furniture following the bloody trail which led to a body, unmoving, on the other side of the room.

  It had to be Simmons, a pool of blood puddled around his head, hair matted with clots stuck to the right of his face.

  Probing in the dark, Nathaniel felt up the neck and identified the telltale mutton chops his friend wore with pride. He repositioned himself with his ear to Simmons’ mouth and listened for a sign of breathing. Anything that would indicate life.

  It was faint, but there was a breath, shallow and almost silent, but it was there. Simmons was alive.

  Nathaniel pulled away, a vast feeling of relief washing over him. What now? I need light. He’d always had his lamp, so it had never been an issue. He searched Simmons’ pockets, and after a few seconds located a lighter. The striker flashed, producing a thin arc of blue flame that crackled into being.

  Simmons’ face was a horrific mess. Blood seeped from a ragged gash that ran up from cheek to forehead. Well, the scalp wound explained the volume of blood, which made Nathaniel a touch more comfortable. It flooded down Simmons’ face, pooling in the hollow around his eye and nose. Small streams bubbled under his nostril from his shallow breathing.

  Nathaniel tore strips from his shirt and used them as makeshift bandages, applying a little pressure to the head wound which seemed to stem the remaining flow of bleeding.

  As he moved Simmons to drain the blood, it soon became clear the socket was empty. Whatever caused the gouging wound from his cheek had ruptured his right eye, leaving just a few strands of shredded flesh and gristle.

  Nathaniel’s breath caught in his throat. I can do this. Fearing his lack of medical knowledge, he erred on the side of caution. He placed a pad of material over the remains of the eye, then tied it in place with longer strips and secured it with his tie.

  “Come on,” Nathaniel said, “you need to fight. I promise I’ll get you out of here, somehow.”

  Rosie sneaked through the observatory as raucous laughter filtered up from below. Josiah’s men enjoyed their time off-duty and out of sight of their demanding master. She passed through the deserted upper levels—the stairs fading behind as she crossed to the southern edge of the building. Josiah was most likely locked away with his toys deep in his research. She needed more information—where were Simmons and Nathaniel?

  The idiots at the gate told her most of what she feared. It didn’t take much to learn what transpired earlier that morning. She’d known Josiah could be unstable, but this confirmed her fears. She couldn’t trust him. If he’d lied to her about the two men’s fate, then what of his promises to her? Was she another tool to be used by him, then cast aside? She wouldn’t let that happen.

  The strange pair were her best chance to finish this, now Josiah was off on his own crusade. She had better things to do with her time, more pressing matters in which Josiah would not interfere. If Simmons or Nathaniel opposed her, she could always bend them to her will.

  Rosie tried each door as she passed them on the upper floor. So far, all opened onto rooms full of junk, no sign of the odd pair thrust into her life by the machinations of the Black Guard.

  Simmons, she had expected. Old fashioned and good at his job, but too easily led towards what he wanted to find. The other one though, what was it that fascinated her so?

  Nathaniel was a handsome man, but that didn’t impress her. Perhaps it was his mind—there was no doubt he was brilliant, but no, there was more to it. In a flash, it came to her, and she recoiled at the thought. It occurred when she told them that she’d killed those three beasts. Simmons had looked surprised, but he seemed to understand. But it had shocked Nathaniel.

  Why should that bother her? Her revenge was justified. Who was he to be disappointed in her, he wasn’t her—

  A shiver ran down her spine, and she almost collapsed, clinging to the wall for support as she bit back the taste of bile in her throat. No, he was nothing like that. What she’d done had appalled Nathaniel, that she was capable of it, but the next morning, he presented himself as if meeting at a society event. As if he’d forgotten her past, put it aside, or as she now feared, forgiven it.

  Why was it so easy to control the minds and emotions of others while hers were a mystery even to herself?

  She pushed herself from the wall and continued down the corridor. Another couple of rooms proved fruitless, but as she reached the next handle, it refused to budge. The door straining against the thick wooden frame, and something shuffled within, then all was quiet. Kneeling at the doorway, she bent and placed her eye against the keyhole, seeing only darkness. She cupped her hand around to block the light from the filthy windows.

  “Nathaniel, Simmons?” she whispered.

  “Rosie?” came a soft reply.

  “Nathaniel, I’ve come to help.”

  After a short delay, he replied. “Simmons is hurt. He’s still unconscious, and I’m not sure we should move him.”

  “Well, it’s that, or we go without him,” said Rosie.

  “No, I can’t leave him.”

  “Then help me work out how to get this blasted door open.”

  “If you can locate my toolkit, then we’d be in a better position.”

  Rosie thought for a moment. “It’s probably in a guardroom downstairs somewhere. I’m not sure I want to leave you here if there’s another option.”

  “Do you know how to pick a lock?” Nathaniel asked.

  “Strangely, no. Do you?”

  “Well, yes,” he replied, “but I don’t have any tools.”

  “Oh, and because I’m a woman, you expect me to have the required hairpin for such a task?”

  “No, I didn’t mean that. Though a hairpin might be helpful, but I’d also need a sturdy blade.”

  Something pushed under the doorframe and Nathaniel retrieved a narrow-bodied wooden haft and a length of wire ending in a rounded glass bead.

  “But I thought…”

  “Never speak about
hairpins again,” Rosie said, “and be careful with that knife.”

  He found a metal switch on the handle and six inches of steel shot out as he pressed it. “I seem to have located the blade,” he said, tracing the razor-sharp edge protruding from the end of the device.

  “Good. Still have all your fingers?”

  “Yes, thank you. More by luck than judgement, though. Where did you get this?”

  “Is that important right now?”

  Nathaniel bent the hairpin, both shaping and strengthening it for its new purpose. “No, I suppose not,” he said as he focused on opening the door.

  It was a standard lock and clicked open with little effort. The rasping noise as the blade turned the mechanism sounded like it would wake the dead. But there were no ghouls in the corridor as he pulled the door inwards, just Rosie’s silhouetted form as sunlight flooded the room, banishing the veil of darkness.

  He placed his hand before his eyes, trying to shield them from the sudden brightness, then turned back to where Simmons lay slumped in the corner.

  Rosie stepped past. “Dear God, what happened to him?”

  In the light, the blood smeared about his friend’s face looked worse than Nathaniel had expected. The makeshift padding over the eye was messy with dried streaks of bloody tears running down Simmons’ cheek.

  “It must have been Josiah,” Nathaniel said. “He wanted the schematics and throttled me. I’m presuming as leverage to force Simmons to hand them over.”

  Rosie knelt beside Simmons and, after looking over his prone form, returned her gaze to Nathaniel. “His face?”

  “He’s lost the eye, and I think the lower orbit around it is shattered. It’s hard to tell with all the swelling, but I couldn’t feel any resistance when I checked it.”

  “There’s a lot of blood,” she added, pointing to the congealed mass of dark liquid staining the wooden floorboards.

  “It looks worse than it is. Most is from the scalp wound where something tore the skin across his forehead. He needs professional medical treatment for his eye.”

  “Shit. I’d hoped I could just break you two out of here and we could make for the river. Now we’ll have to carry him.”

  She looked him up and down. “Were you injured?”

  He smiled. “No, I’m fine. Battered and bruised, but nothing to slow me down too much.”

  “I’ll go see what I can organise. It will be later this evening before I return. We need the cover of darkness to get out of here in one piece.”

  “You had best lock us back in here in case any of Josiah’s men check.”

  “Close the door, but leave it unlocked.” Rosie reached into her pack and produced a water canteen, handing it to Nathaniel. “Here. I’ll speak with the guards and try to put the fear of God into them, tell them Josiah wants you to rot for a while. That should keep them from poking about. You need to be ready to move when I return after dark. Take care, Nathaniel.”

  “You too,” he replied.

  Rosie left, pulling the door closed with a soft click.

  Simmons alternated between short incoherent fits of consciousness, until the pain overcame his threshold, and then restless sleep. Nathaniel gave him a little water, but after a coughing fit, where he feared he’d half drowned his friend, he was more careful. He found pouring it onto a cloth and dribbling it over Simmons’ lips was a slower, but safer solution.

  Time dragged while waiting for the thin crack of light under the doorframe to dim until it disappeared in the early evening. Nathaniel scavenged together a few rugs to prop behind Simmons, making him as comfortable as he could in their cramped confines.

  Though there had been a few noises below, nobody checked on them. So it seemed Rosie had been successful in her attempts to deter the guards from disturbing them.

  Footsteps approached along the corridor, two sets as far as Nathaniel could tell. He pushed himself to his feet and took a position beside the doorway, Knife gripped in his fist, not knowing what he hoped to achieve with it.

  Rosie’s low voice followed a quiet tap on the door. “Nathaniel, it’s me. I’ve brought a friend to help us, so don’t be alarmed.”

  The door inched open with a soft creak. Dim lamplight seeped in illuminating the small room and outlining Rosie. Beside her, a much larger figure dumped an armful of clothing and gear with a heavy thump onto the floor.

  “Careful,” Rosie said.

  “What’s the worry, love?” The man spoke with a thick London accent. “It’s not like there’s anyone down there what can hear us now, is it?”

  She sighed before passing a bundle to Nathaniel. “Here’s your equipment. How’s he doing?”

  “He’s drifting in and out of consciousness. But even when he is awake, I think the pain is too much for him to bear for long.”

  The large man proffered his hand. “This should help.”

  Nathaniel accepted a small pouch. In the dim light, he saw a red cross on the canvas material. “Medical supplies?”

  “Yeah, Black Guard field kit. It will have morphine in there. They’re sealed units, so it don’t need a medic to measure out the dose. Break the seal and jab it into him. That should sort the pain for a while.”

  Nathaniel rummaged through the bag and pulled out a glass vial. He snapped the top and rotated a small needle into place. Jabbing the makeshift syringe into Simmons’ right arm, he squeezed the rubber plug, forcing the drug into his bloodstream.

  Turning back to the figure, Nathaniel thrust out his hand. “Thank you. Mister?”

  The larger man gripped him in a firm shake. “Maddox. John Maddox.”

  Nathaniel and Maddox carried Simmons’ limp body down the narrow stairwell. Rosie led, with the arc-lamp lighting their way. As they reached the ground floor, Nathaniel stopped. Three bodies lay sprawled through an open door. Maddox looked across. “They’re not going to be causing any more trouble.”

  Half-carrying, half-dragging Simmons, they moved on. Rosie cast the bright lamplight into a room with a doorway to the courtyard beyond. Two unfinished bottles of beer sat on a table between stained couches. Empties littered the area and, after carefully picking her way through, Rosie pushed the door open into the cold night air.

  She motioned for them to remain inside, while she checked the other buildings, crossing the dark yard. She reached between the metal bars of the gate and pulled a chain through a heavy padlock, placing it on the ground without a sound.

  It swung wide in silence, and she beckoned them to join her. Maddox closed the door behind before they traversed the short distance to stand with Rosie outside the observatory.

  “Get him down to the river. Isaac is waiting there,” she said.

  “What about you?” Nathaniel asked.

  “I’ll lock up here and then meet you at the boat. The longer we can keep this quiet, the better. There will be hell to pay when Josiah finds out. Go.” She shooed them away like obstinate children and returned to the gate.

  Nathaniel followed Rosie’s advice, and with Maddox helping, it was a simple task supporting his semi-conscious friend.

  “So, Mr Maddox,” he said, trying to keep his tone calm. “How is it you became involved in this endeavour?”

  “Well, Rosie asked, and she’s a difficult lady to ignore.”

  “That is true, but you do know who we are, don’t you?”

  “Course I do. What of it?”

  “Nothing, I wasn’t sure if you knew...”

  “What? That Simmons was after my hide? And he intended to leave it with more holes than it had before? Yeah, I know all of that.”

  “And it doesn’t bother you?”

  “Look, Rosie told me all about this, and how they manipulated Simmons. As far as I’m concerned, he’s just been playing for the wrong team and didn’t see it until now. I’m a lot more like him than he knows. I’m also on their most-wanted list.”

  “Well, let’s hope he sees it that way when he comes around.”

  As they crested a small ri
se, the scarlet glow of the fogbound river was visible below.

  “We need fog-gear on before we get into that,” Maddox said, pointing at the sea of red that swept between the packed buildings on the river’s edge.

  “Agreed,” said Nathaniel.

  They lowered Simmons to the damp grass and pried him into his greatcoat and respirator. After long minutes struggling to fit his gear while he seemed to twist from them, Nathaniel was content Simmons was adequately protected. They made much better progress with their own clothing, then hoisted Simmons back to his feet and approached the wisps of fog crawling towards them.

  The boat was right where Rosie had told them it would be, and as expected, Isaac was his usual cheery self, shouting through his protective gear. “Good evening, Nathaniel. Gods, what’s happened to Simmons?”

  “A disagreement with Josiah,” Nathaniel said.

  “Best stow him in the stern. I’ll give you a hand.”

  Isaac took over from Maddox, who returned ashore. The waterman was remarkably strong, considering his small stature and advancing age and seemed to ignore the aches and pains he must have been feeling. Either way, Nathaniel let out a sigh as they laid the body down under the tarp.

  A bell rang out in the distance from up the hill.

  “Shit,” said Maddox from the shore. “This tub better be ready to shove off.”

  Isaac leapt into action, heading for the engine. “Pull the mooring ropes, fore and aft,” he shouted. The small man’s commanding voice took Nathaniel by surprise. These were orders, not mere requests. As Nathaniel scuttled towards the rear line, he heard Maddox clamber aboard heading forward, his heavy footfalls thumping on the wooden deck.

  Nathaniel tugged on the thick rope. “Can you see Rosie?”

  “No sign,” Maddox said, “but she’ll make it. Either now, or she’ll catch up with us later.”

  “Nathaniel,” Isaac called. “The other line.”

  “What?” he replied, looking back to the waterman, as the engine roared into life.

  “Pull the other line,” Isaac shouted, pointing to his right. “It’s on a short slip, it just pulls loose.”